Authors: D B Reynolds
"Quiet, Zosia,” Rajmund hissed. He could feel her trembling behind him, her hands clinging to the thin fabric of his shirt.
The rich man smiled and began walking toward them, gliding through the chaos as if God himself was clearing the way, men and monsters brushed aside as if they were no more than silk curtains. “What are you doing here, boy?"
Raj stared in shock. The monster was speaking to him in Polish. “I . . . I work the docks,” he stuttered, not knowing what else to say.
The rich man grinned and it was a horrible sight. “Not anymore."
A single swipe of one delicate, white hand tore out Rajmund's throat. He fell to his knees, feeling the warmth of his own blood as it drained through his fingers to join the growing pool on the floor. Zosia screamed his name, and he watched helplessly as she was dragged over his useless body, her heels kicking weakly as the rich man buried his teeth in her neck and drank.
The last thing Raj saw before a curtain of black fell over his eyes was Zosia's lovely face slack with death, her once bright, blue eyes pale and lifeless.
Rajmund opened his eyes to darkness. He could see men, no not men, monsters moving in the shadows, could heard their growls of pleasure as they sucked the juices from bits of meat he didn't want to think about. Was this death? Was this the hell the priests had warned him of, the corruption of his soul they predicted if he left the lands of his birth and traveled so far away?
"He's awake,” someone growled.
"Ah, at last.” Rajmund recognized that voice. The rich man. The one who carried evil with him like an elegant cloak.
"Bring him the girl."
The girl
?
Did he mean Zosia
?
Was she alive then
?
A young girl was pushed out of the darkness—not Zosia. He didn't recognize this pathetic child. She stumbled and fell hard against him, crying pitifully. Her body stank of sex and sweat and she shook with fear. He reached out to comfort her as she turned toward him, her eyes full of a silent plea. He touched the bare skin of her arm . . . and an unreasoning hunger roared through him. He could hear the rush of her blood and the terrified pounding of her heart, could smell a sweet, fresh scent so close beneath her paper-thin skin. It was intoxicating. He leaned closer, wallowing in the scent, his tongue lapping out to feel it pulsing, like a small animal begging for release.
His felt his gums split, felt something hard and sharp tearing his lips and knew they were fangs as he pressed them against the soft flesh of her neck. One pointed tip punctured her skin to release a single drop of blood. He closed his eyes at the exhilarating flavor, his head thrown back as if it was a flood pouring down his throat instead of a meager drop.
His gaze fell to the small, red puncture wound. To the thick, ripe vein. He buried his face in her neck and for the first time, he fed.
Rajmund pushed the girl's body aside, his jaw cracking wide as he sought to release the tension of his feeding. He sat for a moment in silence, rolling his head from side to side, hearing the pop of vertebrae as he stared around the room. He froze when he took in the carnage, when he realized what he'd become, what he'd done. Horrified, he scrambled across the littered floor until he felt a wall at his back.
Someone laughed and he looked up to the find the rich man staring down at him, once again clothed in fine fabrics, his hands and face pristine and white.
"Zosia?” Rajmund croaked. “Maciek?"
The rich man gestured around the room with an elegant hand. “I'm afraid they're all dead. To a worthy cause, if it's any consolation to you.” His gaze bored into Rajmund. “But not you, Rajmund. You're very much alive."
"Why?” Rajmund asked, more the cry of a tormented soul than a man's question.
The rich man smiled. “Because I can. Come along, boy. You're one of us now."
Rajmund threw his head back and howled.
The ringing of his cell phone brought Raj back to the present. He pulled his phone from a pocket as he climbed out of the car, not bothering to check the ID.
"Yeah."
"Raj?” Em's voice was troubled.
"Yeah, Em. Anything wrong?” He punched in the security code on the private warehouse door, making certain it closed and locked behind him before he crossed the empty space and descended the stairs to his private apartment.
"No,” Em said cautiously. “Not on this end. We're all here in the warehouse, the guys are settling in downstairs. I expected you—"
"Something came up."
"Right, okay. Will we see you tonight?"
