First Blood

by Susan Sizemore

  That was her, doing whatever was necessary.

  Except for sex. She could not trade her body for security ever again.

  “And the slayers want you dead now, right?”

  “Of course.” That was what slayers did, kill vampires. And she would be a triumph to kill. If they took down the slayer who had turned to the dark side, it would be a major victory. “But they don’t know where I am.”

  “So Cassandra was willing to turn you over for cash.”

  “That is my assumption.”

  “Charming. Though just like her to sell out one of her own for a quick buck.”

  The look on his face convinced her he knew Cassandra and didn’t like her. That was definitely to Sasha’s advantage. “How did you know about me?”

  But Alistair just took her wrist and dragged her to the back of the alley. “I smell vampire,” he whispered.

  Heart pounding, Sasha followed him willingly. She could deal with Alistair Kirk. The unknown was infinitely scarier.

  They wove their way through garbage cans, the overpowering smell of grease assaulting her nostrils and making her stomach churn. Sasha was so thirsty, her mouth and throat dry and irritated, her fangs throbbing from want. The brief drink Alistair had given her had only taken the edge off of her thirst, and she knew she could easily swallow six pints to replace what she had missed in the past four days.

  Alistair pushed open a door in the back alley and led her inside a dimly lit storage room. She could see shelves with boxes lining both walls, and when she kicked a box on the floor that she hadn’t seen, she glanced down and saw it was filled with bottles of liquor.

  “You okay?” he asked her. “We need to find you some shoes.”

  “I am fine.” And a little unnerved at being led by him, his warm, big hand firmly clasping hers. His solicitousness almost felt genuine, and she had to remind herself to stay on guard. No one cared about her. They never had, and she was the only one who could look after her.

  Yet somehow it didn’t surprise her when he fumbled around on a shelf in the dark and turned to her with some kind of tool. “Hold your hands out.”

  She did silently, pulling the chain taut between the wrist shackles.

  Alistair cut off the chain at the base of each wrist cuff, catching the chain before it fell to the ground. “I can’t get the handcuffs off with these, but this is better. We’ll just pretend you have odd taste in jewelry.”

  Then he smiled at her, and an attractive man turned absolutely gorgeous. Unable to answer, she just drank in the sight of him, eyes perusing his features, inspecting his broad shoulders and muscular arms wielding the metal cutters. She felt . . . flushed, maybe almost even slightly aroused, or at the very least attracted to him, and that was more than shocking. It was appalling.

  Sasha frowned, unnerved by her reaction. “Where are we going?”

  “We’re going to hide you right out in the open for now.” He pulled her toward another door. “Follow my lead.”

  Glancing at the back door, Sasha debated her options. She had no idea where she was. Running didn’t seem a wise choice at this point. She would stay calm and play Alistair Kirk’s game for now. She followed him into a bar, emerging behind the counter of a smoky, dark room, the walls grim and faded, ceiling low. It was a small square, an isolated back bar behind a narrow front room, with three men sitting at stools.

  Not men. Vampires.

  She could tell the difference now.

  The female bartender was a vampire, too, and she glanced over at them in surprise. “Hey, Al, what are you doing here tonight? It’s your night off.”

  Alistair had waved to the men and done a ritualistic sort of handshake with one of them, who had propped himself up in the corner, his shaggy hair in his eyes.

  “What’s up, bro?” he said, flicking his hair back.

  “I stopped by to show off my girlfriend,” Alistair said casually, pulling Sasha close against him. “Isn’t she gorgeous?”

  TWO

  THOUGH ALISTAIR HAD SHOCKED HER, SASHA HAD lived with Gregor long enough to be able to effectively hide her emotions under any circumstances. Even as she fought the urge to yank back out of his too-tight grip, his control over her irritating and panic-inducing, she managed to stay still and smile politely.

  “This is Jenny.”

  Jenny? Did she look like a Jenny?

  Obviously not, because all three men looked doubtful, the one who’d spoken earlier even saying, “Jenny? For real?”

