Dead Sexy (12 page)

"You killed Marishka because she left you?"

"And now I intend to kill you, and the woman, as well," Vasile snarled. He sprang forward, his body shifting in midair.

In the same instant, Santiago called upon the beast that dwelled within him, reveling in the rush of preternatural power that flowed through him as he, too, shifted into wolf form.

Regan stirred, her eyelids fluttering open. She stared at the scene before her through eyes that refused to focus while a distant part of her mind wondered if she was having another nightmare. Vasile and Santiago were gone and two wolves—one yellow haired, one black—were at each other's throats, claws and fangs slashing and ripping. Blood sprayed through the air in a fine crimson mist. It was an eerily silent battle, and all the more frightening because of it. She wanted to run away but when she tried to move, pain exploded through her limbs, crawled up her neck, and lodged in the back of her head. It couldn't be a dream, she thought. The pain she felt was all too real.

Helpless, she could only watch the deadly dance in morbid fascination. The creatures were both wolves, yet they looked nothing the same, and it wasn't just the difference in their coloring. The fair-haired one seemed distorted somehow, its arms and legs seeming out of proportion to its body; not only that, but its ears were too small, its head too big.

In a sudden rush, the black wolf managed to knock the other wolf off balance. With a victorious howl, it buried its fangs in the yellow-haired wolfs shoulder.

The injured wolf let out a bloodcurdling cry that was almost human, its fangs snapping wildly at the other wolf. Its jaws locked on the black wolfs neck. With a low growl, the black wolf shook himself free. In an instant, the yellow-haired wolf gained its feet and with a wild cry, it leaped through the front window and disappeared into the night in a shower of broken glass.

The black wolf stared after it for a moment, then turned and padded toward Regan.

She took one look at the bloody muzzle and glowing eyes, and slid into welcome oblivion.

Santiago glanced at the window. The urge to follow Vasile and end the feud between them once and for all was strong within him, but he couldn't leave the woman here alone. Though slim, there was always a chance Vasile would double back and try to finish what he had started. It wasn't a chance Santiago was willing to take.

Shifting back to his own form, he knelt at Regan's side and gently examined her from head to foot. He could detect no broken bones but she was badly bruised, and there was a sizeable lump on the back of her head. As expected, the worst wound was the hideous bite in her neck. Just how bad it was would be determined at the next full moon.

Lifting Regan into his arms, he carried her into the bedroom, drew back the covers on the bed, and lowered her onto the mattress. He was certain she would not be pleased to have him undress her, but he couldn't leave her lying there covered in blood. Moving quickly, he stripped off her soiled garments and tossed them aside. In spite of his concern for her well-being, he couldn't help noticing that her body was as lovely as her face.

After washing and bandaging the wound in her neck, he searched the dresser drawers until he found a nightgown. He slipped it over her head, pulled it over her breasts, and smoothed it down over her hips, all the while thinking it was a crime to cover such perfection. Rummaging through her closet and dresser, he picked out a change of clothing for her, then went into the bathroom and scooped up her comb and brush and all the other feminine doodads on the counter.

He stuffed everything into a pillowcase and carried it into the living room.

Pausing, he glanced around the room. The side window was broken. There was a thin spray of blood on the hardwood floor. Muttering an oath, he wet a towel, found a bottle of liquid soap and a towel, and scrubbed the floor clean.

Now, what to do about the window? He was tempted to worry about it later, but a broken window was an invitation to any thief in the neighborhood. Moving quickly, he searched the grounds and when he found nothing useful there, he searched the garage where he found a piece of plywood. A further search turned up a hammer and nails.

Returning to the house, he checked on Regan, then covered the window with the plywood and nailed it in place.

When that was done, he picked up the pillowcase, gathered Regan into his arms and carried her outside. He locked the door behind him and then, traveling at preternatural speed, he soon arrived at his underground lair in the Byways.

In the bedroom, he held her close for a moment before he drew back the blankets and put her to bed. She looked as pale as death against the black sheets. The bandage on her neck was dotted with fresh blood. As he drew the covers over her, he couldn't help wondering how she would feel if the worst happened, but perhaps he was worrying for nothing. He had never heard of anyone being turned into a werewolf when bitten by a werewolf in human form. But then, Vasile was no longer an ordinary werewolf.

Santiago brushed a lock of hair from Regan's forehead, his fingertips sliding lightly over her brow. Her skin was baby soft and smooth, warmed by the blood flowing through her veins. It called to him, singing an ancient song of life. He had known her only a short time, yet he could no longer imagine his world without her in it.

He ran his knuckles over her cheek. Long ago, he had heard it rumored that a shaman in the Black Hills of South Dakota possessed a cure for lycanthropy. Of course, over the years, Santiago had heard rumors that there was a cure for vampirism, too, only that cure was supposedly obtained from a witch somewhere in the hill country of Tuscany. He had spent a dozen nights contemplating what it would be like to be mortal again, to eat solid food, to move about in the daylight, to sleep only when he was tired.

Finally, driven by boredom and curiosity, Santiago had traveled to Italy and scoured every inch of the country looking for the witch or a cure, only to come to the conclusion that neither the witch or the cure had ever existed. To this day, he didn't know what he would have done had he found a cure for the Dark Trick while in Italy. Today, he would not have to think about it twice. He had no wish to return to mortality. His current lifestyle suited him just fine.

