by V L Moon
With the water temperature near boiling, the bathroom quickly filled with billowing clouds of cleansing, hot steam. The warm mist soothed his agitated mood just enough to stop him from gritting his teeth. Stepping under the shower’s fiery rain, he fought to remember the previous couple of days. A frown marred his forehead when all he could muster was a solid blank wall accompanied by a slow dull ache pounding into the backs of his eyes. Grinding his jaw against the pain, he tried to think back. A brief glimpse of a long drive, a rundown house, and then intense pain. Agitation spiked his mood. He was major league pissed off. What the fuck was wrong with him?
With a vicious twist, Copi shut off the water. He didn’t bother dressing, choosing instead to wrap a small towel around his waist and air dry. Water puddled on the floor as he walked back into his bedroom. He sighed and stopped momentarily to pick up Vischeral’s tee shirt before throwing open his balcony doors. The icy chill of the Alaskan air brought his body back to life.
He leaned heavily on the balcony, his shoulders hunching when he dropped his head so his chin rested against his chest. He felt lost and confused, and it wasn’t due to the move from New York to Alaska. Clutching Vischeral’s creased up tee shirt with both hands; he lowered his face into the softness of the cotton. A groan escaped. Over the years, he’d developed more than a thick skin to counter the loneliness. Nothing got to him, ever. He’d cut himself off from emotional contact at an early age to hide his shame at not fitting in to society’s norm. He remained alone, not daring to take the chance to care for anybody. Until, he met Bourne.
Twisting his fingers into the fabric, Copi growled his contempt. How in such a short space of time could one person demolish all he had erected within himself? And, to put the icing on the fucking cake, he had no clue how his partner’s clothing ended up in his bed in the first place. He hated the not knowing, but more than that, he knew he was losing the fight; the battle against feelings he never let surface within him—ever. They simmered through his blood stream, surging to the surface at the very thought of Vischeral’s cold and deadly glare.
“Enough!” Copi berated himself. He inhaled long breath that threatened to freeze his lungs. Slowly, he straightened his spine. If the son of a bitch had left his clothes in Copi’s bed, then he could damn well explain why. Not giving one good shit it was the middle of the day and Vish was most likely sleeping, he threw on a casual pair of black jeans, realizing as he zipped he was commando. He brushed it off dispassionately and decided to pair them with a lamb’s wool sweater in the same color. He tugged the sweater down over two thin layers of tee shirt and Under Armour before sliding his feet into a pair thermal socks and tan hiking boots.
After quickly running his hands through his hair, he grabbed the keys to the SUV and as an afterthought snagged his triple layered thermal jacket on the way out. Palming his cell, he slammed the door shut behind him. The force of his actions rattled the glass in the wooden panels. He didn’t look back to check for breakage; he didn’t really care.
With his anxiety spiking and a multitude of questions tumbling around unanswered, he gripped the steering wheel of the Hummer until his knuckles turned white. The pain from his swollen fingers shot up his arm. Christ, it was a right fucking shame Vischeral’s face hadn’t been at the end of that punch. Copi thought as he pulled out of the drive and hit the open road. Great! If it wasn’t bad enough the pompous ass got into his dreams every night, the bastard was all up front and center stage when Copi was awake. Flooring the gas, Copi headed east toward his partner’s house with a whole can of whoop ass if Bourne thought to ignore his questions.
Copi’s mind wandered, and his focus on the road ahead wavered. His driving became a game of chicken when his mind and his vision went temporarily blank. Swerving hard for the side of the road, he forgot all about the ice and snow. The Hummer skidded and came to a screeching halt as he ploughed against a snow bank. Copi’s entire body shook from the exertion it took to control the vehicle. But, it was the images playing hockey in his mind that left him totally fucked.
Blinding flashes of light stabbed into his retinas. Visions of himself landing a solid slug to Vischeral’s smug jaw crashed into his mind, making his stomach roll. Leaning his head against the steering wheel, he tried to focus, tried to remember, but the memories or visions or whatever the fuck they had been were gone. Some bastard must have slipped him, or both of them, some serious ass shit for him to be tripping so badly. No question, there were several times he wanted to lay into the other detective, but he hadn’t. Had he? Was that why he couldn’t remember the last couple of days? The vision had felt so damn real it worried him.
