He wasn’t doing any of those on this night. He was doing something that was undoubtedly a big-ass mistake, yet he couldn’t not do it. Couldn’t leave it alone. Jack, Alistair’s bandmate, had told him not to get involved, but as Alistair moved silently through the lush back courtyard of the expensive condo building, he knew it was the right thing to do.
There was a woman being held captive inside, and while it wasn’t any of his business, he knew about her situation, and couldn’t just stand back and do nothing. He was a vampire, not an asshole, and he wasn’t into seeing someone else suffer. So he climbed into the house through a second-story back window, by way of the porch roof, trying to make as little noise as possible. It was easy enough to get inside with his vampire strength without breaking a sweat or breathing hard. Gaining entrance wasn’t the problem. The real danger was that if the owner of the house caught him breaking and entering, there would be a fight on his hands.
Inside the room, which he already knew was a tastefully decorated guest bedroom, Alistair paused to get his bearings. The house was dark, silent, but he realized immediately he wasn’t alone. The room should be empty, but it wasn’t, and he was relieved to realize he wouldn’t have to penetrate deeper into the house. He sensed the presence of the woman he was looking for, smelled her fear, before he saw her.
When he did, eyes shifting to the left where he knew the bed was, he clenched his fists in fury, disgust. He had no idea who she was, but the woman was strapped down to the bed, blindfolded and gagged, her hands behind her head and shackled to the wall. It was a sight that curled his stomach into knots, made all the more sick and twisted by the surroundings of tasteful, upper-middle class décor. The bed she was secured to was an antique four-poster, piled high with silk pillows, while an impressive art collection splayed salon-style over it. Between the bed and the art was the wall mounting for the shackles.
Alistair stared, revolted by the scene in front of him. There was a goddamn flat-screen TV across from the woman, and a bureau with fresh flowers and bottled water, like a guest might arrive at any moment and their hostess wanted to be ready with first-rate hospitality. It went beyond what he had expected. This was a kidnapper toying with her victim, amusing herself, and he no longer regretted his decision to become involved.
He moved toward the woman, trying to ignore the way her chest rose and fell quickly as she realized how close he was to her, her panic clearly increasing. Alistair assessed the straps holding her down. Those he could snap with no problem. He did that first, disconcerted by the gasping sound of fear that wheezed out from behind the gag stuffed into her mouth. She couldn’t see him, had no clue who he was, and it tugged at him at the same time he knew there was no time for explanations. They had to get out immediately, damn it, but he didn’t want to scare her any more than she already was.
It was risky, but he whispered in her ear, “It’s okay. I’m going to get you out of here.”
Her body went still and the only response was the rushing of air from her nostrils. Alistair wasn’t sure if she was calming down or if she had gone rigid from fear. He didn’t have time to worry about it. First things first. He didn’t want to have to drag her with him like dead weight, so he needed to fortify her. Since she was clearly too weak to break her constraints, she must have been denied feedings for several days.
Slicing his wrist with his fangs, he moved his hand over her mouth, than jerked down the gag. Before she could scream or say anything, he clamped his wrist over her, his blood trickling down into her mouth. She drank eagerly, her long legs moving restlessly. While she fed, Alistair looked at her, still blindfolded, and confirmed for himself that he had never met this woman before. He would have remembered if he had, because even under current conditions in the dark he could tell she was gorgeous.
She had long, thick, lustrous hair, a rich deep blonde that didn’t come from a bottle, smooth skin, high cheekbones, a straight nose, and amazing plump lips that covered his flesh so covetously he was mildly disturbed. He was attracted to her, and he hadn’t expected that. Didn’t want it. But her long legs, in tight, low-riding jeans, and her flat, taut belly, exposed from the pull of her tiny T-shirt, were too difficult to ignore.
He jerked his wrist back out of her mouth, ignoring her moan of protest, and stuffed the gag back in. There was no time for talking, and if she screamed, they would have some serious issues to deal with, like the possibility of Cassandra walking in and discovering them. But he did want to remove her blindfold, needing her to walk on her own. Digging his hands into her thick hair, he found the knot of the fabric and tried to untie it, but his fingers were too big, too clumsy, too aware of the clock ticking and how long he had already been in the room. So he gave up on gentle and just yanked it over her head, taking a few hairs with him.
When he saw her eyes, he almost wished he’d left the blindfold in place. They were dark, nearly black, their almond shape adding to the exotic beauty of her breathtaking face. She was beyond beautiful. She was exquisite. And furious. There was unmasked hatred in her eyes, fear intermixed with a violent and fierce anger, a hysterical need to survive. It unnerved him, but hell, had he expected gratitude? She had no idea who he was or what the hell was going on, and God only knew what had already been done to her.
Ignoring the venomous expression on her face, he whispered instructions. “When I release your hands, get up and head for the window. We’ll climb down, then go straight to the street.”
She gave a brief nod, so Alistair reached up and jerked the shackles right out of the wall, taking big hunks of plaster with it. As paint flecks and dust rained down on the woman’s head, she closed her eyes to avoid the debris. Then before he even needed to prod her, she was up and off the bed, running for the window, feet bare, the shackles still dangling from her wrists. Alistair followed, glad her fear hadn’t overrode her sense of survival. It had made an impressive noise when he’d yanked her free and they needed to get the hell out.
