by Tamara Hogan
Another howl. Beddoe scrambled to his feet, rubbing at his sore knees and thighs. Seeking shelter seemed more prudent than walking, alone, through the dark tunnel of trees leading to the location where the beacon had last blipped.
Once he was confident his legs would hold his weight, he strode to the front of the building. A roughly carved sign over the door read “Tubby’s.” The door didn’t open when he approached. He extended his arm, clasped the handle, and pulled.
The building’s warmth enveloped him the minute he entered, but the smells trapped in the room were almost enough to make him turn around and take his chances with the howling animal outside: malty yeast. Primitive liquor. Perfumes and unguents covering sweat and other body scents. The light source audibly buzzed and emitted a noxious chemical odor. He smelled herb, and—
“Excuse us,” a young woman murmured politely as she and a big male brushed past, hand-in-hand, smelling of very recent sex.
Vampyr. The male was unmistakably Vampyr; the tingling in his fangs confirmed it. Like recognized like. It had always been so.
Near-translucent data scrolled across the bottom of his field of vision. Humanoid male. Humanoid female.
Wrong. His data had some very dangerous gaps.
The couple approached the long, narrow table bisecting the room and spoke to the wildly bearded man standing on the other side. Turning, the man tugged on a lever, dispensing straw-colored liquid—beer—into a drink vessel. While they waited, the couple spoke to a very small woman sitting at the long table.
The little one didn’t look particularly happy to see them. “Go, sit,” she said. Picking up her own drink vessel, she waved a hand at the large screen mounted over the long counter, where stick-wielding men glided over a hard, white surface on bladed boots. “I’m watching the game.”
The Vampyr frowned, but once the bearded man placed the brown, malty beverages on the table, he and the larger female departed, sitting at a table for two in the darkened corner.
Leaving the tiny female all alone.
His interest was piqued. Despite her stature, she was a woman, not a girl. Her breasts were small but well-formed, her hips slight but rounded in sexual maturity. Her near-white hair was… quite extraordinary, and to a man in his line of business that was saying something. A certain segment of his client base would absolutely love her.
He could calculate the profit already.
Clearing his throat, he approached, levering himself onto one of the row of odd backless seats. He left one empty seat between him and the woman, who busily sucked on a small red fruit impaled on a tiny spear.
“What can I getcha?” the giant of a man said from behind the oblong table. His grizzly gray facial hair cascaded to a barrel chest covered by a vividly colored red-and-black checked shirt.
Beddoe looked at the row of colorful bottles, at the mechanical levers. The yeasty smell of the beer was making his stomach roll in a most unpleasant manner. What could he drink that wouldn’t make him ill? Gesturing to the small woman, he said, “I’ll have what she’s having.”
The big man smirked. “One raspberry cosmo coming up.” As he turned away, he muttered, “Goddamn metrosexuals.”
“Citiot,” a man down the row said through a cough.
He recognized the “goddamn” well enough—such colorful curses here on the surface—but “citiot”? “Metrosexual”? Given the men’s body language and tone of voice, the context didn’t seem complimentary.
A trio of trills emanated from a small rectangular device sitting on the table in front of the coughing man, who picked it up and spoke. The device looked enough like the comm unit he’d left behind on the ship that he could probably bring his with him the next time he came down to the surface.
While the other man prepared his drink, Beddoe observed the room. What an odd mix of primitive and… even more primitive. Dead animal heads, stuffed and mounted, adorned the walls and stared at him with unblinking eyes. Brightly colored signs illuminated with ancient planetary gasses that buzzed and popped and hummed. Music throbbed from a colorful box in the corner. A gravelly voiced man begged someone to pour some sugar on him in the name of love. Up on the screen, men bashed a small, black, cylindrical object with hook-ended sticks.
The music was effective. He felt its pull at his groin—or maybe the pull came from the woman sitting at his right, suckling on the round red fruit with her flexible pink tongue.
“Jesus,” the man seated on his other side muttered, setting down his comm device. “It won’t work, you know,” he said under his breath to Beddoe. “The ‘I’ll have what she’s having’ thing. She’s shot everyone down tonight.”