Another round of curses exploded when the tires spun on the slick road. Switching to four wheel drive, he hit the gas. The Hummer lurched before inching back onto the wet pavement. Once all four wheels were on the blacktop, he swung the truck into gear and floored the gas a second time. The thought of his partner incapacitated by some fucked up hellbender in need of a cheap thrill iced Copi’s blood. The overwhelming need to get to Vischeral ate at his skin like fire ants. They were out there—the crazies. Hell, they were tracking one every night they were on shift. Adrenaline screamed into his veins. The serial killer didn’t use drugs as part of his party favors, but Vischeral was no ordinary victim. His foot pressed harder on the accelerator. He couldn’t let anything happen to Bourne.
“Had they gotten too close to the killer after finding Clara?” The victims of their current crazy spanned the sexes and age range but there hadn’t been another since Clara’s body was recovered. “Had the bastard zeroed in on Vischeral and needed the extra help to take down the big bastard? And why Bourne and not him? He was undoubtedly the easier target.” Copi questioned himself.
An inglorious snort echoed in the truck. “Easy answer there, Dane.” There was no denying the fact Vischeral Bourne was one decidedly hot assed male. Given the choice, anyone would take Bourne over his sorry ass. Chaos and fear raced through Copi’s mind as he sped toward Bourne’s house. God only knew what could happen to his partner if he’d caught the unwanted attention of the depraved deviant with a mind to a two-person slice and dice party. Damn it why did he have to live so fucking far away?
More than thirty minutes later on the outskirts of town, Copi pulled into the driveway, bringing the Hummer to a halt outside of his partner’s elegant and substantial home. Built at the back of a cul-de-sac, his neighbors’ roofs were visible through the trees, but were far enough away to afford him privacy. Good thing for what Copi had in mind.
Grabbing a small cloth lock kit from the glove compartment, he threw open the door of the truck. The frigid rush of icy Alaskan wind bit at his face as he braved the falling temperature and rattled the lock on Bourne’s front door.
“Locked. Go figure,” he muttered. Bourne!” He yelled while pounding on the door. Cell phone out, Copi hit speed dial and pounded again. “Vischeral man, open the fucking door.” When no answer came from either source, fear jockeyed for position amid the adrenaline and anxiety. His roaring emotions caused his hands to shake as he untied the small pouch he’d carried since his first years on the beat. Quickly, he went to work jimmying the lock. He had to know the male was alight. Surprise joined the smorgasbord of emotions when the door opened almost immediately. He hesitated briefly, waiting for any alarm to sound, and then slipped inside. The door clicked shut at his back. No blaring siren screamed his intrusion.
Quickly, he scanned the impeccable room surrounding him. Nothing had changed since his last inspection, not even a magazine or newspaper lying around. Weird. Copi crept stealthily through his partner’s home. Everything was where it should be and an unnatural quiet met his ears. He checked each room with his standard issue firearm, safety catch on, resting snug in his grip. When he cleared all but the last stop on his search for his illusive partner, he braved the entertainment room he’d noticed during his last look-see.
As soon as he entered Vischeral’s main living room, the other man’s c
ologne bombarded his senses. Copi groaned softly at the unbelievable aroma. It saturated the air around him. It was almost as if Bourne stood in the room with him. The scent dominated Copi’s mind. In his jeans, his cock stirred to life. Lust slammed into him so hard sweat broke out on his brow. He practically felt the slow torturous heat from his partner’s breath as it snaked a path up the column of his throat.
“Vischeral, you fucking ass where are you?” His rhetorical question echoed around the empty room unanswered. Grabbing the note pad lying alongside the house phone, he scribbled a quick note. “Let myself in. Not sure if you have an alarm, but the police haven’t showed. Oh wait, they have. Anyhoo, something doesn’t feel right so I came to check on you. Headed to the Tap Root Café to talk to the wait staff.” He scrawled a “C” at the bottom and propped the note up so Bourne would see it.