Darting a glance back toward the door, he didn’t sense anyone coming up the stairs, and he leaped out through the window after her. Reaching down, he quickly grabbed her arm when she lost her footing and slipped, dangling over the side of the porch roof, shackles smacking her in the thighs. He felt her shoulder wrench out of its socket, and heard her gasp of pain from behind the gag, but when he let her down carefully, she ignored the injury and just stumbled to her feet, glancing around to get her bearings.
Before he could say a word, she took off running.
In the wrong direction. She was headed toward the back of the property, into the labyrinth of courtyards and back alleys behind the condo complex. Alistair caught up to her easily and touched her arm, intending to redirect her toward the street. But when his hand landed on her flesh, she turned and swung hard, nailing him straight across the face with the length of the shackles, her fists closed for leverage.
Alistair didn’t duck in time, and he stumbled from the blow, the pain exploding behind his eyes. Fuck. He hadn’t expected that. Shaking his head to clear his blurry vision, he yanked his fangs back out of his tongue where they had become imbedded when his jaw had snapped shut. Not a pleasant feeling. She was already running away from him again while he stood stunned, and even as he swallowed his own blood, he had to admire her tenacity. She was no ordinary fledgling vampire, which was precisely why she’d found herself chained to the wall in Cassandra’s town house.
“You’re going the wrong way,” he told her, reaching out and grabbing her arm again. This time he dodged the blow when she swung at him with her chains. The desperate arch of her arms propelled her sideways when the shackles didn’t make impact with anything, and she stumbled from the pull of gravity.
Eyes wild, she caught her balance and faced him. He knew exactly what she was going to do. Try to dart past him.
But he could hear movement from the house, and knew that someone was going to find them if they didn’t move. He, for one, didn’t want to get into a smackdown with the woman h
e had been married to for about a minute. Two women throwing things at him was really one too many.
So he took the easy route out. He stepped forward, grabbing her around the thighs, underneath her butt, and hauled her over his shoulder. Even as she stiffened and punched him in the gut, he just ran, regardless of how much he was jostling her around, trying to ignore her fists railing at him over and over. The blows didn’t hurt, since he was an aged vampire, while she was young and weak from days without blood. But it was seriously annoying.
He was saving her, damn it. At great risk to himself, he might add. Whatever happened to the grateful and swooning fair maiden?
Apparently she had gotten sick of waiting for her knight and was determined to save her own ass.
He could respect that, even if it was bruising his abs. He’d heal.
But when he cut across the narrow streets of the Quarter, feet pounding on the pavement, and finally paused to catch his breath in the alley that ran parallel to the bar he owned, not only didn’t she express any sort of gratitude, she took off running again the second her feet touched the ground. As she did, she was pulling the gag out of her mouth.
He had a feeling a massive scream was on tap.
“Shit.” Alistair gave a sigh of exasperation and used his vampire speed to move around in front of her and cut her off.
She collided with him, hard, but he held his ground. Bouncing backward, she spoke for the first time, expression fierce. “Get the hell out of my way.”
Alistair lifted an eyebrow. She wasn’t American or British. Her accent sounded Russian. “No. You can’t go running off by yourself. They’ll catch you before the sun rises.”
Obviously that didn’t impress her because she tried to feint past him and run for the street, but he caught her and pushed her up against the brick wall. They needed to get a few things straight. “Stop it, damn it! I’m trying to help you and you’re going to get us both staked if you don’t knock it off.”
“Let me go.” She tried to shove him off of her, but he was stronger.
There was desperation in her eyes, but she worked hard not to show her fear. Up close, her features were even more beautiful than when he’d seen her on the bed. All vampires had smooth, pale, and flawless skin, but this woman had a flush on each cheek, and inky dark eyelashes that covered rich amber eyes, exotic and compelling. It was clear she was a survivor, and he admired that at the same time he acknowledged it made his decision to help her more difficult.
Especially when she kneed him in the nuts.
Alistair should have seen it coming, but he had been too busy taking an inventory of her assets, only to find she had nailed him in his. Even as he doubled over in pain, he had enough sense to reach out and pin her to the wall with one hand on her chest, knowing she would use the opportunity to flee.
As a cold sweat broke out over him from the pain and he sucked in a few breaths, and he wondered why the hell there was any justice in still having his testicles racked when he was a powerful four-hundred-year-old vampire, she tried a different escape tactic. This time, instead of trying to dodge right or left, she went limp and slid down the length of him, breaking free of his grip. Alarmed, Alistair stepped forward and pinned her to the wall with his legs. It was a good strategy, effectively trapping her.
Except her head was now buried in his crotch, her hot breath slamming across the fly of his jeans.
He was a man, she was gorgeous, and his body reacted accordingly.
Bloody hell. What an embarrassing way to cap off his rescue attempt.
He really should have stuck to playing bass guitar and bartending, and left this noble hero crap to someone else.
