“No! No, no. I’m his girlfriend, not his donor.”
“Isn’t that awkward? That he shares such an intimate act with others but not you?”
“You just said it wasn’t about sex. Are you sleeping with Jim?”
“No, I’m totally straight. At least, I think I am.” He shifts his glass on the rough wooden surface of the bar. “Honestly, I’m a bit confused about that lately.”
“It can’t be helped.” I squeeze his uncut arm. “We’re all a little queer for vampires.”
He breaks into a broad smile and raises his glass. I clink my pint against it.
“So who’s funneling money to FAN?” I ask him, as much to change the subject as to get the goods.
“Funny thing. The money trail is more convoluted than Watergate. I keep hitting dead ends at offshore bank accounts.”
“Whoever it is clearly wants to remain anonymous, and not out of a left - hand - not - knowing - what - the - right - is - doing impulse.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s from the book of Matthew. When we do charitable stuff, we should keep our mouths shut, not brag about it on a street corner.”
“Or on the radio.”
“Now, now.” I nudge him with my elbow. “Where’s your journalistic objectivity? The Family Action Network is all that stands between this great country and the godless heathens that want to turn our children into gay polar bears.” I look over my shoulder to make sure Travis is out of earshot, then lean close to Jeremy. “When you’re doing research, keep an eye out for the name Sara.”
“Who’s that?”
“I don’t know.” Giving him more details would break my promise to keep Regina’s secret. “But let’s just keep it between you and me.”
He nods. “Sara. Okay.”
The Celtic duo breaks into a loud drinking song, and the noise around us puts an end to all rational conversation.
Maybe it’s best if Jeremy falls into our web, where we can keep an eye on him.
10
Tempted
November 11
David and I visit the big honkin’ cross to check the serial numbers of the repeater against Travis’s list. Morning fog pools in the tree - enclosed clearing, and the cross’s pulsing power is now a steady, inaudible thrum I can feel deep in my chest. I resist the urge to reach for David’s hand.
The numbers match, proving the Family Action Network is on a crusade to rid the world of fake vampires.
Or worse, real vampires.
November 12
I get my ethics midterm back: an F+. My complete lack of morals is now on my permanent record.
David helps me put it in perspective by showing me the coolest thing in the night sky. An unstable comet, hurtling toward the sun, has broken apart, creating a fuzzy blob that gets bigger each night.
I ignore the jump in my pulse when David puts his hand over mine to point the binoculars, and his other hand on my shoulder to stabilize my viewing experience. No doubt it’s just my excitement over the comet.
November 16
My dream doesn’t bother with foreplay. It cuts right to David and me in his bed, our naked skin sliding together, slick with sweat, as we kiss and stroke and grasp each other.
He enters me, and we sigh, as if we’ve reached the end of a long, hard journey. Our bodies roll and arch and meld, and his arms clutch me close like he fears I’ll slip away. But I have no intention of leaving, though I sense there’s somewhere else I should be.
Shane’s face appears over David’s shoulder. I freeze, suddenly remembering who I am and where I belong.
Then he smiles, showing fangs twice as long as I’ve ever seen them. They shine with the pure silver of moonlight on snow. He strips off his shirt, then disappears from view.
David is oblivious to the incursion, his eyes closed and lashes fluttering as he murmurs my name. My name, not Elizabeth’s.
Shane appears again, on the bed with us. He draws his hands up and down David’s back, caressing in long, strong strokes. David groans with pleasure and throbs harder inside me.
The sight of both men above me starts a cascade of orgasms, until I feel like my heart will explode. I try to beg them to stop, but I’m laughing too hard from the joy and irony.
David’s groans rise in pitch, and his thrusts grow more urgent. He grasps my hands beside my head as he comes, shoving my wrists deep into the pillow.
Shane leans forward and sinks his fangs into David’s neck, the same place where Gideon once bit him. David’s eyes roll back in elation, and he moans, tightening his grip on my hands.
A drop of blood falls on my chest, just below my collarbone. It’s warm and dark, and I have an insane desire to taste it.
Shane’s eyes open and gaze straight at me. I hear his thoughts as if he’s spoken.
