Urban Fantasy Collection - Vampires (78 page)

“Let me help you choose.” I seize his shirt collar and pull him to kiss me.

Our mouths meet, and his shyness dissolves. His arms snap me tight against him like a trap. The combination of his hands, lips, and tongue sends an urgent heat rippling through me, obliterating all thoughts but
must have
and
now
.

Shane presses me against the side of the bed while his hands roam down to my hips. With no effort, he lifts me onto the bed, where I'm crushed beneath his body. Our breath comes loud and fast against each other's mouths. The crowd on the CD applauds again.

His hand in my hair, he pulls my head to the side. His mouth moves to my neck, and I stiffen. How far will he take this vampire fantasy? His teeth slide against my skin, making me shiver, then travel down my shoulder.

I slip my hands under his shirts and peel them both over his head. He tosses them away, then unbuttons my top quickly, without fumbling. I stare up into his eyes, which have darkened in the low light. The confusion in them has vanished.

I pull him close. His flesh presses cool against mine, like an evening breeze. The music pulses around us, and I feel each pluck of guitar strings as if they were my own nerves.

Shane draws back a few inches and watches me closely as he runs a finger down over my rib cage, toward the top of my skirt.

“Ciara.” From his lips my name sounds like a hiss. “Tell me what you want.”

I slide my fingers through his soft hair and cup his jaw in both hands. “I want you to make me scream.”

The rest of my clothes disappear, with maneuvers so deft they seem to slip off of their own will. I hold my breath and watch his mouth descend on me.

No teasing, no tempting, no taunting—he knows what I need and that I need it yesterday. As I ride one crescendo after another, my voice hits notes I thought were beyond my register. I yank the sheets loose from the mattress and wish for some other anchor to grab on this endless roller coaster, and then—

Pain.

My scream cuts off as my breath stops. Something bit me. My first thought, which lasts about a quarter of a second, is that someone put a scorpion into my bed. My next thought—another third of a second—is that I should warn Shane.

The pain spikes deeper into my thigh. I try to pull away, but his hand is holding me hard to his mouth, and that's when I realize—

“No!”

My free foot kicks him hard in the head. As he jumps away, his teeth tear at my flesh.

I slide back toward the wall and feel a thick, warm liquid on my thigh. “
What did you do
?”

Shane's face looms in the lamplight. Blood drips from his lips, which part to reveal a set of fangs that—

Fangs.

All my muscles seize into stillness. My mouth opens but emits no sound.

“Let me drink you,” he growls, eyes glazing like a junkie's. “No one will see the mark there.”

A second wave of pain turns my fear into blind, invincible wrath. “That fucking hurt! Get out!”

“Please ...” Shane crawls up the bed over my legs. “It's so good, the way you taste when you—”

“No!” I whack him hard across the face.

In a pounce faster than I can see, he grabs my arms and pins me to the bed beneath him.

His face hovers an inch from mine, jaw trembling and nostrils flaring. “That. Doesn't. Help.”

Stupid, stupid—I just provoked a wild animal. My brain flails for the rules of dealing with aggressive dogs. It's the only reference I have, but my life depends on it.

I force my body to stop struggling. My gaze goes beyond him, breaking eye contact.

I am not prey, I tell myself. I am not prey.

Shane's breath rasps against my skin. His hair drapes in tangles over his eyes, but I can feel them burn into me. His hands shake as they tighten on my arms.

I stare through the ceiling and try to will my heartbeat to slow. A drop of something warm hits my upper lip, and I hold back a whimper as I smell my own blood on his breath.

Finally Shane's grip loosens. He gives a long, slow exhale, then rests his forehead on my chin. “That helps. Thank you.” He rolls off me with what seems like a mixture of reluctance and relief. His fangs have disappeared.

I start to shake. The air conditioner feels like it's pouring thousands of tiny ice cubes over my skin. I get up, slowly, to search for my clothes, keeping an eye on Shane without looking directly at him. He sits on the other edge of the bed, one hand holding his head as the other blots the blood on his mouth with a tissue. I eschew the tank top and pull a sweatshirt from my closet.

“Well.” I swallow, to wet the desert in my throat. “It's not like I wasn't warned.”

