“If it’s an emergency but . . .”
“Unlock penthouse four.” If Vicki was already in there, no one would be available to let him in. Mike had no idea what the concierge saw in his expression, nor did he want to know, but as the elevator door closed he saw the man nod and run for his desk.
And thank fucking God it was only nine floors to the two-story penthouses.
The door to four was open when he got there.
The glass doors out onto the terrace were still closed. Good sign. Vicki wouldn’t have taken the elevator.
A crash from the upper level. Something breakable thrown, and thrown hard.
He ran for the stairs.
Charged through the first open door and nearly had his head taken off by a flat screen monitor.
Although he was clearly terrified, Albert Droege was fighting back.
Mike would consider the implications of that later. Right now, he needed to keep the situation from escalating any further out of control.
“Vicki!”
She glanced toward him. Her lips were pulled back off too white teeth and her eyes were as inhuman as Mike had ever seen them. He’d seen her vamped out before. Had lain in her arms while she sank her teeth into his body and taken him to edge of darkness, but there’d never been a time when he hadn’t been able to see Vicki. Here and now, there was nothing in her but Hunger and words weren’t going to stop her.
He felt himself responding and knew that in half a heartbeat he wouldn’t be able to do anything but bare his throat. A trickle of sweat ran down his side. One step, two . . . By the time he hit her, he was running full out. He dropped his shoulder, wrapped both arms around her, and took her with him out the open window.
If words couldn’t stop her, gravity might.
Vicki’s body took the brunt of the impact. She’d managed to get her feet under her, her knees and hips acting as shock absorbers for them both, but hitting the cedar decking still hurt like hell. Mike rolled, tasted blood, swore as pain shot up his arm from his wrist, and found himself, finally, staring up at Vicki as she lunged toward him.
* * *
Mike’s blood wasn’t, couldn’t be, enough to keep her fed but it sustained her in other ways. The familiar scent cut through the song and stopped her before her teeth broke through the skin. Mouth against his throat, she breathed him in. Home. Humanity.
She wasn’t . . .
She couldn’t . . .
The song filled all the spaces Mike wasn’t and threatened to overwhelm her tenuous control. She skimmed a hand over his body, feeling him respond. Pain. Pleasure. Want.
She needed . . .
She had to . . .
She ran.
* * *
There were uniforms in Droege’s penthouse almost before Vicki disappeared over the edge of the roof. The concierge had to have called them.
By the time Mike filled them in on the situation—“I’m guessing she was on some kind of designer drug. A two-story drop barely fazed her and if you don’t stop touching my fucking wrist, I’m going to shoot you.”—Droege’s lawyer had arrived and Droege himself was unavailable for questioning. The lawyer issued a brief statement, the clear expectation that everyone not a billionaire CEO should just clear out of the condo. A big believer in using bad moods to his advantage, Mike threw his weight around until Droege, through his lawyer, agreed to an appointment. At the club. Ten thirty a.m.
Between filing reports and having his wrist taped, Mike wasn’t home until just past three. He made coffee, sat in the dark, and tried not to think about silvered eyes. Tried not to think about pain and pleasure so entwined he couldn’t tell anymore where one ended and the other began.
Tried not to watch the clock as he waited for sunrise.
The crate behind the false wall in his crawlspace remained empty. He had to believe that Vicki had made it to the safety of her downtown office. He had to believe it because he wouldn’t believe the alternative.
* * *
Vicki’s car was still parked just down the street from Millennium Ten. She’d been ticketed but somehow missed having been towed. Staring past his refection in the car window, Mike flipped open his phone. The call went straight to voicemail.
“Nelson Investigations. Leave your name, number, and what you need me for after the tone.”
And what he needed her for? He unclenched his teeth long enough to growl, “Call me the minute you’re up.”
