The tangled sheet was suffocating. I threw it off and rolled to my back.
The blades of ceiling fan blurred into a circle of white. Flyaway hairs moved with the air, tickling my face. Moonlight slipped through the slit in the curtains, lighting up my bedroom like a stadium.
Who could sleep in the light? Sure as hell not me. But to be honest, dark, cloudy nights weren’t any better. Not recently.
The fan circled, round and round like the blades of a gentle helicopter. The sound, like a deep exhale, usually calmed my nerves. But that didn’t work lately either.
I rolled again, this time to my stomach.
Eventually I accepted that sleep was a fucking asshole who had stood me up again, and that the best thing to do was to spend my pent-up energy on something. Anything, so long as it was outside of this room.
I climbed out of bed and stretched my aching muscles before leaving.
The floorboards creaked beneath my bare feet. Every time I passed through the hall at night I felt like I was fifteen again, creeping out after curfew. My parents’ room was behind the closed door on the left. The space still felt like it belonged to my father, even though he’d been gone for eight years.
On the right was Em’s room. Now she was gone, too.
Careful steps weren’t necessary. I didn’t have to avoid the noisy boards because there was no one to wake. It was just me.
The stairs spiraled down two stories. I stepped off on the first floor, as I always did. Neither Em nor I had been in Dad’s basement since he’d left, and I wasn’t about to break the habit now. I had enough unpleasant feelings to deal with already.
I grabbed my favorite escape from the coffee table and flopped down onto the sofa. I sank into the faux-leather, the cool fabric pleasant on my skin, and opened my copy of Beefcake Bloodsucker.
“If you love me, promise me a hundred years.” Prince Charmula looked deep into her eyes, peering past the flesh, straight into her mortal soul.
“I’d give you a thousand were it possible.”
“And if I said it were?” The tips of his fangs shimmered in the moonlight, but all she could see was the love in his beautiful red eyes.
“Alas, I do not believe it possible. For you see, my mortal body will wilt whilst yours endures.”
“It doesn’t have to be.” He clenched her tight against him, and her bosom swelled against his manly chest.
Lydia gasped as he stole her breath. “But you see, I’m dying.”
“Spend nights eternal by my side, as my vampire bride, and you will never die.”
“But I have an incurable disease.”
“Nothing is beyond the healing power of my love.”
He caught her in a kiss, one that made her decision easy, one that promised everything.
“Yes,” she gasped, breaking for air. “A thousand times, yes!”
As his fangs pierced her neck, Lydia saw flashes of her past, of their future. She closed her eyes and basked in the feel of him, of his fangs, of his firm and muscular chest.
He tore the bodice from her chest, the skirt from her loins, and ravaged her as she’d dreamt he would.
Her body came alive at his touch, at his manly impalement buried deep between her thighs.
At him.
The image that filled my head as I read the words was not one of a make-believe vampire. Instead, it was a man in a polished suit, with thick dark hair, sunglasses, and a smile that made my insides a jumbled mess. The rough stubble on his jaw scratched my neck as he nuzzled into my collarbone, trailing kisses across the tops of my breasts. Lincoln Lollygag. He was what I wanted, who I wanted. But it was…a fantasy, and entirely not helpful.
I put down the book and scowled at the handsome model on its cover. His hair was dark like Lincoln’s but that’s where the similarities ended. The cover guy had long hair and an open white shirt that billowed in the wind. He was small compared to Lincoln, and lacked the personality, the charisma, that was Lincoln Lollygag.
I found myself picturing Lincoln’s smile, remembering the feel of his hand on mine as we’d touched. It was silly. I was being silly, primed to see something more than was there. Something I wasn’t ready to touch with a ten-foot pole.
Why had he asked me to work with him? And why the hell hadn’t I said anything?
It wasn’t clear whether the right response was yes or no, but I’d wanted to say yes. I still wanted to say yes.
And now I was rethinking my choices and conversations.
So reading was out. I was not getting sleepy. I went through the kitchen and out the french doors to the back porch.
While the cool breeze stirred the heavy air, frogs croaked and crickets chirped. Each step was met with the scratch of rough carpet, a familiar comfort when life was overwhelming.
Two rocking chairs sat side-by-side overlooking Em’s garden and the yard beyond. The garden was her sanctuary. This porch was mine.
We used to stay up all night looking at the stars, like the morning would never come, and if it did, we wouldn’t care. We’d talk about boys when we were teens. She’d talk about men when we were older. I’d had little to say on the subject in a long time, as the choices in Barbetta were limited and I’d sampled all I was willing to.
I passed the punching bag that dangled by the wall and stopped just short of my rocker.
Like the basement, no one had touched the punching bag since Dad had left. When I was in middle school he’d taught me how to fight. It was one of the few things I remembered fondly about him from after Mom died. After he left, I stopped practicing.
Now, I found myself staring at the vinyl bag, wondering where he was now. Off on a ghost chase somewhere...for the last eight years? Probably not. And I wouldn’t consider him abandoning us as a possibility. No, he’d probably died, and we’d never know what happened.
A little like what happened to Mom.