“I'm so sorry I hurt you,” he says in a hoarse voice.

“You need to leave now.” Before I pass out.

“I can't believe I did that.” His breath comes fast. “I lost control. I swear it won't happen again.”

“No. It won't.”

With shaky hands, he pulls on his T-shirt. “Let me at least help you clean it up, get you a bandage.”

“I don't think that's a very good idea,” I say carefully, though I want to scream, “
Are you fucking kidding me
?!”

He stands, then snatches his flannel shirt from the floor. He hesitates next to the piles of CDs, as if he can't leave them like that.

“Just go,” I say through gritted teeth, opening the bedroom door wider to hurry him. God knows what happens to people who faint in front of vampires.

As he passes me, he stops, and I wonder with horror if he's going to ask for a good-night kiss. Instead he pulls a clean tissue out of his pocket and gently wipes the space between my nose and mouth. I see a spot of blood on the tissue before he crumples it in his fist. Our eyes meet, and an unwelcome shiver runs up one edge of my spine, then down the other.

“Forgive me,” he says.

I open my mouth to reply, but he cuts me off.

“Not now.” He shoves the tissue in his pocket. “Later, when I deserve it.”

As he turns to leave, he glances at my left leg, and the sight propels him faster out my front door.

I shut off the music (the concert has arrived at the un-nervingly appropriate “Dumb”), then limp to the bathroom
across the hall. A rivulet of blood runs from thigh to ankle. I swipe it with a scrap of toilet paper before it hits the floor. The wound looks bad, more from the tearing than from the punctures, which means that if I hadn't shoved him away, I'd be in better shape. But with less blood. Possibly none.

I grab some gauze from underneath the sink, then press it against the wound to stop the bleeding. Once it slows to a trickle, I clean the gash, accompanying myself with a string of “Ow”s.

Maybe I should get stitches, but how to explain my injury? I can barely convince myself it really happened. Even now my mind is forming a wall of denial.

Shane's fangs were fake. Not plastic, of course, but maybe porcelain. Very sharp porcelain.

I close my eyes and shake my head. The fangs were one thing, but his strength and speed, and the magnetic pull of his eyes—entirely inhuman.

No no no.
Not. Possible
. Except it is.

I quit that stupid job because I thought they were nuts, or making fun of me, or both. But everything in the booklet was true. The DJs aren't insane, they're “just” vampires.

I bandage the wound, then return to my room, afraid of what I'll see. My bed looks like a murder scene, which it almost was.

Or was it? Shane didn't seem like he wanted to kill me—he could have done it easily enough. Maybe he thought I'd be a willing “source.” My body quakes at the thought, the sudden movement delivering new jolts of pain.

I carry my sheets at arm's length to the bathroom and place them in the tub, which I fill with cold water. Soon
the water turns pink to match the tile. I feel like crying, but I don't. They're just sheets, after all, and my head is so... so...

I clutch the sink to keep from pitching onto the floor. My vision turns blurry and liquid. I ease myself down to lie on the fuzzy bath mat, then carefully place my feet on the toilet, wincing at the pain in my left leg.

The booklet didn't say vampire bites were poisonous, so this dizziness must be shock. I draw the other end of the bath mat over me for warmth, even though it smells like feet. Closing my eyes just makes the room spin, so I stare at the stucco ceiling and try to calm the whirlpool of my thoughts.

Calling me a skeptic is like calling a polar bear white. But this is huge. Huger than an alien invasion and the return of Elvis put together. If vampires exist, maybe anything could.

No. Must not go off deep end of Crackpot Canyon. Must cling to what's left of brain.

When the light-headedness subsides, I drain and refill the tub to let the covers soak, then drag my winter comforter from the hall closet and retreat to the living room for the night. I can't face the disaster that took place in my bedroom. Plus it's my only set of sheets.

As I lie bundled on the couch, memories of pleasure and pain slosh through my fogged-up mind. I hope my subconscious doesn't get the two mixed up. I'm not that kind of girl.

I'm suffocating to death, but it's okay, because judging by the bright light I somehow made it into heaven. I never thought it would be so humid.