Beddoe tensed. He couldn’t see a weapon, but—
“You from The Cities?” the man continued.
The man stank of herb and frustration, but he didn’t appear to be injured. The Cities? Beddoe remembered the man’s previous comment. Ah. “Yes, I’m a Citiot.”
The man cleared his throat, and his face turned ruddy. “Sorry about that.”
The bearded man placed a reddish drink in front of him, setting it on a small absorbent mat. “Gonna watch the game for a while? Opening a tab?”
Payment. Dia, he’d arrived with empty pockets—not that they’d know what to do with his digital tender anyway. How had Minchin dealt with this issue?
“Let me get that for ya,” the man said. “No hard feelings, eh?”
The small female spoke. “Put it on my tab, Tubby.” Her voice was lower and smokier than he’d expected. “Any man who orders a raspberry cosmo in a northern Minnesota bar either has confidence to burn or a very odd sense of humor.”
No one had ever accused him of having a sense of humor, but he wasn’t about to contradict her. Not if it kept her talking to him. “Thank you,” he said, picking up the drink and taking a careful sip. Tart, fruity sweetness exploded on his tongue. He narrowed his eyes, nodded in approval, and took another sip.
“Good, huh?” she said with a tiny feline smile. “These guys don’t know what they’re missing.”
Before he could respond, a loud cheer suddenly rose from the screen where two warriors circled each other, drawing closer with a great sense of ceremony. They exchanged snarls, words, bumped chests. They threw the sticks, gauntlets, and helmets to the ground with quick, deliberate actions before lunging at each other, trading methodical bare-fisted punches.
On screen, the crowd roared even louder. “Kick the fucker’s ass, Walloch!” Tubby called up to the device. “Ivy League pussy.”
The two men fell to the slippery surface and grappled for position, the warrior in dark colors—Walloch—quickly gaining the upper hand. The man on his back fought bravely, but Walloch, clearly dominant, repeatedly smashed his fist into the other man’s face. Blood spurted, staining skin, the man’s garment, and the hard, white surface.
Beddoe’s fangs tingled. This Lord Stanley certainly had fierce warriors fighting for the honor of his cup.
The men rolled, scrabbling for purchase on the slippery surface, and still, the punches flew. First blood had been drawn. Why did they keep fighting? Just as he thought it, two men wearing black-and-white striped shirts approached, pulling Walloch up and off the other man by his arms. As the victor was led away, the defeated man lurched to his hands and knees, head hanging, spitting blood.
On-screen, a melodious voice said, “And Walloch skates to the penalty box. Five minute major.”
“Walloch couldn’t let that check on his captain go unpunished, Robert,” another disembodied voice added.
The warrior Walloch grinned, exposing bloody teeth, as he took a seat in a box that any youngling could escape. Beddoe tongued his fangs. All that blood going to waste.
“Look at that, Vance,” Tubby said, pointing to the screen where several people had joined the defeated man, crawling on their hands and knees, peering closely at the white surface. “Dude lost a tooth.”
Vance, the man who’d offered to pay for his drink, raised his own
glass in a toast. “He should look for his sac as long as he’s down there.”
The small female rolled her eyes and set her empty glass on the table. “Hit me, Tubby.”
What? Had she really asked the giant man to strike her? He outweighed her three to one. Why—
Tubby simply turned and prepared another pink drink.
Ah.
Ramping up his glamour, Beddoe gestured to the empty chair between them, asking without words if he could join her. He’d bought and sold more flesh than he remembered, but this woman intrigued him. At her noncommittal shrug, he moved, not missing Tubby’s poorly disguised disbelief when he set another beverage in front of her.
“Thanks, Tub.” She turned and met his gaze. “Haven’t seen you around here before.”
He caught his breath. Her eyes were the color of a Saurian sunrise.
“I’m Paige,” she said, extending her child-sized hand.