  She nodded and smiled. “Hi.”

  “So . . . how long have you two known each other?” He took a pull on his cigarette. “I’m Jack, by the way.”

  Sasha paused, not knowing what would be an appropriate answer. There was something about the way Jack was staring at her that made her feel he knew they were not a couple.

  “Lay off,” Alistair said, his tone annoyed. “It’s none of your freaking business how long we’ve known each other, and you’re making Jenny uncomfortable.”

  “What?” Jack held his hand up. “Dude, relax. I was just asking.” He smiled at Sasha. “Did I make you uncomfortable?”

  She nodded. If she pretended to be shy and awkward, she would not have to speak. Though she thought Alistair’s reaction was too strong for the innocuous remark Jack had made. He was not playing it entirely cool.

  “For real? Shit, sorry.” Jack shrugged, looking more amused than repentant.

  The whole situation was making her uncomfortable. The room was small and there were four—five if you counted Alistair’s—sets of eyes on her. It put her in fight or flight mode, neither of which was the safest or smartest action for her to take. Yet she no longer knew how to make casual conversation, especially since she had spent the previous six months in Las Vegas pretending not to speak English, so her husband would not know she, in fact, could, most proficiently.

  “It is all right.” Though she was definitely questioning why Alistair had brought her into the bar. Exposing her to the view of others struck her as incredibly dangerous.

  She questioned it even more when she realized there were two men in the front section of the bar. Vampires. Moving toward them.

  Alistair squeezed her hand and turned her so her back was pressed against the bar, and she was no longer facing the room. Instantly she stiffened, even though she told herself he had done it to shield her. But she still didn’t trust him, and she couldn’t stand a man pinning her, invading her space, taking away her breath and dominating her.

  She was about to step to the side away from him when he hissed in her ear, “Play along. Those are Cassandra’s bodyguards.”

  And then he shifted his mouth and kissed her.

  Sasha froze, his lips warm on hers, his arms around her back, threading their way into her hair.

  “Relax,” he murmured, pulling back. “They’re watching us.”

  It was a valid point, and a good cover, yet she felt smothered, panicked, memories of her husband surrounding her, holding her, his breath fetid and stale, eyes cruel. She knew the damage it had done to her, having sex with Gregor and pretending that she wanted him so that he didn’t beat her, rape her. It had been a disgusting, humiliating trade-off, and she knew that she had completely lost her sexuality.

  Or so she’d thought. Alistair wasn’t Gregor, and his touch was gentle, his grip in her hair soothing, stroking. It was a pleasant kiss. His lips didn’t crush and take, but danced lightly across her skin, caressing her mouth, kissing the corners, the center, her chin, her nose. It flustered her, threw her off balance, and made her suddenly want to cry.

  She was so tired. So lonely. The idea of resting her head against someone, of feeling the genuine touch of a man who cared about her was so appealing, she felt the ache in every inch of her body. It was a throb, the desire to relax and let down her guard nearly overwhelming.

  Which made her feel weak, and powerless.

  As she found herself tentatively kissing him back to both preserve their cover and to just
see what it would feel like, the sweep of his tongue teasing along her lips, Sasha hated Alistair Kirk for making her want what she couldn’t have.

  And she was going to make him pay for it.

  ALISTAIR had been a little worried his stroke of genius plan to hide Sasha with an impromptu make-out session was going to be shot to hell if she didn’t relax and stop standing so damn stiffly. She had looked and felt like she was afraid of catching a communicable disease from him instead of embracing a lover. It had been mildly insulting, frankly, but he told himself to get over it and not take it personally. She’d been chained to a wall not an hour earlier.

  It must be tough to play the horny bar wench under those circumstances. Yet he was still relieved, and okay, turned on, when she finally loosened up and kissed him back. The girl had skill. She was doing amazing things with her lips and tongue, matching him stroke for stroke.

  If it felt a little rehearsed, a little controlled, like she was an actress playing a part, well, hell, he was willing to overlook that for the moment. She was acting, pretending to be his girlfriend to save both their asses. Didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy the moment.