"Yeah.” The vault door swung shut behind him. He entered the code to engage the full security of his building and heard the vault's heavy locks slide home for the day.
"Let me think a minute, Em.” He rubbed his forehead, trying to put the next twenty-four hours into place. He'd have to see Sarah again. He still had to find out what she was hiding, the real reason she'd been so eager to be a part of the police investigation. And Krystof was probably waiting for a progress report, but he could fucking wait until Raj had time for him. His own people were far more important. “I'll come by right after sunset. It's a real mess here, Em. Worse than I thought."
"Then I'm glad we're here for you, boss."
"Yeah. See you tonight."
He hit disconnect and stared at the phone, thinking about Sarah Stratton. She was a complication he didn't need right now, and if the thought brought a twinge of unexpected pain, he ignored it. This wouldn't be the first time he'd been forced to leave behind a human he cared about.
He immediately dialed her number, relieved when it gave him the option of going straight to voice mail.
"Sarah. We need to talk. I'll be over around ten tonight.” He left it at that and hung up. She'd get the message when she woke this morning. And if she wasn't home when he got there, he'd track her down and get what he needed, one way or another.
Regina forced herself to sit up, open her eyes and stay awake. Vampires had her; she was sure of that now. But not just vampires. There were regular humans, too. The thing was, she couldn't figure out what they wanted. The one she sort of knew—the one she'd danced with at the house and who must have knocked her out somehow and kidnapped her—came to see her almost every night. But everything that happened after his visits was kind of a blur. And she was grateful for that because what little she remembered about the other vampires and what they did to her . . . She didn't want to think about those things. She ran her hands up and down bare arms, pimply with cold; she'd lost even her thin jacket somewhere. Her fingers ran over a sore spot on her left arm and she looked down, touching it gingerly. Dark bruises marred her skin, visible even in the low light. There had been another room. One with bright lights and the cold sting of an alcohol rub, her blood filling the little glass tube. A woman had talked to someone as she bent over Regina's arm. But what had the woman said? And who else had been there?
Regina tried to recall, but a wave of dizziness hit her, making her empty stomach roll with nausea. She lay back down and closed her eyes, wishing it away. It was so ironic. She'd always been one of the good girls—no drugs, no drinking and hardly ever a date. She'd finally decided to break out of the mold, her first tiny rebellion, and what happens? Some wacko nut job kidnaps her.
She sighed wearily and shifted on the uncomfortable bed. It was so hard to think. Maybe that's what they wanted, to keep her confused so she couldn't think straight, couldn't remember their faces when they let her go. Because she had to believe they were going to let her go. Or that someone would find her and the others. It was the only thing that kept her going. She shivered and reached for the blankets he'd finally brought her last night. That was a good sign, wasn't it? It was just . . . the blankets had smelled of perfume. It was a scent she recognized, a musky scent she'd never worn. And she couldn't help wondering who'd been using these blankets before they'd given them to her?
Her eyelids drooped closed and the tears came unbidden. She wanted to go home; she wanted her mom. She drifted off to sleep. Maybe when she woke up, the police would be there, maybe they'd find her. Maybe it would be in time. Before they did to her whatever they'd done to the girl who wore the musky perfume, the girl who didn't need her blankets anymore.
Sarah woke to the sting of tears running down her face, the pillow damp beneath her cheek. The tears weren't only Regina's this time. They were Sarah's, too. Tears of anger, of frustration, of despair at the girl's fragile courage and the hope that rescue was near. But how could they find Regina before it was too late, before she ended up like all the others Sarah hadn't been able to save? She sat up in bed, drawing a deep breath. She'd only been a teenager then, she reminded herself sternly. A child. She was an adult now, a woman with resources and contacts of her own. Surely she could figure out some way . . . Her phone rang and she knew it wasn't the first time. It was the ringing that had woken her.
She twisted automatically, reaching for her bedside table where she always left her cordless phone overnight. But it wasn't there. It rang again . . . in the other room. She frowned. She never went to sleep without her phone nearby. Never.