He took it, kissing her knuckles instead of shaking the hand, his fangs tingling at the sight of the tender veins and capillaries pulsing under the near-translucent skin of her inner wrist. Dia. “I’m… Robert.”
“Robert,” she repeated with a bemused smile. “Not Bob or Bobby?”
He shook his head. The name he’d heard the man on the screen call the other one was as good a name as any other, but if her smile was anything to go by, she approved. Her teeth were very small, and very, very white. The TonTon’s customers always appreciated white teeth and fresh breath, and so did he. Still holding her hand, he gazed into her extraordinary eyes.
You’re… smokin’ hot.
Beddoe jerked back in surprise, dropping her hand. He’d heard the words, but her mouth hadn’t moved. Faerie? Here?
“So you heard me. I thought so,” she murmured. She drank deeply before muttering under her breath, “Damn vamps.”
She knew.
“You’re not one of Lorin’s crew,” she continued, skimming those extraordinary eyes over his body. “What brings you to this fine establishment? Opening a cabin for the season? Vacationing?”
Dia, she was looking at his hands, and he’d forgotten to remove Lorcan’s Ring of Allegiance before coming down to the surface. “Opening a cabin,” he repeated. Whatever that meant.
She brought the triangular vessel up to her lips, tipped it back as she had the other one, and drained it. He quickly followed suit. “Would you like to escort me home?” she asked, already sliding off the stool.
Would you like to feed?
His fangs shoved down in response. His pulse surged. Suddenly he had a cockstand like he hadn’t had in ages. “Very much,” he said.
They stood, and he escorted her toward the door with a light touch at the back of her waist.
“Paige?” the young Vampyr called from his table on the other side of the room.
“See you tomorrow, Mike,” she said without turning.
Beddoe pulled the door open and followed her through it, ignoring the feel of the young Vampyr’s eyes boring into his back. Once the door closed behind them, they both took a deep breath of the cold, crisp air. Paige laughed, tipping her head back to meet his eyes. “The smell can be a little overwhelming, can’t it?”
“Yes.” The light buzzing overhead illuminated tiny, pulsing veins. Saliva spurted in his mouth. “Where’s home?”
“That way,” she said, indicating the dark, tree-lined road.
He took her hand. “Let’s go.”
The beacon could wait.
***
Tipping off Gabe, Lorin sprawled, boneless, on her back in the cool, spongy moss, trying to catch her breath. Somehow they’d made it from the birch clump to the ground for Round Two, scattering clothes and shoes along the way. As far as physical comfort went, Gabe had definitely gotten the better end of the deal—she’d feel the bark scrapes on her lower back, the soreness in her muscles, for days—but she felt well-oiled, utterly fantastic, better than she had in months.
Against a birch clump, with endorphins and adrenaline coursing through both their systems? It had been a freaking collision. And once they’d dropped to the moss, she’d ridden them both into oblivion.
She’d never come so hard in her life.
She glanced over at him, lying on his back beside her, his lean, bare body gleaming with sweat in the bright moonlight. Though he was still breathing as hard as she was, his face was relaxed, satisfied, his eyes closed behind the lenses of his glasses. She felt inexplicably proud that she’d tired him out, that she’d ground the edge off his rough, uncontrolled need.
She wanted to feel it again—as soon as she could move.
“You okay?” He reached for her hand and clasped it.
Something about Gabe’s gentle grasp rocked her, made some internal fault line slip. Other lovers—Rafe, for Freyja’s sake—had done the exact same thing on countless occasions, but this was different somehow.
“Lorin?” He tugged, and she… went. She couldn’t quite find the will to resist. Physically, her body hummed, like she’d had a particularly relaxing massage. She felt tired yet… oddly energized. As she cuddled up next to his side and rested her hand on his chest, he kissed her temple.
And the ground under her feet somehow stabilized. Realigned.
But then he sighed. “What are we going to do about this?”
“Repeat the experience? Now?”
He turned his head and met her eyes in the moon-dipped dark. “You really want a repeat performance?”
Freyja, how could he doubt his appeal? She leaned over so she could see his face. She found his talented lips with hers, then suckled and nodded. “As soon as possible,” she whispered.
