The Wild Side: Urban Fantasy with an Erotic Edge (4 page)

“Way, way too much information,” Mike muttered as he hung up. Rolling out his shoulders, he glanced toward the window where the sunset gilded the glass. Vicki’d be calling soon and as little as he was looking forward to the conversation, at least it would get him away from the piles of futile paperwork he’d spent the day on.

“Well”—Dave propped a thigh on the corner of Mike’s desk—“what’d you turn up?”

“Big fat nothing.” Mike nudged his coffee mug out of harm’s way with the back of his bound wrist.

“Let me guess. Droege had no idea who could possibly be after little-old-never-cheated-anyone him.”

“Yeah, well, Droege’s lawyer seemed to have no idea.”

“He brought his lawyer to the club? That sucks.”

“To the club?”

Dave stared down at him for a long moment then shook his head. “If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a thousand times, paperwork kills brain cells. Did Droege,” he continued slowly, with heavy emphasis, “bring his lawyer to the club?”

“I don’t . . .” Mike frowned. The lawyer had been at the condo. Hadn’t allowed him to speak to Droege. The club was on Queen Street West. It was . . . there was . . . he didn’t . . . “I don’t remember.”

“Interesting.”

“Why?”

“Because lately, my friend, all your memory lapses tend to lead back to Vicki.”

“Vicki has nothing to do with this!” When Dave reared back, both hands up, he realized he’d been a little overly vehement. Dave hadn’t known what the bite marks on Duncan Riley meant. Hadn’t know it was Vicki that Mike had chased out of Albert Droege’s condo.

“Dude, chill. I didn’t say she did. I was thinking maybe you were distracted by a little afternoon delight, not that she’s been ripping people apart. Not that it would matter if it did. You got it so bad you’d never give her up.”

Mike rubbed his head wondering who the hell had the music playing so loud in the squad room. “Give her up . . . ?”

“Rat her out,” Dave expanded, rolling his eyes. “Squeal on her. Turn her in. Betray her trust.”

So easy for you to betray her.

Memory returned as the music faded.

“Mike! Hello! Where the hell are you off to?”

“Back to the club.” He shook off Dave’s grip and pushed past him toward the door. “There’s a loose end I need to tie up.” But he’d have to beat the sunset to do it.

* * *

The second evening in a row, Vicki woke to a flood of memory.

The look on Mike’s face, equal parts fear and arousal, as she bent toward his throat.

Remembered the effort of moving against the music as she turned the Hunger back into the city.

Remembered the feel of flesh compacting under her grip as she dragged the dealer into an alley, his customers scattering. Remembered the hot splash of his blood. The dark taste of his terror.

It was easier as she fed to fight the music.

Easy enough to finally throw the first body aside and Hunt for another. One appetite fulfilled, others still needing to be.

So many people on the streets. Unaware.

An arm broken in passing, caught on the upswing between one blow and the next. So far beyond when he collapsed to the ground that the screams of his companion were nearly lost in the sounds of the city.

Blue eyes and broad shoulders and hair long enough for her to grip. His pulse pounding. Hips rising to meet hers. His blood tasted of desire. He was weak when she stopped but alive.

The look on Mike’s face . . .

* * *

Vicki ripped the back door of the club off its hinges and threw it across the alley. Before it landed, she was running into the dressing room at the end of the corridor, ready for Lorelei’s song when it hit her, “When the Levee Breaks” pounding into her ears at about a hundred decibels. She’d got her hand around fistful of hair when a bullet whistled past her cheek and smashed the mirror.

Lorelei’s comb caught the wires as Vicki turned, pulling the earbuds free. The song changed. Caught her.

On the other side of the room, his back pressed up against the clothing on the rack, Mike lowered his weapon, his movements as much beyond his control as hers were.

“Kill him,” Lorelei sang. “Kill him.”

Vicki could feel the Hunger rising along the notes of the song. “Mike, run!”

“The hell I will!”

She heard his heart pounding. Inhaled the scent of his fear. Her tongue swept over his throat, tasting . . . Fuck! She didn’t remember moving. The hard ridge of his gun dug into her hip and she managed to find enough control to grunt, “Shoot me!”

“Not going to happen.”

“Do it!”

“No!”

He titled his head to the side, giving himself to her. Trusting her. Vicki’s teeth broke the skin and she froze in place, fighting the music with everything she had. Fighting the need to rend and tear. Fighting what she was. She licked at the blood welling slowly to the surface . . .