I love you too much.
His fangs sink deeper into David’s neck, and the trickle of blood becomes a flood. David’s mouth opens as if to scream, and his body starts to buck. Shane’s grip tightens, and he squeezes his eyes shut, breathing hard through his nose as he swallows.
That’s when I notice the silver cross dangling from David’s neck. If I could reach it, I’d make myself believe for just one moment, long enough to save him. But his hands are locked with mine, clutching me in the throes of death as his blood pours over my breasts.
A soundless shriek rips my throat. I gulp breath after breath, trying to scream myself awake, but hot, thick blood fills my mouth and nose. David flops and jiggles in Shane’s grasp as the death spasms crescendo.
At last a strangled yelp escapes me, and I wake rigid and shaking, lying at the edge of the bed.
A hand touches my shoulder, and someone whispers my name. I sit up quickly, almost knocking my head against David’s. I check to make sure I’m not naked in real life. My fingers touch the soft cotton of my sleeveless sleep shirt.
He sits on the bed. “Nightmare?”
It’s too dark to see him, so I reach out and run my fingers over the smooth, intact flesh of his throat. “You’re okay.”
“It’s me,” he says, and for a moment I wonder what he means. Then I realize he thinks I thought he was Shane, because I touched him, and am still touching him, even though—oh God—he’s not wearing a shirt.
Now I’m not touching him.
“I know it’s you, David. You were dead.” I rub my upper arms to smooth the goose bumps. “It was so real. So much blood.”
He sighs, and I hear his hand running over his neck in that familiar new tic. “You dreamed about Gideon.”
I remain silent until I come up with words that are true. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Can I get you anything?”
“A new apartment.”
He doesn’t laugh. “I’m sorry you don’t like it here.”
“It’s fine.” I touch his arm in what I hope is a friendly, casual manner. “But I don’t want to be a burden.”
“I like having you here, Ciara.” He clears his throat, as if to mute the force of his sincerity. “Much more than I thought I would, anyway.”
I laugh louder than his comment warrants, just to relieve the tension. “You can go back to bed now.”
“You sure?” He puts his hand over mine, provoking a flashback to my dream. “You’re still shaking.”
What does that mean? That I should let him stay and make me stop shaking? His hand is so warm—I forgot how much heat a human body holds—if he put them both on my body, the chill would vanish.
My mind swirls with the effort to separate dream from reality, fear from lust. The darkness magnifies my disorientation, but turning on the bedside lamp would force me to pull my hand from his. And again, it’s so warm.
A spotlight shines on one fact, leaving the rest in obscurity: if I curl my thumb over his, so that I’m holding his hand in return, that tiny motion could set off a chain reaction that would change our lives forever. One thumb.
I hold my breath, frozen with inde
cision. The tension spikes with each passing second, because David is waiting for an answer to a not - so - simple question. I need to pull away, but right now it seems like it would rip off my own skin.
I force myself to breathe. The flood of oxygen to my brain gives me a sudden strength.
“Yeah, I’m sure.” I pull my hand from under his— miraculously leaving my skin intact—and shift my legs over the edge of the bed. “I’ll get some chamomile tea and go back to sleep.”
“Me, too—the sleep, not the tea.”
“Good. I mean, thanks.” I shove myself off the bed. “I mean, good night,” I say as I stumble to the door. “Again.”
Dexter gets up from his position at the foot of my bed and follows me to the kitchen.
After I make the tea, I grab my cell phone and head down to the basement to call Lori. Midnight on a Friday is definitely within the realm of best friend semi - emergency calls.
Her phone rings as I shut the door at the bottom of the stairs. She doesn’t pick up until the fifth ring.
“Hey.” She stretches the word into two syllables, which means she’s either sleepy or drunk or both.
“Did I wake you?”
“Nope. What’s up?”
“You won’t believe the dream I just had.”
“Hold on while I get a pen.”
“No! Promise me you won’t jot a single note.”
“Okay, okay. No jotting.”
