Just One Bite (16 page)

“Now, now, dear.” My mother stroked his arm. “Don’t get all worked up again. Those are your bushes and everyone else in Fairfield, particularly the judicial system, is simply clueless.”

“I have a right to protect my property,” my dad insisted.

“Of course you do, and you have the resilience to back it up. Even at eight hundred and ninety-six, you’re as cunning and as virile as the day I met you.”

Have I mentioned that in addition to kicking ass my mother can do a stellar job of kissing it, as well? At least when it came to my father’s.

“What about Nina and Rob?” my mother asked. “I don’t see them.”

“They’re already in the house having a drink.” At least I hoped they’d graduated to the after-sex drink. Otherwise, I would be flying solo with my mother, and I so couldn’t handle that right now.

My body still tingled and certain things were still quivering and I was still doing my best to ignore the fact that Remy, of all vampires, was the one responsible.

Knickers. Marbles. Skunks.

No matter how I tried to conjure the memories, the only thing that kept registering in my head was Remy looming over me, his eyes so green and hungry and—

“I
really
need a drink.” I whirled and walked as fast as my preternatural feet could carry me.

Remy followed, his strong, muscular body much too close for comfort.

“Congratulations,” Nina declared when I walked into the living room to find her sitting on the couch next to Rob. “You totally deserve the vacation days.”

“Thanks.” I headed for an antique sidebar and a newly opened bottle of AB negative. My hands shook as I poured a glass. “But I don’t work for Moe’s.”

“So?” Nina stared at me as if she couldn’t quite put two and two together.

No wonder, with my brother’s hand on her knee, his fingertips tracing lazy circles.

I had a sudden vision of my own knee and Remy’s hand and how utterly brain-dead I would be if said hand worked its way up the inside and—

I shook away the thought and downed half the glass in one long gulp. Warmth slid down my throat and firebombed my stomach. My nerves eased and my vision sharpened. There. That was more like it.

“What’s wrong with you?” My mother came up next to me, her narrowed gaze trained on my face. She looked so concerned that my chest hitched. I had the insane urge to throw myself into her arms and blab my lustful thoughts.

Confession
was
good for the soul.

Besides, maybe if she knew how conflicted I felt and how I really,
really
liked Ty, she would understand. She was my mom, after all. She
loved
me.

“I don’t think this date with Remy is a good idea.” The words popped out of my mouth before I could stop myself.

“Of course it’s not a good idea.”

A weight lifted off my chest. “Really?”

“It’s a fabulous idea,” she went on. “The best I’ve ever had.”

The weight dropped and I downed the other half of the glass. When that didn’t hit the spot, I grabbed the bottle and took a long swig.

“Raking in the vacation days makes me thirsty,” I blurted when I noticed that everyone—with the exception of my father who was busy pulling out his golf clubs—was staring at me. I held up the bottle. “Anyone up for a drink?”

“Actually,” my mother plucked the AB negative out of my hand and set it back down, “I arranged for you and Remy to head over to the club for drinks.” She smiled as if she’d just sucked the blood out of the entire staff of Chippendales. “Just the two of you.”

“I’m up for it.” Remy winked at me and my stomach hollowed out. “Lil?”

I swallowed. No way was I going anywhere with Remy. Not for drinks. Or for really hot monkey sex. Or drinks
and
really hot monkey sex.

No way. Nuh, uh. Not this vampire.

“You can take my car,” my mother offered.

Car was slang for my mother’s coveted red V8 Porsche convertible which she never—repeat
never
—let me touch, much less drive.

Except that one time.

But then she’d gotten the bill for all the damage done by that telephone pole that had jumped out in the middle of the road—I swear—and my Porsche privileges had gone the way of the one-eyed Caribbean were crab.

I had a quick vision of myself flying down the road, stereo blaring, hair blowing in the wind, soft Italian leather surrounding me, all that power right at my fingertips…

A few drinks couldn’t hurt, right? I mean, sure I was sort of straddling the fence when it came to control, but I could keep my hands to myself if it meant proving to my mother that she could start loaning me the Porsche every now and then.

I nodded. “Drinks would be good.”

“Great.” My mother smiled and reached for her keys. “Remy can drive.”

Was I having shitty luck or what?

Remy went to bring the car around while I drowned my sorrows in another glass of red sustenance and tried to come up with an excuse to bail.

I was debating between “There’s a nuclear weapon hidden in the subways of New York and I’m the only one who can show the police the exact location before the whole city goes up in a mushroom cloud” and “I left the iron on” when my cellphone rang.

“She’s gone,” Vinnie said the minute I punched
TALK
.

My heart stopped beating. I forgot the bottle I’d been nursing and walked to a far corner out of earshot. “What do you mean
gone
?”

“I mean
gone,
as in
poof,
the TV’s still blaring and her lights are on, but she’s not there.”

“She has to be somewhere.” She couldn’t have vanished into thin air.

Or could she?

While I hadn’t actually seen any disappearing tricks in any of last night’s movies, I wasn’t so sure it was out of the realm of possibility.

“Did you ask around? Maybe she went to the market or the laundromat.”

“Who cares? The point is, she’s gone and I’m going home.”

Panic rushed through me. “But we have to find her.”

“Finding some chick isn’t part of my lesson. I was supposed to watch her and keep my hands off. Mission accomplished. I need to sleep.”

“Self-sacrifice,” I blurted. “To really bring out the inner pansy, one must peel away the layers of selfishness. The only way to do that is to sacrifice. You give up sleep and you’re one layer closer to Carmen.”

“You’re fried, lady.”

“Fine. Don’t listen to me. But when your mother is saying a dozen Hail Marys for her pathetic excuse of a son who can’t find it in his heart to give up a few measly hours of sleep so that she can have even one grandchild—”

“All right, already.” He sighed. “Jesus, have you met my mother? Because I swear you just nailed her.”