Home.

Humanity.

. . . and used the strength it gave her to turn, shards of the mirror grinding into the tile under her shoes.

Mike’s hand caught her elbow as she swayed, suddenly free of the song.

On the other side of the room, Lorelei stood and stared at them like she’d never seen a cop and a vampire hold each other up before.

Vicki was pretty sure she still had every intention of breaking the singer’s neck but Mike’s grip on her arm held her in place.

“In spite of everything, you’d rather die—both of you would rather die than live with the pain of killing the other.”

“Because of everything,” Vicki growled.

To her surprise, Lorelei smiled, suddenly looking young and hopeful and . . .

Translucent.

Vicki stepped back, pushing Mike with her, as a vaguely Lorelei-shaped puddle of water ran down through the drain.

“Is she . . . ?”

“An apparently undereducated guess says she’s gone. Free.” Vicki bent and picked up the comb. “Albert Droege is going to be pissed.” The plastic sounded like a distant gunshot when it snapped. “Can’t say that I care.”

* * *

Chris Adams’ grave had one of the bronze memorial markers set into a granite base, the whole thing flush with the ground. Easier for groundskeepers but Vicki preferred the old slab markers. As much as it bordered on cliché, she liked cemeteries to look like cemeteries.

She’d gone to the hospital and pulled Duncan Riley up out of the darkness. Gave him back his life. Unfortunately, death’s embrace was a little more final. A lot more final.

“You weren’t responsible.”

“Reading minds now?”

Behind her, Mike huffed out a half laugh. “I know how you think. And you weren’t responsible.”

“For the condition of his arteries? No. For his heart giving out when it did . . .”

“Vicki, she was controlling you.”

Pushing back against Mike’s body, centering herself in the circle of his arms, grounding herself on the beat of his heart, Vicki remembered.

I give you the freedom to be yourself, Vampire.

But that truth was a line Mike couldn’t cross so she smiled, touched the comb in her pocket, and said, “I know.”

TANYA HUFF
lives and writes in rural Ontario with eight cats—as of this writing—two dogs, and her partner, Fiona Patton. She has a degree in Radio and Television Arts from back in the days of physically cutting audio tape. Her latest book from DAW is
Truth of Valor
(September 2010), the fifth Gunnery Sergeant Torin Kerr novel. She’s currently working on a sequel to
The Enchantment Emporium
for 2011. No title as yet, although there’ve been a few doozies tossed around. When she’s not writing, she gardens and practices the guitar—although not at the same time.

When I requested an afterword, she supplied the following:

Way back in 2007, the Vicki Nelson books were made into a television show called
Blood Ties
. FInally using my RTA degree, I wrote an episode for season one called “Stone Cold” and had a verbal agreement to write two episodes for season two. Unfortunately, there wasn’t a season two, but there were half a dozen pitches I’d already put together. The sirens pitch had been written with a specific guest star in mind (nope, can’t tell you), and while there were obviously things about it that couldn’t translate from the TV-verse to the bookverse—Henry, by way of Kyle Schmid such an amazing presence in the show, isn’t in the bookverse at this point—the story had a strong core and an interesting look at the relationship between Mike and Vicki that I didn’t want to lose. This version is definitely a little sexier than would be allowed on at 8 o’clock but it’s basically the same story.

CARELESS OF THE NIGHT

GINA MASSEL-CASTATER

“I’m calling 911. Whoever is back there had better leave now!” Liz yelled as soon as she heard the alley door bang open and the scuffling sounds from the rear of the photography studio. She picked up the wireless handset and grabbed her purse, rooting around for her pistol, but also making fast tracks for the front door. No reason to confront trouble if you can avoid it. She kicked off her sexy four-inch-heeled sandals behind the curved reception desk. They would just slow her down if she had to move out in a hurry.

Stilling her panic breathing, she could hear the argument coming from the back room and tiptoed over to the curtain dividing the spaces.

“I told you all to back off.” Liz was sure it was Armando, but his voice was oddly low and gravelly. Each word was clipped and terse.

“Hey, man, we’re just the first wave. You have to get your guys in line, or there’s going to be some very big trouble on your doorstep,” he threatened.

Liz didn’t want to move the curtain, but she needed to see what was happening. She found a small hole in the drape and plastered her eye to it.

Armando stood in that alert-relaxed stance she’d seen in movies, the look of someone ready to fight. Shifting, she saw two young punks near the back door. They wore the usual Goth-looking clothes, but their heavily muscled frames belied the wan look of the costume.