“Ciara?”

“Hi, God.” Frankly, I'm disappointed He's really a man. I figured being perfect would preclude that.

He shakes my shoulder, an inelegant gesture for a deity. “Ciara, wake up.”

“Hot up here. Can I have a Popsicle?”

Heavy sigh, very ungodlike. My mind starts to climb out of the quicksand that must be sleep.

But if I'm not dead—

I sit up and throw off the blanket, smacking into something solid that grunts.

David.

“What the hell?” I blink at him in the bright morning light while he grimaces and shakes his hand hard. A snap of knuckle signals his finger unjamming.

“Your doors were unlocked,” he says. “You're not as smart as I thought you were.”

His distracted glance tells me I'm also not wearing as much pants as he thought I was. I jerk the blanket back over my bare legs, one of which throbs with pain. “Sorry I hit you. I'm usually nice to men who wander into my apartment while I sleep.”

“Shane said you needed help.”

I should be angry at this invasion of privacy, but all I feel is hot and miserable in my sweatshirt. I tug at the collar. “I need to change.”

“I should look at your bite first.” He holds up a hand as I gape at him. “If it makes you feel better, I'm trained as an EMT.” He opens a red vinyl bag on the coffee table to reveal a complete wound care set: bandages, antiseptic, gauze, flexi tape. I don't want to think what the tweezers are for.

The thought of the gash in my thigh makes my head sloshy again. I slump back against the pillow. “At least get me a clean T-shirt from my bureau. Top drawer.”

He heads into my bedroom. A few moments later he appears with a T-shirt from last year's Warped Tour. He hands it to me, then steps into the hallway out of sight. “I'm sorry you got hurt. I didn't want you to find out the hard way.”

“Technically I found out through the handy-dandy pamphlet you gave me.” My sweatshirt sticks to my back as I struggle out of it. “I just didn't believe it.”

“I know. I got your message.”

I pull the clean T-shirt over my head, wishing I could wash first. “A glass of water would be great.”

David crosses through the living room into the
kitchen. He pulls a glass out of the dish drainer and fills it from the faucet. “So what happened?”

“Met vampire in bar. Brought vampire home. Lost some blood. Oh, and I think I got someone arrested.”

He brings me the glass.

“Thanks.” I take a sip of water, which has that sitting-in-the-pipes-all-night taste. “Why didn't you just tell me the truth?”

“You wouldn't have believed me. You didn't believe the primer.”

“Primer?”

“What you called the pamphlet. It's just a reference guide, not the full field manual. You should read that next, now that you believe.”

I hold the cool glass against my face. “Hard to stay skeptical after a demonstration like … ”

Hey, wait a minute.

Suddenly the day doesn't seem so hot anymore. In fact, it feels like ice cubes are surfing through my blood vessels.

“You sent Shane in as the convincer, didn't you?” My voice rises. “This was all planned!”

He holds his hands up. “Plan B, yes. But I didn't think he'd bite you. Obviously things got—” He gestures to my wound. “—out of control.”

Anger pulses through me, and I want to get up to punch him, or at least shove him out the door. But the slightest movement brings a stab of pain, and I collapse back on the pillow.

“I'm so sorry.” David puts his hands in the pockets of his khakis and stands there for a few uncomfortable moments. “I really should take a look.”

“I'll call an ambulance.”

“And you'll explain it how?”

“Dog bite.”

“What was a dog doing down there?”

My jaw clenches as I contemplate tough questions in a small town—not to mention my total lack of health insurance.

I pull back the blanket to reveal the bandage on my thigh. Grimacing, I tug the tape from my skin and peel the bandage off the wound.

David bends over and hisses in a breath. “Oh my God.”

“Are you this professional with all your patients?”

“I was expecting a couple of puncture wounds, but he really tore you.”

“He pulled away when I kicked him in the head.”

David straightens and turns away quickly, no doubt disturbed by the visual I just gave him. “I'll go wash my hands.” He leaves without waiting for my reply.

In a few minutes he's back at my side, with a clean cloth, soap, and a mixing bowl for a basin. He slips on a pair of squeaky latex gloves and hands me a flashlight to shine on the wound.