Punching used to give me an outlet, kept me feeling strong when there was nothing else I could control. I could control the way my fist landed.
I threw my first jab without any enthusiasm. It was soft. It was weak.
But that feeling was there, the familiar thrill of physical exertion.
The bag met my hand with resistance, the weight of it recoiling my fist.
With a bounce of my feet, I took to a better stance and threw a second punch, and a third.
My brain stopped running, focusing on the opponent in front of me. It hung there from the chains in the ceiling, barely flinching as I gave him everything I had. This was what I needed.
The bag was Sheriff Nielson, it was his son Brian, both of whom had hated my family since my mother died. It was supposed to have been a stroke that ended her life, the head trauma from the fall. But my father had said it was a monster. Only he saw it.
No one believed him, not even me and my sister. But the sheriff decided it was my father’s fault, and that all Hammonds were trouble and that we were all crazy.
I punched again, this time at my father for leaving us behind. It was whatever had happened to my sister, and it was me. I struck hardest at myself, at the fact that I hadn’t been able to save Emily.
Again I scoured my memory for every detail of the night my sister had disappeared.
We were talking. She was leaving Milly’s Diner to go to the hospital for work. She told me to eat better, like she always did. And then...she screamed.
The same thing happened to Lana.
Both women had seemed like themselves. There were witnesses to both events, yet neither Victor nor I had seen anything. Both women seemed unharmed as they lay unconscious, both were struck by unexplained comas.
Was it possible that some kind of virus had made them run off and collapse? The doctors hadn’t said so, but it didn’t seem like they knew any more than I did.
I should have seen Emily walk away. How could I not have seen?
My knuckles stung as they struck vinyl, and my arms ached.
Darkness lifted in a soft yellow g
low. Morning—it was already morning. The sun still hid behind the trees, but the shapes and colors of flowers in the garden came into focus.
My thoughts returned to my sister.
Why had Emily ended up face down in the street while Lana had been in a field? It had to mean something that she’d ended up in the road. There had to be someone blame. Why hadn’t Em just lain down in the parking lot? Why so far away? Lana hadn’t gone far, just outside and into the tall grass.
But it wasn’t just the two of them. There were three women in comas, all from the same graduating class at Barbetta High. All twenty-seven, pretty, and single.
So what about Michaela? What exactly had happened to her? Did she disappear into thin air, too? It wouldn’t be easy to find out. Who would tell me?
Not the sheriff.
The bag swung a little too hard, jingling the chains. I caught it when it fell back, the weight of it knocking the air from my chest.
There was only one answer, only one person I could go to for help.
Lincoln. Agent Lollygag.
He could tell me all of the details of what happened to Michaela. He could connect the dots, hell he could paint in the whole damned picture with the files that the sheriff would turn over. But why would he tell me?
Let’s work together.
Flashes of his smile filled my head. The image of his nimble fingers slowly undoing every button of his shirt, revealing inch after inch of taut—
Nope. Not an option.
He was way too tempting, and there was too much depending on this. Emily was counting on me to focus, to save her—somehow.
Abandoning the punching bag and the porch, I went back inside.
My arms were heavy, my shoulders sore. I laid down on the couch, and finally, sleep came.
In the distance, in the darkness, was a sound. A buzz. I knew it was supposed to mean something, something important. I reached for it, and hit my wrist on the corner of the table. It hurt.
“Dammit.” I recoiled, pulling my arm back.
The buzzing happened again, but this time I was awake enough to recognize the sound.
My alarm. It was time for work. Fuck.
I forced my eyes open and raced upstairs for fresh clothes, then drove perhaps a little faster than I should have to work.
It felt like the kind of day where I’d get pulled over, ticketed, and held twenty minutes by Deputy Mustachio.
But that didn’t happen.
Score one for me! Wahoo!
The heavy midday sun hung overhead. It was hot, hella hot, like the road was made of molten lava and the air was boiling.
Feeling a little more hopeful about the day after making it to work on time, I parked and headed into the Sleepytime Motel.
When I opened the door, Jill wasn’t behind the counter like she was supposed to be. In her place was Ron. The boss.
“Hey,” I said. “Is Jill out sick today?”
“No.” His tone was uncharacteristically cold. Usually he was friendly, a little too friendly, but that frown—that was new.
“Okay…well I’m here now. You can go,” I said.
“I wish I could, Juliana. But last night when I stopped by to use the safe—”
Oh shit.
“You weren’t here.”
I wasn’t here. I was with Lincoln, at the Gas-N-Go, searching for the truth.
“I can explain,” I said.
“No need,” he said, shaking his head. “You’re fired.”
“Wait, Ron, please.” I was reduced to begging. Begging fucking Ron. My skin crawled. “I need this job. You know I need this job. With my sister—”
“There might be some way you can make it up to me…” He unbuckled his belt and flicked his tongue up and down between his lips. “Job for a job if you catch my drift eh heh heh.”
A little bit of vomit crept up my throat.
“Hell no.”
“Suit yourself, Juliana,” he said. “You can get the hell out then, or I’m calling the sheriff.”
I met his gaze and approached the counter. He had the look of a predator, eyes close together, sharp like an eagle.
