It had taken him twelve minutes, cutting a straight path through the city on his bike, to hell with one-way streets and traffic signals. The boy might not have been specific, but Spike could hear the panic in his voice, knew this wasn't the time for dawdling.

As soon as he pulled into the drive, he was hit with it. Assaulted by it. Blood, and not just anyone's.

The garage was wide open, the bike lying on its side, a puddle of blood on the drive, little dribbles leading up to the door. The knob was tacky with it, and nostrils flaring, he shoved aside the ache, the hunger, the need to bring his fingers to his lips and lick away the residue.

Inside, it was no better. No easier. It was like bathing in it. Mike, everywhere. Literally.

Not knowing what to expect, he followed the boy's voice toward the toilet, standing in the doorway and taking in the scene. Three bodies in the room, one heartbeat. Golden eyes peering back at him. Wonderful.

Andrea was going to lose her mind.

Arching a brow, he drawled, "You've really gotten yourself into it this time, mate."