Indignation at his pathetic display of feelings over his partner soured both his mood and his stomach. The ache between his legs pissed him off even more. Still, invisible hands held him in place at the door. He glanced around the immaculate interior one more time before he left. He couldn’t shake the unease twisting in his gut. Something was definitely off with Bourne; something vital Copi was missing, but fucked if he could figure out what it was. And, didn’t that just make his detective balls itch. After all, wasn’t figuring out things part of his fucking job?
~*~*~*~
Through a fog of agonizing pain, Vischeral heard a voice call his name. A voice he recognized; one he struggled to answer. Yet, only a whisper passed his cracked, dry lips. With his lids swollen shut, he was unable to open his eyes so he reached out with his senses. The voice came again, angry and at the same time comforting. Copi.
Grappling with the torment of his sun blistered body, he fought to rise from his bed. Copi stood directly above him; only the wooden floor of the living room and the reinforced ceiling of the concealed bedroom separating them. His arms, weak and trembling, gave out and Vischeral crashed back against the mattress. What. The. Fuck. Copi was in his house—again, and his partner was good and pissed.
The stench of Copi’s anger stung Vischeral’s nose as it drifted downward. The foulness was quickly pushed aside by the enticing aroma of rich dark chocolate and hazelnut. Vischeral’s fangs sprang from his gums. He badly needed to feed. Ravaged by the sun, his body would take weeks to heal without an influx of fresh blood. The crux? The only blood Vischeral wanted flowed through the veins of the human male pacing above him.
Vischeral tried once more to rise. A groan of outright agony ripped from his clenched gut. He gained his knees on the bed just in time to hear Copi slam from the house. Vischeral’s large body vibrated, fading in and out as he fought himself and the urge to port after Copi. His survival instinct and the fucking bond battled Vischeral’s steel will. Ultimately, his devastated body won. He simply didn’t have the strength to transport himself through space.
Broad shoulders sagged when Copi’s Hummer fired up and drove away. To safety. In his present condition, Vischeral feared he would have drained Copi, leaving a turning the human’s only option for survival. In all of his years as a vampire, Vischeral had never turned a human, and no matter how loudly the bond screamed, Copi would not be his first.
Cursing and thrusting the human male from his mind, Vischeral eased himself off the bed and to a standing position. For three days, he’d been unable to move at all, confined to his bed because of his lust for the male in question. Copi’s obvious disquiet surpassed the needs of his body. Had something happened while Vischeral lay comatose?
Very slowly, he made his way by instinct to the mini fridge in the corner. The bagged blood would assuage the hunger, but he needed fresh to heal. As the chilled liquid slid down his throat, he couldn’t be sorry he suffered. Lying with Copi through the night, listening to the male breathe, hearing the soothing beat of his heart, feeling Copi’s warmth as he lay in his arms tight against his own larger frame. The memories alone soothed the ache.
Vischeral had not allowed himself such closeness with another person, human or vampire, since escaping Darklon’s grasp. He’d given in because Copi had been lost deep in his own thrall and wouldn’t remember. A dull ache throbbed in his chest, drawing a savage curse. He’d been alone for centuries; nothing had changed or would change any time soon.
He tried again to open his eyes and relaxed somewhat when the lids cracked. He blinked to restore moisture to their gritty sandpaper surface. While the blood worked its way further into his system, Vischeral struggled into a pair of leathers wincing as the material slid over raw thighs. He grabbed a black tee and then tossed it aside. No fucking way. His back was hamburger. Sweat decorated his brow as he pulled on his boots. He downed another bag of chilled blood and waited. It needed to kick in fast so he could find a real meal in some back alley in Anchorage.
~*~*~*~
Chapter Nine
~*~*~*~
Using the time on his drive back to the Tap Root Café to calm himself down, Copi cranked up the stereo as high as it would go. The deafening music numbed his brain and canceled any attempts at rational thought. The lingering fear for his partner dulled to a miniscule ache, pounded into submission by the shriek of Muse. However, there was no escaping Bourne’s scent. It adhered to his skin, embracing him in its overpowering erotic hold. Why couldn’t he escape from the hold Vischeral exerted over him? Every damn where he turned, Vischeral seemed to be there before him, one step ahead of the game, while leaving everyone else behind him.