She started to climb out of bed and had a second surprise. She was wearing the clothes she'd worn last night—her sweater and skirt, of all things, and her bra. That was just wrong. No sane woman slept in a bra. It was one of the first things she took off when she walked through the door, along with her shoes. She must have been drunker than she thought when she left the restaurant last night. It was just luck that she'd managed to get home without hurting herself or someone else.
Stupid, Sarah
. She should have called a taxi. Her phone rang a final, futile time, the ring chopped off as the call was routed automatically to voice mail.
She stood, shivering slightly, as she shuffled on bare feet over to her closet for a pair of slippers and then a quick stop in the bathroom. Crossing into her office, she found her cordless sitting on the desk in its charger. She picked it up and noticed a business card sitting there, a thick, white card with crisp edges and a familiar name . . . And it all came back to her in a rush.
She
had
gone to the restaurant, but Raj had been waiting in the parking lot. He'd driven her back here and they'd . . . They'd what? She remembered opening the door, remembered letting him into the house. Mrs. M. had been listening at her window like always; Raj had told her that. But then what happened? And how had she ended up in bed fully dressed?
The light on her phone flashed, reminding her she had messages. She called voice mail and discovered there were two. She hit the play button absently, still trying to remember—
"Sarah."
Raj. She collapsed into the chair, suddenly overwhelmed by a wave of lust so strong it took her breath away. She leaned forward, hugging herself, her nipples stiff and painfully erotic against the lace of her bra, her thighs clenched tightly against a need so powerful that she groaned out loud. She wanted to strip away her clothes and—
"We need to talk. I'll be over around ten tonight."
And that was it. He hung up without identifying himself, without saying good-bye, just assuming she'd be waiting for him tonight like a good little pet. “Arrogant bastard,” she muttered, albeit somewhat breathlessly. She pressed one hand over her heart, waiting for her body to recover, only half-listening as her voice mail went on to the next message, which would be the call that had woken her. It was Linda, demanding Sarah call her immediately and tell her all about this gorgeous Raj person and why hadn't Sarah ever mentioned him before. Sarah smiled at Linda's description of Raj. He was pretty gorgeous with those beautiful blue eyes and hunky body. She shivered as another wave of longing hit her.
"Son of a bitch,” she swore suddenly.
She ran to the bathroom and began ripping off her clothes, her sweater first, her bra. Half-naked, she leaned closer to the mirror, holding up her hair and searching her neck for any telltale marks. She was perversely disappointed when she found none, but immediately stripped off her skirt, shimmying it over her hips and down to the floor. She'd read all those books about vampires; there was a big vein in the thigh that some of them were very fond of. She stared at her bare thighs in the mirror and then sat down to look with her own eyes. Nothing. No bite marks of any kind.
Perched on her closed toilet seat in the chilly bathroom, mostly naked, she suddenly felt pretty stupid. If he'd ravished her, why would he have bothered to put her clothes back on? “Stupid,” she muttered. She stood and stared at her reflection. “He did something, though. I know he did."
She shivered viciously and began picking up her scattered clothes. Walking back into the bedroom, she folded the sweater and threw the rest into her clothes hamper, then stripped off her underwear and went to take a hot shower, standing under the pulsing jets for awhile and letting them warm her up. The first thing she'd done after moving into the duplex was replace the “water saver” abomination Mrs. M. had frugally provided with a decent showerhead. She believed in conservation, but enough was enough. Sometimes a woman needed a good, hot pummeling—of the watery variety, that is.
Once out of the shower and dried off, she pulled on her warmest sweats and sheepskin-lined slippers and headed downstairs for coffee. As the first shot of caffeine flowed deliciously through her system, she again considered her murky memories of the night before. She definitely remembered arriving back here at the house with Raj, because she remembered specifically inviting him in. He'd closed the door and then . . . A jolt of desire swept her from head to toe, just like before. Something had happened to her. Something to do with that damn vampire. And she intended to find out what it was.
She stomped back up to her office and found the white business card he'd left on her desk. She dialed his number, knowing he'd be down for the day and hoping the ringing phone would make his rest a hell of a lot less restful.