He leaned forward. “Change your mind, sweetheart?”
The sickeningly sweet scent of his breath made my stomach churn.
“Never.” I grabbed my police scanner and sweater from behind the counter and raised my hands in defeat. “I’m leaving.”
The door swung shut behind me, dinging as it closed. Tears stung at the corners of my eyes.
What the fuck was I supposed to do now?
I squeezed the railing in my palms, wanting to punch something, to break something.
Then I noticed the pink minivan parked in the lot, the one I’d seen at the gas station.
Agent Lollygag.
I might as well try. What did I have left to lose?
Chapter Five
Lincoln
Ankles crossed, shoulders against the headboard, I flipped through the folder again. There were way fewer papers than I was used to. But no matter how small the stack was, reading them was boring.
Local authorities always spelled out a slew of mundane details in messy handwriting. How they turned monster attacks into Ambien trips I had no idea. It must have been a special kind of skill.
There were three women who’d gone into comas over the last three weeks. In a town this tiny, they all had to have known each other. It was hard to say what kind of connections they had from the paperwork, but when the options for which grocery store to shop at were Grubmart or Grubmart, I was guessing they all shopped at Grubmart. Same went for all the day-to-day chores.
The first victim, if they were in fact victims, was...well look at that—cashier at Grubmart. Shocking. Found in her yard by her neighbor, at the crack of dawn.
The second was leaving a restaurant, then lay down in the middle of the street. Suicidal? Maybe. Found by her sister. That was a lead to check out, but the file was incomplete. No name.
The third I already knew about.
Okay, they were all women, all in their twenties, and by evidence of the photos, all at least moderately attractive.
That was it. Comas for everyone.
Had there been anything like this before? I tried to remember all of the weird-ass cases I’d had since I’d been given whack-job clean-up duty. Nope, no comas.
Maybe there was something more I could find out by checking out the women. Medical files could offer a lot. Maybe they were missing organs or had been exsanguinated or something.
I stared at the papers, but there was nothing there to see. Nothing interesting at all happening in my morning, until I heard movement outside.
Soft footsteps, long strides. A sweet mix of grape bubblegum and warm vanilla. I popped up from the bed, indifference completely cured.
A gentle knock came from the door.
I opened it without hesitation and leaned on the frame.
“Well hello, Ms. Hammond. What a pleasant surprise.”
“Juliana.” Her quick reply didn’t imply a desire for familiarity, but something else. It was short, abrupt, like she was just letting her mood show through. A bad mood. How interesting.
I took her in from head to toe. Her hair was pulled up high in a ponytail, highlighting her cheekbones and her neck. Jaw set like she was ready for a fight, and fierce blue eyes—she was a force to be reckoned with.
Her breasts were small and round, two perfect handfuls, showcased nicely above her crossed arms. Her sides came in before the flare of her hips.
I found myself wishing she’d spin so I could get a good look at her ass.
“Juliana.” I let the syllables roll across my tongue. I liked the sound of it.
She examined me much the same way I’d just looked at her. Her eyes wandered from my shoulders, down my open shirt, and lingered on my fly. Desire mingled with her sweet scent, making her even more delicious.
When she looked up at me, there was a flash of red in her cheeks. She sucked her lips bet
ween her teeth and stood a little taller. “Are you going to invite me in?”
I stepped aside, gesturing her to enter.
“To what do I owe this pleasure?” I asked. I wouldn’t mind a tumble with this one, hell I would love it, but I didn’t think that’s why she was here. “Did you need more cash to cover my late-night movie-watching tab?” I wiggled my eyebrows at her.
“Movie...what? No.”
I nodded and grinned. Maybe she was here for the full Lincoln experience, for steamy monkey sex all night long, for the cock-ride of a lifetime, to scream so loud every woman in the tri-state area would be jealous.
“I was hoping we could talk.” She sat on the edge of the bed—my bed.
Her eyes shot over the papers that were scattered across the comforter. I gathered them in with a swipe of the folder, cleaning the mess from our way.
Something flashed in her face. Just as quickly as it appeared, it was gone.
I swooped in beside her and leaned my hands on the mattress.
“I love to talk.”
She held her hands in her lap, and kept her attention on them. The vein on her neck pulsed—she was nervous. There was no need for that; I could be gentle.
“I want to know why the CDC sent an agent to Barbetta.” Her gaze settled on mine. She was fire and determination. And as I’d suspected before, it was clear that this case was personal for her.
“A woman who knows what she wants, and isn’t afraid to say. I respect that.” I more than respected it, I was fucking turned on as hell by it. Everything about this woman pushed my buttons—the good, sexy buttons that made my dick a throbbing pillar in my pants.
“That’s not an answer.”
“You didn’t ask a question.”
“Fair enough,” she said with a sigh.
She moved her hand and her fingers brushed mine, but she didn’t pull away. Her cheeks were a pleasant pink, bringing out the freckles that crossed her nose. She was stunning when she blushed. And I was left wondering, were there freckles everywhere?
“Will you tell me what’s going on?” she asked. “What’s causing the comas?”
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