  He liked the way her hair felt, soft and thick, and the way her thin body pressed against his. She had stunning long legs, and he had a sudden image of them wrapped around him, naked. Taking the kiss deeper, he knew he was going further than he should, knew he was getting well and truly aroused, knew that he wanted to lift her up onto that bar and kiss her from head to toe. Her lips were amazing, full and smooth, kissing him with confidence and a show of experience.

  Sasha was only a few inches shorter, and when he opened his eyes briefly to see if the whole thing was making her as crazy turned on as it was him, he was unnerved to see hers were locked on him, a cold question in them.

  That would be a no.

  She didn’t look turned on at all. She looked angry.

  Yet her lips were still kissing him.

  It was incredibly disturbing, and Alistair pulled back, breaking contact immediately. Looking over her shoulder, he scanned the room for Cassandra’s bodyguards, but all he saw was Jack and a few other musician friends grinning from ear to ear.

  “Nice,” Jack said. “I give it an eight.”

  Jack had to know this was the vampire being sold to slayers, since he and Jack were roommates and Alistair had never mentioned any new girlfriend to him. Yet Jack was clearly willing to stay quiet about it, even if he hadn’t agreed with Alistair about getting involved. His friend was keeping his cover for him, and he appreciated it.

  “Thanks,” Alistair said, striving for casual, dropping his hands from her hair. “I find Jenny inspiring.” He leaned forward and murmured in a low voice. “Two minutes, then we’ll leave.”

  He forced himself to face his friends and ignored the question in her eyes. “What are you guys up to?”

  Sam shrugged, his shock of reddish-brown hair flopping with the movement. “Just getting a drink after work. Listening to Jack whine about his chick problems.”

  Alistair leaned against the bar, like he was settling in to talk, because that’s normally what he would do. He owned the bar, affectionately known as The Coffin, though the sign outside read The Corner. The crowd every night was a good fifty percent vampire, Bourbon Street musicians who came in after their last set to drink and hang out, and they liked The Coffin nickname. It amused them. “What’s up with you and Cheryl, Jack?”

  “Broke up.”

  Rolling his eyes, Alistair reached for Sasha’s hand, because that’s what he would do if she were really his girlfriend. He didn’t dare look at her. He was afraid he’d see nothing but blind fury on her face and he didn’t think he could keep up the farce with those dark eyes shooting daggers into him. “By the way, Jenny, baby, this is Jack, Sam, and Carp. This lovely bartender next to us is Raven.”

  “It is a pleasure to meet each of you,” Sasha said, her voice even, cultured, formal.

  Alistair wondered what exactly Sasha Chechikov’s story was. He knew she’d been married to the ever weird and always cruel Gregor Chechikov, and rumor had it she was no grieving widow. When she was still mortal, even before his death, she’d been a slayer in Vegas. So how had she wound up in New Orleans chained to Cassandra’s wall?

  All he’d known is what Jack had told him—a vampire was being sold to slayers so they could kill her, and that it was Cassandra doing the deal.

  Maybe he should have asked more questions, but having lost someone important himself to slayers, he had just acted, appalled at the idea of a vampire turning another of their kind over for a certain, torturous death.

  “So, Jenny, where are you from?” Sam asked conversationally.

  Alistair didn’t wait for Sasha to reply. He reached out and nudged Jack’s arm off of the bar. “You’re always breaking up with Cheryl. How long will this last? ’Til tomorrow night?”

  “No way, man. This is for good this time. It’s finished. Finito.”

  It was a diversionary tactic that worked. Alistair had avoided Sasha having to answer Sam’s casual question.

  Yet after Jack finished speaking, Sasha turned to Sam and said, “I am from New York.”

  Annoyed that she had spoken when he had obviously turned the conversation so she didn’t have to, Alistair squeezed her hand. She squeezed back. Hard. So hard it cut off the circulation to his fingers. He increased his own pressure, until they were engaged in some sort of hand combat behind the counter. It was ludicrous. Yet he would win and he wanted her to know that.