Few things looked less attractive than a dance club at ten-thirty in the morning. The harsh glare of the overhead lights illuminated every stain, every scuff, every lie. Mike flashed his badge at the bored young woman running a steamer over the carpet. She half turned and pointed toward a door tucked in to the right of the small stage.
One end of the concrete corridor led to the exit up into the alley. The other to an open door, defined by a rectangular spill of light. Odds were good Droege wasn’t waiting in the alley so Mike turned toward the light.
The room he stepped into seemed to be a dressing room. Four meters square, cinder block walls painted a pale institutional green; if the tiny window high in the far wall didn’t give away its basement location, the off-center drain in the floor did. It held a dressing table and mirror, aluminum rack of clothes, and the most beautiful woman Mike had ever seen sitting in an old wooden captain’s chair, combing her hair. She was singing softly to herself but she looked up as he entered the room.
Her smile promised sunlight and laughter.
Mornings spent lazily in bed, warm under the covers, long legs wrapped around his as they rocked slowly against each other. Afternoons sprawled on the grass, her head on his lap, bending to lick spilled jam from warm skin. Evenings at the table surrounded by family, her eating off his plate as though she didn’t have exactly the same on hers while under the table, her touch wanders up his thigh. Nights together with no surprises in the moonlight.
Mike didn’t remember moving but he was standing close enough to touch. He reached out, needing to know if the curve of her cheek was as soft as it appeared.
Her smile changed. “So easy,” she sighed, “for you to betray her.”
* * *
Considering how the investigation to this point had turned up sweet fuck-all, Mike found it amazing that the Droege Shipping case was taking up so damned much time. An autopsy had determined that yes, the dead guard had been taken out by a heart attack. The coroner had refused to speculate on the cause although had allowed that given the state of his arteries, Chris Adams was a myocardial infarction waiting to happen. Duncan Riley, the surviving guard remained physically fine and mentally unhinged. His doctors suspected he was reliving the night over and over . . . “He’s ejaculating every two, two and a half hours. All things considered, his recovery time is impressive.”
“Way, way too much information,” Mike muttered as he hung up. Rolling out his shoulders, he glanced toward the window where the sunset gilded the glass. Vicki’d be calling soon and as little as he was looking forward to the conversation, at least it would get him away from the piles of futile paperwork he’d spent the day on.
“Well”—Dave propped a thigh on the corner of Mike’s desk—“what’d you turn up?”
“Big fat nothing.” Mike nudged his coffee mug out of harm’s way with the back of his bound wrist.
“Let me guess. Droege had no idea who could possibly be after little-old-never-cheated-anyone him.”
“Yeah, well, Droege’s lawyer seemed to have no idea.”
“He brought his lawyer to the club? That sucks.”
“To the club?”
Dave stared down at him for a long moment then shook his head. “If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a thousand times, paperwork kills brain cells. Did Droege,” he continued slowly, with heavy emphasis, “bring his lawyer to the club?”
“I don’t . . .” Mike frowned. The lawyer had been at the condo. Hadn’t allowed him to speak to Droege. The club was on Queen Street West. It was . . . there was . .
. he didn’t . . . “I don’t remember.”
“Interesting.”
“Why?”
“Because lately, my friend, all your memory lapses tend to lead back to Vicki.”
“Vicki has nothing to do with this!” When Dave reared back, both hands up, he realized he’d been a little overly vehement. Dave hadn’t known what the bite marks on Duncan Riley meant. Hadn’t know it was Vicki that Mike had chased out of Albert Droege’s condo.
“Dude, chill. I didn’t say she did. I was thinking maybe you were distracted by a little afternoon delight, not that she’s been ripping people apart. Not that it would matter if it did. You got it so bad you’d never give her up.”
Mike rubbed his head wondering who the hell had the music playing so loud in the squad room. “Give her up . . . ?”
“Rat her out,” Dave expanded, rolling his eyes. “Squeal on her. Turn her in. Betray her trust.”
So easy for you to betray her.