He nipped her lip and licked away the tiny sting. When he skated his hand down her back, curved it over her butt cheek, she shivered, and not from the chill. “Sorry I was so quick on the trigger earlier.” He gestured to the birch clump with a vaguely embarrassed wave of his hand. “It’s been awhile, and—”
“Do you hear me complaining?” she murmured, suckling at his neck. Odd. She’d never felt the need to mark a lover before, but she did now. “I was pretty quick on the trigger myself.”
His abs clenched as he lifted his head slightly. “What the…”
“Sorry—”
“No, not you. Look at these trees.”
“Trees?”
“Look.”
Lifting her head, she did—and caught her breath. The grove, the trees… they glittered in the moonlight, as if tiny shredded diamonds were embedded in the dirt and bark. “Wow. It’s like a crystal fairyland.”
“Or a crash site,” Gabe murmured. “Look at the luminosity.” Scrambling to his feet, Gabe walked to the nearest tree and examined the bark. Hands on his hips, naked—was that a grass stain on his ass?—he looked around the clearing, over to the odd rise that had captured his attention days earlier, and back to the trees again. “I think this is metal. Do you see my jacket?”
“Over there.” Pointing to a mound of fabric near the birch clump, she quickly stood. “Damn, I wish I had a flashlight.” Had she and Gabe had hot monkey sex at a second archaeological site? The one that might finally give their people the answers they’d sought for so long?
Goose bumps prickled. Gabe had been right. There’d been something here all along, and she’d missed it.
He retrieved his jacket—definitely a grass stain on his ass—and reached into the pocket. Her pulse jumped as he pulled out the Swiss Army knife he’d used to slice her leggings from her body. The blade clicked into place, and he carefully pried a piece of bark off the tree, tucking it into the other pocket.
She shivered as a breeze rustled the pine needles.
“I can see you gauging where to place the stakes already,” he said, draping his jacket around her bare shoulders like a cape. “It might be nothing. Let me run some tests first.”
“Come on, Gabe. Do you really think it’s nothing?”
“No, but we need some information first. There’s nothing else we can do
here tonight.” He nuzzled into her neck. “And I haven’t had anywhere near enough of you yet.”
This time, her shiver had nothing to do with the chilly breeze. She didn’t want this night to end either. She hadn’t come close to slaking her need for him, and she didn’t know when she might. “Come back to the cabin with me?”
His eyes burned with an expression she couldn’t read, as if some epic battle were being waged inside. Finally, he lowered his lips to hers and gave her a succulent, luxurious kiss that wiped away her thoughts.
“Hurry.”
Gathering up their things, they did just that.
***
“So Paige, who’s the mystery vamp?” Nathan called as he kneeled in the pit, a short-handled spade in his hand.
Shoring up the wall where she’d staked Pritchard’s command box—and doing some surreptitious excavating when she could get away with it—Lorin eavesdropped. Paige had met someone last night? A vamp? Though it wasn’t unheard of to run into one of their kind so far away from the Twin Cities metro, northern Minnesota wasn’t exactly an Underworld hot spot.
Paige didn’t look up from her laptop at the artifact cataloguing station. Instead, she ducked her chin into the neckline of her fuchsia turtleneck like a turtle pulling its head into its shell. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Nathan.”
Paige’s voice was careless, but her expression was dreamy, besotted—the classic vamp glamour hangover. She was so pale she looked like she needed an immediate transfusion.
Lorin shot a glance at Mike, who pushed a wheelbarrow mounded with sifted dirt and extrusion toward their discard pile. She usually trusted his judgment, and his scowl made her stomach lurch.
Damn. Last night when she and Gabe had finally stumbled, wobbly kneed, back to camp, everyone had been in the bunkhouse, accounted for and asleep—which was good, because she’d been carrying her ruined running tights and relying on Gabe’s longer jacket to cover the breeze-kissed essentials as they’d slipped into her cabin. When had Paige had time to hook up with someone?
One more mystery to solve.
