“They’re out of order.” He grabs a wide handful of CDs.
“What are you doing?”
“Fixing it.” He starts sorting them into stacks on the floor. “Alphabetical okay?”
“Really, you don’t have to—”
“I’ll start with alphabetical. Maybe later we can subgroup by genres.”
Shane must have read the section of the Truth about Vampires pamphlet that said they’re obsessive-compulsive. He’s putting on a show for me, which would explain his use of the word “kickin’.”
Suddenly he stops and holds up a CD. Foo Fighters.
I try to be helpful. “That goes under F.”
“Dave Grohl’s new band,” he whispers.
“Not really new.” Shouldn’t he know that? “At all.”
“He was the drummer for Nirvana.”
“I know. I was alive in the nineties.”
“So was I,” he says with a touch of bitterness.
“Do you want to listen to that now?”
“No.” He sets it aside like it might poison him.
“Put something else in, then. Something soothing.” What I mean is, something seductive. Despite his idiosyncrasies, I can’t stop watching him, wondering what he looks like from certain other angles.
He puts in Nirvana’s Unplugged concert. After a moment of applause, the opening acoustic chords of “About a Girl” pulse through my bedroom. Shane listens for a moment, then reduces the volume.
“You think I’m crazy,” he says quietly, not looking at me.
“No, I think you’re funny. But honestly, the joke is getting a little old.”
“I don’t blame you for not believing I’m a vampire.” The last word comes out stilted, the way someone might pronounce a foreign phrase. “It sounds insane.”
“Hey, I know: I’ll tie you to my bedpost until sunrise. If you burst into flames, it’ll prove you’re not kidding.”
He jerks his head toward me, and I swear for a moment I see genuine fear. Then he blinks and turns back to the CDs. “Give me a hand here?”
I sigh and slide off the bed. “Sure, what better way to spend a Friday night?”
“There’s four stacks.” He taps each one in turn. “A through G, H through N, O through T, and the rest.”
“Is that a statistical thing based on the probability of band names, so that the piles end up exactly even?”
He looks at me with awe. “No, but that’s a great idea.”
I take a handful and start sorting. “So what system is it? It can’t be the same number of letters, because four doesn’t go evenly into twenty-six.”
He hesitates. “It’s stupid.”
“Tell me.”
“No, you’ll laugh.”
“I promise I won’t.”
He straightens out the CDs I just tossed onto the H-N pile so that their edges line up. “When I was a kid I had a magnetic play desk, Fisher-Price or some shit like that. The letters were in four rows, in different colors. I still see the alphabet in my head that way.” He looks at me. “In case you had any doubt I was a freak.”
Actually, it makes him seem more human. I hold up a CD. “What color was M?”
“Red.” He nods at my choice. “Mudhoney. Nice.”
Basking in the approval of a rock snob, I hide my smile and lean across him to put the CD in pile number two.
As I pull back, my arm brushes his knee—accidentally, of course. His sorting slows for a moment, then resumes.
Sitting together, our heights are closer, which means he’s mostly legs. Long as they are, he crosses them easily beneath him. I like a man with flexibility.
I also gather from the way he handles the CDs that he’s left-handed. Probably right-brained, then, maybe a creative type. But odd that he’d fixate on letters, which is a left-brained thing. Makes me more suspicious.
“It’s weird,” he says. “I’m a big fan of the other DJs’ music, but they don’t get mine. It’s like they can’t hear it.”
I attempt a light laugh. “Must be lonely, living among dinosaurs.”
He doesn’t smile. “I’m turning into one, too. Every time I flip on the radio—not our station, but one of the regular ones—I feel lost in the present.” He frowns at my Limp Bizkit CD. “It doesn’t even sound like music.”
I take The White Stripes’ latest release off the U-Z pile. “Let me play you something good. Then you can see—”
I catch myself. I’m playing right into his game, acting like his reality is the truth.
“Wait a second,” I tell him. “If you’re stuck in the past, how do you know it’s the past? Isn’t it like crazy people don’t know they’re crazy, and if they do, they’re not really crazy?”
He leans back against the side of the bed and contemplates. “You know, you’re right.”
I grin. “See, I told you—”
“As long as it bothers me, I can’t be too far gone.” His voice is still serious. “The rest of them are so lost, they don’t even know it anymore.”
I sigh. “That wasn’t what I meant.” I lean past him for more CDs. This time I brush against him on purpose, and not just my arm. I risk a glance at his face.
Shane looks at me, then at the CDs, then at me again, and so on. Something’s stuck. I keep watching him. The rhythm of his breath turns uneven.
“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.
5
Crossroad Blues
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 m
akes 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.
Wicked Game Page 5