Memory returned as the music faded.
“Mike! Hello! Where the hell are you off to?”
“Back to the club.” He shook off Dave’s grip and pushed past him toward the door. “There’s a loose end I need to tie up.” But he’d have to beat the sunset to do it.
* * *
The second evening in a row, Vicki woke to a flood of memory.
The look on Mike’s face, equal parts fear and arousal, as she bent toward his throat.
Remembered the effort of moving against the music as she turned the Hunger back into the city.
Remembered the feel of flesh compacting under her grip as she dragged the dealer into an alley, his customers scattering. Remembered the hot splash of his blood. The dark taste of his terror.
It was easier as she fed to fight the music.
Easy enough to finally throw the first body aside and Hunt for another. One appetite fulfilled, others still needing to be.
So many people on the streets. Unaware.
An arm broken in passing, caught on the upswing between one blow and the next. So far beyond when he collapsed to the ground that the screams of his companion were nearly lost in the sounds of the city.
Blue eyes and broad shoulders and hair long enough for her to grip. His pulse pounding. Hips rising to meet hers. His blood tasted of desire. He was weak when she stopped but alive.
The look on Mike’s face . . .
* * *
Vicki ripped the back door of the club off its hinges and threw it across the alley. Before it landed, she was running into the dressing room at the end of the corridor, ready for Lorelei’s song when it hit her, “When the Levee Breaks” pounding into her ears at about a hundred decibels. She’d got her hand around fistful of hair when a bullet whistled past her cheek and smashed the mirror.
Lorelei’s comb caught the wires as Vicki turned, pulling the earbuds free. The song changed. Caught her.
On the other side of the room, his back pressed up against the clothing on the rack, Mike lowered his weapon, his movements as much beyond his control as hers were.
“Kill him,” Lorelei sang. “Kill him.”
Vicki could feel the Hunger rising along the notes of the song. “Mike, run!”
“The hell I will!”
She heard his heart pounding. Inhaled the scent of his fear. Her tongue swept over his throat, tasting . . . Fuck! She didn’t remember moving. The hard ridge of his gun dug into her hip and she managed to find enough control to grunt, “Shoot me!”
“Not going to happen.”
“Do it!”
“No!”
He titled his head to the side, giving himself to her. Trusting her. Vicki’s teeth broke the skin and she froze in place, fighting the music with everything she had. Fighting the need to rend and tear. Fighting what she was. She licked at the blood welling slowly to the surface . . .
Home.
Humanity.
. . . and used the strength it gave her to turn, shards of the mirror grinding into the tile under her shoes.
Mike’s hand caught her elbow as she swayed, suddenly free of the song.
On the other side of the room, Lorelei stood and stared at them like she’d never seen a cop and a vampire hold each other up before.
Vicki was pretty sure she still had every intention of breaking the singer’s neck but Mike’s grip on her arm held her in place.
“In spite of everything, you’d rather die—both of you would rather die than live with the pain of killing the other.”
“Because of everything,” Vicki growled.
To her surprise, Lorelei smiled, suddenly looking young and hopeful and . . .
Translucent.
Vicki stepped back, pushing Mike with her, as a vaguely Lorelei-shaped puddle of water ran down through the drain.
“Is she . . . ?”
“An apparently undereducated guess says she’s gone. Free.” Vicki bent and picked up the comb. “Albert Droege is going to be pissed.” The plastic sounded like a distant gunshot when it snapped. “Can’t say that I care.”
* * *
Chris Adams’ grave had one of the bronze memorial markers set into a granite base, the whole thing flush with the ground. Easier for groundskeepers but Vicki preferred the old slab markers. As much as it bordered on cliché, she liked cemeteries to look like cemeteries.
She’d gone to the hospital and pulled Duncan Riley up out of the darkness. Gave him back his life. Unfortunately, death’s embrace was a little more final. A lot more final.
“You weren’t responsible.”