  But when he glanced at her, he realized the blood had leeched from her face.

  Instinctively, he knew that displaying a show of strength, of dominance, to Sasha was a mistake. She had been captive. Married to Gregor.

  He immediately released her hand and leaned forward to kiss her on the cheek. “Ready to go home?” he asked, for the benefit of the room as a whole.

  “Sure, just trot her out, start a conversation, then blow us off. Whatever, you know,” Sam said, rolling his eyes good-naturedly.

  “Good, glad you understand,” he said. “I’ll see you all tomorrow. It’s my turn to play.” He spent more time overseeing his bar than playing bass in the band these days, but he usually got in one or two nights a week. It kept him from getting bored.

  “Sure.” Jack gave him a pointed look. “Have a good night.”

  Be careful, was the silent message.

  “Yep. Thanks.”

  There was a chorus of waves and good-byes, and after reassuring himself yet again that Cassandra’s muscle was not in his bar, he led Sasha back through the door they’d entered from. The minute the door swung shut behind them, she yanked her hand from his.

  “That was foolish to take me in there.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “And do not touch me ever again.”

  There was that total gratitude again. Not. Alistair suddenly wanted to start the night over. This was a disaster. He was not only at risk for having his own butt sold to slayers for a profit for interfering, he had managed to rescue a woman who he was attracted to, yet who would probably be the first to hand him over for certain death. The desire to have sex with women who wanted him dead was a pattern he needed to break.

  Damn Jack for mentioning vampire gossip in the first place. This was definitely all Jack’s fault. He should have known not to bring up Cassandra and vamps being sold to slayers in front of Alistair. He was perfectly willing to admit he was not rational on either of those two subjects.

  Now he was stuck with one very sexy and pissed off woman.

  “It was either face-off with those bodyguards in my bar, surrounded by my friends, who would cover my back, or face them in the alley, alone, just you and me. Which would you have rather done?”

  She didn’t say anything, just frowned.

  “I thought so,” he couldn’t help but say. “And the end result is good, right? They didn’t even notice us, or if they did, they chose to leave it alone. They’re gone, you’re not being hauled back t
o Cassandra’s house of horrors, and I don’t have a piece of wood in my chest. All’s well that ends well.”

  “And you will let me leave now?” she asked, rubbing the flesh of her right wrist under the metal hand clamp.

  He could. But she’d wind up dead. He knew that beyond a shadow of a doubt. She didn’t know New Orleans. She had no friends. No shoes. Shackles on her wrists. Most likely no money, and no access to bagged blood. He could see it playing out. She’d steal shoes or money or both. Accidentally kill a mortal by overbleeding him in her desperate hunger. She’d get arrested or shot by mortal police. Then Cassandra would find her, easily, and carry out her original plan of shipping Sasha to the slayers for money.

  Alistair wanted to say to hell with her. But that wasn’t him. It never had been, and it never would be. It didn’t really matter if she fought him tooth and nail and never expressed an ounce of gratitude. She didn’t deserve to die, and he couldn’t let it happen.

  “No. I can’t let you leave.”

  She didn’t exactly look surprised.

  “Because I don’t want to hear three days from now that you’re dead.”

  It was the truth, but Sasha just narrowed her eyes. “As if you have any reason to care whether I live or die.”

  Life would probably be easier if he didn’t, but Alistair had been stuck with a little thing called a conscience for as long as he could remember. He shrugged. “No reason. But I do. And I’ve involved myself now. If I’m going to get myself killed over you, I’d like to at least go to my eternal damnation knowing you lived. It would really piss me off if you died, too, despite my best efforts.”

  For a second he thought Sasha was going to smile, the corners of her mouth edging up, but she appeared to will her lips into submission and forced them back down into a frown. “What is your plan of action now that we are here?”

  He didn’t really have one, exactly, but he could wing it. “We need to hide you.”

  “So you have said. Then you pushed me out into a public bar.”