SASHA Chechikov stared at the vampire in front of her, his knees holding her tightly against the wall, hands clamped onto her head, and contemplated her next move. She was squatting a foot from the ground, her legs cramped, feet bare in the dirty alley. Her wrists were still shackled, she was starving for a drink of blood, and she was well aware that the longer she was out on the street, the greater the danger of being returned to that room where she had been kept for the past four days.
The man was stronger than she was. Tenfold. There was no way she could overpower or outrun him, as she had discovered at least three times in the past ten minutes.
Predictably enough, he had an erection quickly growing in his jeans from the way she had slid down his body and the fact that she was eye level with his zipper. It was a typical male response and she knew how she could distract him. How to use the gift of her beauty.
It would be easy enough to reach out, unzip his pants, and take him into her mouth. She could drive him to distraction with the tip of her tongue, let him lower his defenses as she took him into her over and over. Then when he was exploding, insensate with pleasure, she could pull back, and escape.
It would work. But the thought of actually doing so made her stomach heave in protest. She couldn’t. Wouldn’t. She’d rather die than be forced to use her body to secure her safety, the way she had with her husband, Gregor. And as of yet, though she would embrace her own death willingly, she wasn’t really sure how she could arrange for it now that she was a vampire.
So if death or sex weren’t an option, she would have to use a different tactic.
“Be reasonable,” he was saying from above her, his voice tight. “I’m here to help you. My name is Alistair Kirk.”
The name meant nothing to her, and she considered herself well versed in major vampire players. She had learned the who’s who of the vampire world in her torturous year of marriage. There was no reason to trust this man. She trusted no one, and he had no reason to assist her.
Reaching up, she gripped the waistband of his jeans, the chain that ran between her hands pulling taut. It brought her face, nose, mouth, into direct contact with his crotch. His erection.
“What are you doing?” he asked, sounding a little disconcerted for the first time.
“I would like to stand,” she said. “If you please.” She could play nice. Cooperate. Kill him with kindness, as the expression went.
“Oh. Sorry.” With his elbows, he helped her rise, keeping a firm grip on her.
Sasha found herself staring into pale green eyes. He was an attractive man, she had to own that. A stern chin, a regal nose, and even, white teeth that gleamed in the dark. His face was narrow, his hair a rich brown, cut very short.
“We need to move,” he said. “Cassandra will be looking for you.”
That name meant nothing either, though it had to be the vampire who had been holding Sasha captive. The vampire her childhood friend, Ivan, had willingly turned her over to.
The betrayal stung, and despite the days she’d had to reflect on it, it still had the potential to bring her to tears. To make her feel vulnerable and wretched. So she clamped down on those feelings. Stuffed them away. She was good at that.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked, striving for an even tone. She would pretend to cooperate. Then at the right moment, she would free herself from him.
The thought of having to do so, having to run, yet again, wearied her for a split second. It had been a long year of instability. She had left Russia for the first time in her life to go to Las Vegas at her husband’s insistence. Now she had come to New Orleans from Vegas for sanctuary, for respite from the running, and for the company of someone she had trusted, loved. That was not what she had found. Ivan had turned on her, and she was in as grave a danger as ever. Perhaps more. There was no use in feeling sorry for herself. That would create weakness she could ill afford.
Nor was there any use in longing for friendship or love. Those were never to be hers, and she knew that.
“We need to hide you.”
That she certainly agreed with. Shifting on the wall to put more distance between his face and hers, she curled her fingers into the belt loops of his jeans. It would create the illusion she was leaning on him, relying on his advice, input. “Where do you think is safe?”
&nbs
p; His eyebrow went up. “Just trust me.”
She was desperate, not stupid. And her natural instinct was to tell him to go to hell and suffer every mile along the way, but she needed to remain calm and convince him that she was not going to escape. That she was grateful for his assistance. Not trusting herself to speak without sarcasm, she just nodded.
“And who are you, by the way?” he asked.
She hesitated, unsure why he didn’t already know that, and wondering if she should give him a fake name. But then again, why exactly did it matter? If he didn’t know who she was, then perhaps his motives for releasing her had nothing to do with her, per se, but his relationship with Cassandra. Vampire politics.
She was so damn sick of it.
Only there was no out. There had never been an out for her.
So she just looked him straight in the eye and said, “I am Sasha Chechikov.”
He knew the name. It was obvious in the way his expression changed from curious to enlightened. “Gregor’s wife,” he said.
Unfortunately, yes, for a torturous twelve months, seven days, and approximately sixteen hours. They had been unable to pinpoint the time of Gregor’s murder any closer than that. “Yes.”
“The undercover vampire slayer turned vampire after your husband’s death.”
“Yes.” News traveled fast. She had been leading an online slayer’s group for two years without her husband having any idea what she was doing. Her goal had been to eliminate those who lived so unnaturally, in particular Gregor. He had been her only personal experience with a vampire for her entire life, and when she had gone to Vegas with him and met others she had learned that he did not represent the whole of his kind. She knew now that there were good and bad vampires, and those who floated in the middle, just like with people. Many did what was simply necessary.
First Blood Page 7