“Reading minds now?”
Behind her, Mike huffed out a half laugh. “I know how you think. And you weren’t responsible.”
“For the condition of his arteries? No. For his heart giving out when it did . . .”
“Vicki, she was controlling you.”
Pushing back against Mike’s body, centering herself in the circle of his arms, grounding herself on the beat of his heart, Vicki remembered.
I give you the freedom to be yourself, Vampire.
But that truth was a line Mike couldn’t cross so she smiled, touched the comb in her pocket, and said, “I know.”
* * *
TANYA HUFF lives and writes in rural Ontario with eight cats—as of this writing—two dogs, and her partner, Fiona Patton. She has a degree in Radio and Television Arts from back in the days of physically cutting audio tape. Her latest book from DAW is Truth of Valor (September 2010), the fifth Gunnery Sergeant Torin Kerr novel. She’s currently working on a sequel to The Enchantment Emporium for 2011. No title as yet, although there’ve been a few doozies tossed around. When she’s not writing, she gardens and practices the guitar—although not at the same time.
When I requested an afterword, she supplied the following:
* * *
Way back in 2007, the Vicki Nelson books were made into a television show called Blood Ties. FInally using my RTA degree, I wrote an episode for season one called “Stone Cold” and had a verbal agreement to write two episodes for season two. Unfortunately, there wasn’t a season two, but there were half a dozen pitches I’d already put together. The sirens pitch had been written with a specific guest star in mind (nope, can’t tell you), and while there were obviously things about it that couldn’t translate from the TV-verse to the bookverse—Henry, by way of Kyle Schmid such an amazing presence in the show, isn’t in the bookverse at this point—the story had a strong core and an interesting look at the relationship between Mike and Vicki that I didn’t want to lose. This version is definitely a little sexier than would be allowed on at 8 o’clock but it’s basically the same story.
CARELESS OF THE NIGHT
GINA MASSEL-CASTATER
“I’m calling 911. Whoever is back there had better leave now!” Liz yelled as soon as she heard the alley door bang open and the scuffling sounds from the rear of the photography studio. She picked up the wireless handset and grabbed her purse, rooting around for her pistol, but also making fast tracks for the
front door. No reason to confront trouble if you can avoid it. She kicked off her sexy four-inch-heeled sandals behind the curved reception desk. They would just slow her down if she had to move out in a hurry.
Stilling her panic breathing, she could hear the argument coming from the back room and tiptoed over to the curtain dividing the spaces.
“I told you all to back off.” Liz was sure it was Armando, but his voice was oddly low and gravelly. Each word was clipped and terse.
“Hey, man, we’re just the first wave. You have to get your guys in line, or there’s going to be some very big trouble on your doorstep,” he threatened.
Liz didn’t want to move the curtain, but she needed to see what was happening. She found a small hole in the drape and plastered her eye to it.
Armando stood in that alert-relaxed stance she’d seen in movies, the look of someone ready to fight. Shifting, she saw two young punks near the back door. They wore the usual Goth-looking clothes, but their heavily muscled frames belied the wan look of the costume.
“Well, just tell your leader to stay out of my business. It’s not his territory, it’s mine,” Armando said, raising his voice on the last word as he moved forward, forcing the guys to back up.
“Get out.”
“He’s not gonna like this. You know it isn’t over,” the guy on the right said.
“It’s done for now. Leave, and I won’t run you down the next time I see you,” he said as he opened the door to force them out.
Liz backed away from the curtain and ran to the front door. She didn’t want Armando to know what she’d seen, so she repeated her warning about calling 911.
Just as she made it to the door, Armando stuck his head through the dividing curtains. Liz caught a quick glimpse of bloody scratches on his face as he yelled, “No, don’t call. It’s all right.” Liz pulled her empty hand out of her purse, but clutched the phone like a hand grenade.
The Wild Side: Urban Fantasy with an Erotic Edge Page 3