“You’re in lust, dumbass. It’s time to pop that anal cherry. You know there’s no way in hell that big motherfucker’s gunna let you play top.” God, he hated that little voice in his head. Hated it even more because it was true. He wanted Vischeral, and if his dreams were anything to go by, bottoming for the big bastard was exactly what he wanted.
Funny, in all of his fantasies over the years, he was always the pitcher, not the catcher. But with Bourne, yeah, he didn’t see that shit happening. “Get it together, Dane.” His mental voice reprimanded him. “It’s time to play Cop, and then you can take care of the state of your dick.” God’s ball, his mental voice was an asshole. “Bastard probably likes females anyway,” he growled as he yanked the Hummer into a parking place.
The Café was doing a lively business when Copi entered. He scanned the crowd, checked out the exits, and then headed straight to the bar. The bartender, Roan Marrett, stood wiping at an imaginary spot on the meticulously clean surface. The man looked up and smiled at Copi as though he were about to devour him. Marrett seemed nice enough with his wide bright smile and his straight white teeth, but something about him brought out the cop in Copi. Front and fucking center. He shook Marrett’s offered hand and took note of the strength of his grip. Even though his expression remained neutral, Copi was quite taken aback by the man’s show of strength.
“I’m surprised detective; I wasn’t expecting to see you again so soon. What can I get you?” A dry laugh followed the question. “Unless, of course you’re on duty.”
“Jack Daniels, neat.” Copi replied as he took a seat on one of the stools and leaned against the shining mahogany bar. “I was just passing and thought I’d stop by to see if you remembered anything relevant to Clara DeFoe’s murder. You’ve had a few days to think about it.” Copi shrugged, trying to appear casual and took a long swallow of the drink Marrett sat in front of him.
“Afraid not, Detective. I told you everything before.” A smile spread across Roan’s face. “Complete cooperation and all that, definitely want to stay on your good side.” Copi didn’t miss the suggestion in the tone. He chose to ignore it.
“Anyone besides me come in asking questions about her, anyone else curious?” He watched Marrett carefully, but the other man shook his head, eyes never shifting away. Though he didn’t show the classic tells, Copi knew the man was lying. Marrett knew something, but he wasn’t spilling. “Good crowd for midafternoon. You got someone playing?” Copi swiveled partially away to survey
the mass again.
“Only have live music at night. Some event to do with the local high school. All tips go to some club or another and a percentage of the food sales will be donated.” Marrett still stood opposite Copi on the other side of the bar. The man leaned toward him. The urge to retreat raised the hairs on the back of his neck and pissed him off even more.
“Maybe I should stay and grab a bite to eat then. Been a long time since last meal.” Copi spun on the stool and deliberately gave Marrett his back as he waved down a waitress. When would the man get the ‘not interested’ vibe? After he ordered, he twisted back to the bar and breathed a sigh of relief. Marrett had backed off. About fucking time. When the young woman returned with his food, he flipped her Clara’s picture and asked a few questions, but gained zero information.
He ate slowly, observing the guests, the waiters and waitresses and more intently the barkeep. He moved so sinuously, almost gliding across the floor? The headache from earlier throbbed against his temples, and the fucking flashes started again. It was the way Marrett walked. Copi recognized it, but from where? It ate at his memory, leaving little doubt the detail was fucking important.
“Hey man, you look like you could use this.” Copi’s eyes snapped open to see Marrett right in his face. He jerked backward. “Whoa dude, it’s just a drink.” Marrett pushed the shot glass toward him.
Remembering the drugged feeling, Copi shook his head. He hadn’t seen the drink poured, and he wasn’t touching it. “Ice water.” He took the fresh glass and chugged it as soon as Marrett returned. The chill cleared his mind again.
The door to his left swung open and a rowdy bunch of customers spilled through the entrance. All of them headed for the bar. With no small amount of relief, Copi watched Marrett walk to the opposite side of the mahogany slab. While the man was occupied, Copi made a trip to the bathroom. On the way, he questioned several other waiters and waitresses, but none of them seemed to know Clara very well. He returned to his seat, his cop’s brain buzzing with suspicion.