For Regan's sake, he hoped that, should a werewolf antidote become a necessity, it would prove to be more than a myth.

He stayed at Regan's side until late morning and then, after writing her a quick note, he closed himself in his lair. Though he could be active during the daylight hours, sooner or later he was compelled to surrender to the Dark Sleep.

He was on the brink of oblivion when he remembered that when she woke, there would be nothing in the house for her to eat or drink, but there was no help for it now.

Closing his eyes, he succumbed to the darkness.

With a low groan, Regan turned onto her side. She ached in places she had never known she had; there was a really bad taste in her mouth. Why hadn't she brushed her teeth last night before she went to bed? Slowly, it occurred to her that the mattress beneath her didn't feel like her mattress, the sheets didn't feel like her sheets, and the pillow beneath her head wasn't as soft as the one she was used to. And why was her neck so sore?

Opening her eyes a crack, she stared, uncomprehending, at the unfamiliar sight of windowless blue-gray walls.

Fear came quickly, and with it, a rush of panic. Where was she? Sitting up, she saw that she was in her own nightgown. But in whose bed? Had Vasile carried her off to his lair?

She lifted a hand to her neck, her fingers tentatively exploring the bandage swathed around her throat. So, it hadn't been a terrible dream, after all. The horror of what had happened the night before returned in a rush. She had been bitten! By a werewolf! Nausea rose in her throat and she bolted from the bed, one hand covering her mouth as she searched for the bathroom, her stomach heaving. Bitten by a werewolf!

Later, weak and shaken, she sat on the floor, her back against the tub, her arms wrapped around her middle. She had been bitten by a werewolf. The thought made her stomach clench anew. Would she grow fanged and furry with the next full moon? She was shaking now, horrified beyond words.

Bitten by a werewolf. The realization struck with icy certainty and with it came the realization that her life as she knew it was over.

Still trembling, she dragged herself to her feet and moved toward the sink to rinse her mouth, only there was no paper cup or drinking glass.

Moving slowly, she went looking for the kitchen, only there wasn't one. Where was she? Returning to the bathroom, she turned on the faucet, cupped her hands under the water, and rinsed her mouth as best she could.

Forcing herself to remain calm, she went back into the bedroom and sat down on the edge of the bed, noting, as she did so, that the sheets were black satin. It was then that she saw the note on one of the pillows. Picking it up, she read:

Regan,

I know you have questions. Stay here and rest. Try not to worry. I will come to you at sunset.

JS

JS. For Joaquin Santiago? She glanced at the black sheets again. It had to be him. She glanced around, wondering where he was—wondering where she was. She had been to Santiago's condo and this definitely wasn't it.

Feeling like an old, old woman, she rose from the bed and hobbled into the living room where she dropped down on the sofa.

Whatever this place was, it was a lot nicer than his other place, she thought, gazing at her surroundings, and far more suited to the man who owned it than the condo in the park. She studied the paintings, thinking it was touching and a little sad that all his paintings were of sunrises and sunsets.

Leaning forward, she perused the items displayed under the glass top of the coffee table, wondering if they held any special meaning for Santiago, then grimaced as a horrible thought crossed her mind. Maybe they were mementos taken from people he had killed. He was, after all, a vampire.

With a shudder, she leaned back and closed her eyes. Once, she had thought that being a vampire was the worst thing in the world. Now, contemplating the possibility that she might become a werewolf, she wasn't so sure. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath. Maybe she was worrying for nothing. Vasile had been in human form when he bit her. As far as she knew, werewolves had to be in wolf form to create another werewolf.

She clung to that thought as bits and pieces of what she had read on the Internet flitted through her mind. Throughout the mythology of the known world, there were stories of humans transforming into animal shapes. Odin had changed himself into an eagle. Loki had taken on the form of a fish. The Greek gods had often transformed into beasts, the better to move among men in secrecy. Jupiter had changed into a bull, Hecuba into a dog.

It was believed that werewolves didn't age and were immune to most human diseases. Not only that, but their bodies were constantly regenerating, which made them pretty much immortal. And since they also healed rapidly, the only way to kill one was to inflict a mortal wound to the heart or the brain.

There were various ways to become a werewolf, such as through sorcery, being bitten by a werewolf, being cursed by a witch, or being born to a werewolf. People who were turned into werewolves against their will weren't considered damned until they tasted human blood; once that happened, they were forever cursed.

Regan thought briefly of Vasile and the people he had killed and mutilated. Surely he deserved to be damned for all eternity…

She lifted a hand to the bandage on her neck, her stomach churning as she imagined herself transforming into a wolf and prowling the moonlit streets of the city looking for prey. A wave of hysterical laughter rose in her throat. Maybe she could go hunting with Santiago! He could drink the blood and she would eat the flesh. She shuddered at the thought. She didn't want to be a werewolf. She didn't want to be cursed forever.

Thinking to dispel her morbid thoughts, she turned on the Satellite Screen, grateful for the sound of human voices. She found an old Tom Hanks comedy, hoping it would distract her, but to no avail. The word "werewolf" whispered in her mind over and over again and with it came the horrific images of the mutilated bodies in the park.

Huddled in a corner of the sofa, she stared at the television screen and waited for sunset.