“Lucky guess.” And a lot of experience.

My gaze slid to my own mother, who eyeballed me and mouthed
hurry up.

“Stay put. I’ll be right there,” I told Vinnie. “Dating emergency,” I announced as I snatched up my purse and aimed for the front door. “I have to get back to the office.” An engine purred somewhere out back and I added, “Tell Remy I’m sorry.”

“But,” my mother’s voice followed me, “the two of you barely had a chance to get to know each other.”

Maybe I wasn’t having such shitty luck after all.

Sixteen

I
headed back to the city via the fastest means of emergency transport—life flight for the average human, the batmobile for us born vamps.

A half hour later, I stood on the front steps of Evie’s building—she leased a third-floor apartment in Greenwich Village—with her downstairs neighbor and landlord, Mr. Ernest Wallace.

Seventy-five. Never been married. Met the woman of his dreams in Italy during World War II, but she was already married and so the relationship had never stood a chance. She’d stayed with her husband and Ernie had headed home to open a comic book shop on Lexington. He’d sold the store a few years back. He was now president of the Neighborhood Watch Association, since he spent most of his days sitting in his kitchen, playing cards, and staring out his window.

He’d been doing just that two hours ago when he’d heard Evie switch off her TV upstairs (he not only kept an eye on everything, but he also kept his hearing aid tuned to CHRIST THIS IS LOUD). A few seconds later, he’d heard footsteps on the stairs. The door had opened and he’d watched Evie stomp down the front stoop. She’d been wearing blue jeans, black combat boots, and an oversized flannel shirt.

If I’d had even one doubt about the whole possession thing, it went bye-bye the moment I heard the play-by-play regarding her wardrobe.

She was shacked up with a demon, all right.

“And,”
Ernest went on, “she had all that pretty blond hair of hers pulled back in one of those scrunchie things you gals are always wearing.”

Make that Satan, himself.

The one ray of sunshine in an otherwise rain-drenched sky?

She hadn’t pulled a Casper and vanished into thin air.

Rather, she’d vanished in a grimy yellow cab—license plate too dirty to read—driven by a Jamaican man.

At least Ernest thought the man was Jamaican. He could also have been Puerto Rican or Indian, or any of the other zillion nationalities floating around the Big Apple.

“Why don’t you call a few of the cab companies and give them a description? Why, I bet you’ll have no trouble locating the driver that picked her up.”

Um, yeah.

There were about as many foreign cab drivers in New York City as there were Hannah Montana fans in the continental U.S.

“Miss Evie ain’t in any trouble, is she? Edna up in 2D says Evie’s a communist on account of she’s always getting those Democrat mailers, but I’m a Democrat and I ain’t no communist.”

“Actually, she
is
in a little trouble. Nothing political, though. This is personal.”

He shook his head. “Those dad-burned drugs’ll get you every time.”

“No drugs.”

“Debt?”

Not as much as yours truly. I shook my head. “No, nothing like that.”

He wiggled his eyebrows. “A love triangle?”

“There are only two parties involved in this.”

“That’s a relief. Love triangles never work. Except for that young gun down in 1B. He brought home two women the other night and they didn’t leave until after breakfast the next morning. I had my shotgun ready for trouble, you know, ’cause women can be mighty possessive. But these two were as friendly as clams. Nice young man, too, even if he is a little too big for his britches, if you know what I mean. Say, I could introduce you if you want. As pretty as you are, you could probably settle him down real quick.”

“No thanks. Listen, I really appreciate your help.” I handed Ernest a Dead End Dating card. “Call my cell if she comes home. Or if you’d like to trade in the solitaire for couples bridge.”

“Ain’t never played no bridge. Played strip poker once, but I had a bad case of athlete’s foot. When my turn came, I slid off the old loafers and that pretty much cleared out the room.”

“You can keep your shoes on during bridge.”

“All righty then.” He grinned and slid the card into his pocket.

I gave Ernest a smile, an extra card for the young gun in 1B, and a mental
Forget Italy and get over it already. There are at least a dozen women out there who would love to play cards with you. And maybe even a few who wouldn’t mind the athlete’s foot.

Hey, it takes all kinds.

I left the apartment building and climbed into the passenger’s seat of the black Cadillac that idled at the curb.

Vinnie slumped over the wheel, his mouth wide open, his nostrils flared. A loud
zzzzzzz
drowned out the old Van Morrison song playing on the radio.

Touching a fingertip under his chin, I snapped his mouth shut. The
zzzzzzz
turned to a muffled
arghhhh.
I fastened my seat belt and debated my options all of five seconds—I had only one—before pulling out my cellphone.

Ash answered on the second ring.

“Yeah?”

“It’s Lil.”

“I already knew that.”

“I’m fine, how are you?” I shook my head. “Haven’t you ever heard of phone etiquette?”

“Did you call to test my manners or did you have something on your mind?”

“Well, since you seem to think this demon has been”—
or is
—“hanging around my office, I thought I should get a few details. Just so I know what I’m dealing with if he happens to show up again.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Just the usual stuff. Favorite color. Favorite food. Where he might go if he were possessing an innocent woman addicted to TiVo.” Okay, so maybe that was a little too detailed. “Not that he is,” I rushed on. “I’m just speaking theoretically. If he were and he wanted to get out for a little while and stretch his legs, where exactly would he go and what might he do?”

“He’ll go to his usual hangout.”

“Usual for the possesser or the possessee?”

“The demon. He’ll search out a familiar place and try to follow his usual MO.”

“What’s his MO?”

“He likes to mutilate and torture young women between the ages of twenty and thirty-five.”