“Well, just tell your leader to stay out of my business. It’s not his territory, it’s mine,” Armando said, raising his voice on the last word as he moved forward, forcing the guys to back up.

“Get out.”

“He’s not gonna like this. You know it isn’t over,” the guy on the right said.

“It’s done for now. Leave, and I won’t run you down the next time I see you,” he said as he opened the door to force them out.

Liz backed away from the curtain and ran to the front door. She didn’t want Armando to know what she’d seen, so she repeated her warning about calling 911.

Just as she made it to the door, Armando stuck his head through the dividing curtains. Liz caught a quick glimpse of bloody scratches on his face as he yelled, “No, don’t call. It’s all right.” Liz pulled her empty hand out of her purse, but clutched the phone like a hand grenade.

She stared hard at Armando. “Are you okay?”

“Wow, you look stunning,” he replied, taking in the incredible difference in her appearance. “You don’t normally dress in low-cut blouses and short skirts and how I’ve missed it, do you?”

He was used to her slightly mousy receptionist outfits, and this was anything but. Her simple black dress embraced her curves, emphasizing a small waist, curvy hips, and normally hidden deep, full cleavage, framed by the stark plunging neckline. He had thought her hair was a mousy gray, but with it down and in full bloom, the curls glowed like a sexy silver halo around her face, tendrils framing her eyes.

“You are one of the keenest observers of people I know, so no, you haven’t had a sudden failure of vision. It’s just that we usually work the opposite shifts, so you never see me when I’m going out for the night. And thank you for the compliment, but are you okay?” Liz was startled and flattered, but more, she was really worried about the amount of blood she could see. Armando still had the curtains clutched in his hands, coyly hiding behind the drapery.

“Yes, just a few scratches. I really need to be careful back here,” he said. “Now, it’s obvious you have a date, so get out of here. I’ll be fine.” He paused, “You didn’t actually dial 911, did you?”

“No, I was about to push the last 1 when you spoke. Nice save.”

“Well, get out of here, and have fun,” he said, reminding her of a parent sending her out for the evening.

Liz’s natural mom-to-the-world instincts kicked in.

“No, I want to make sure you’re okay. Let me get the first aid kit and tend to those scratches. You won’t even know what’s bad until it’s cleaned up,” she said as she made her way back to the desk to return the phone and get the kit.

“No,” he said a bit forcefully, “don’t come back here. I can take care of myself.”

Liz stopped. She didn’t buy it, but she didn’t really have a choice. With Armando watching her every move, she slipped back into her shoes, gathered her tote bag of work clothes, flung the garnet-red Pashmina shawl over her shoulders, and walked to the front door.

Liz was surprised at how awkward she felt to have caught his attention as anything more than a fellow professional. She had that stumbling teenage moment of idiotic blathering.

“Yeah, well, I’ll be in again tomorrow at three. Remember my new schedule keeps me on three to nine for the season. I think the later hour is really bringing in the business,” she replied, mentally kicking herself for the odd response.

She was conscious of his eyes on her every movement as she left. She felt that deep flutter in her center. He had noticed her; that might be enough for now.

* * *

Despite her worry, Liz kept to her original plan for the night and strolled into the lobby of the Bellagio, the piercing, vibrant, dancing colors of the Dale Chihuly glass ceiling somehow soothing in its wild excess of color and light. No matter how many times she walked through, she paid silent homage to the folks willing to spend their money so that she could have this vibrant vision as part of her world.

Tonight she had a strong hunger for a well-made martini and some forks. She’d been saving up her calories all day for the indulgence. And she needed some time to think about Armando’s reaction. She turned right from the lobby and began the sometimes endless stroll towards Fix, her favorite night spot. She paused to salivate over the crystal-encrusted evening purses in the storefront, attracted and repulsed by the truly senseless beauty and expense. The low grumble of her tummy set her back on track. If she ordered carefully, she could sit for a bit and catch the swirl of the night . . . and almost always, someone who would follow her home. At that thought, an unconsciously evil grin flitted over her face, causing the two men who caught the look as they walked by to nearly trip over their own feet. They stared after her, momentarily besotted by the sway of her hips and the bouncy energy of her walk. Liz had only recently come to notice her effect; in this gambler’s world driven by the hunger for money and youth and style, she’d felt invisible for over a decade, since the day she turned forty.