“Believe me, this one needs no interpretation.” I glance at the closed door to the stairs, then decide I need more insulation between my mouth and David’s ears. I go down the hall and into the storeroom, most of which is occupied by the oil -burning furnace and shelves of homeowner - type items.
I sit on a large, sturdy toolbox and tell Lori the whole thing, leaving out none of the details. She doesn’t comment, except with the occasional “Uh - huh” or “Then what?”
When I finish, she says, “Hm. So what do you think that’s all about?”
I slap my forehead. “Lori, this isn’t abstract Freudian symbolism. I didn’t dream about David offering me a cucumber. Obviously I’m attracted to him, and I think he feels the same way. We live together. This is a powder keg, and it could get him killed.”
“Oh, I doubt that last part.”
“About the killing?”
“Mmm - hmm. That person just isn’t the type.”
That person? Suddenly I realize why she’s being cryptic. “Is someone with you?”
“Uh, sort of.”
“Who?”
“No one.”
“It’s Travis, isn’t it?”
“Maybe.”
I kick my heel against the toolbox. “Where are you?”
“At my place, watching a movie.”
“Which movie?”
“Ciara . . .”
“Sorry.” My hand tightens on the mug handle. “But tomorrow you call and tell me all about it.”
She makes an ambiguous noise that contains no actual words, then says good night.
I finish my tea on the toolbox. A familiar duffel bag sits on the floor to my left, near the door leading to the backyard. The day Gideon attacked David, Shane and I used the bag’s contents to destroy the ancient vampire. I can still hear his screams and smell his flesh burn as I shot him with a holy-water Super Soaker. At least he only suffered for about ten seconds before Shane sliced off his head.
Until that day, Shane had never killed anyone, living or undead. He refuses to talk about it; I think it damaged him, even though he was defending my life and David’s.
Lori’s probably right—now that Shane knows what it’s like to take a life, he wouldn’t do it again out of petty jealousy.
But if I ever cheated on him, the guilt would make me wish for death.
I go upstairs, set my empty mug in the sink, then start packing.
11
Creep
I wait at the door of Elizabeth’s condo while Shane enters the darkness inside, checking for intruders. Every week since her death, I’ve been making the forty - five - minute drive here from Sherwood to pick up her bills, but only got as far as the square metal mailbox inside the door of the building. I told myself it was because I was always in a hurry, but the fact is, I didn’t want to be in this place alone.
Shane prowls the apartment—all senses tuned, no doubt— then turns on the light, a simple chandelier over the black, ultramodern dining room table. A thin layer of dust on the table mutes the reflection of the chandelier’s bulbs.
From the door I can see the living room area, too, as well as the kitchen and a dark hallway. The air smells stale. I shiver and hope my reaction is only from the temperature.
“First we need heat.” I spy a digital programmable wall thermostat not far from the door. I tap menu squares on the flat screen at random until the word “heat” comes on and warm air blows from the floor vents. I smile with satisfaction, though I have no idea how I made it happen. It’s an improvement over my old apartment’s hissy radiator, which would stop working if I made direct eye contact with it.
Shane moves into the living room and clicks on the stereo. The soporific voice of a female National Public Radio announcer crawls out of the speaker, entreating us to pledge seventy - five dollars in exchange for a coffee mug and a year -long lapse in guilt.
He snorts and changes the station to WVMP. Monroe’s Midnight Blues program fills the room with notes of spirited loneliness. Oddly, the sound of a vampire radio show makes this place feel less creepy.
Shane nods approvingly at the speakers. “Nice system.”
“It doesn’t feel like home.” I sit on the edge of Elizabeth’s white leather couch, which isn’t nearly as cushy as it looks. “Maybe I should sell all this nice furniture, then go Dumpster diving for new stuff.”
“I have a better idea.” Shane kneels on the floor in front of me, easing himself between my thighs. “Let’s celebrate your new home.” He gives me a deep kiss, pulling me into his arms. I return his passion for a few moments, trying to psych myself into the mood.
Finally I let go of him. “This feels weird.”
“Not for long.” He starts unbuttoning my shirt. “Think of all the new horizontal surfaces we can explore. Not to mention a few vertical ones.”
“Maybe later.” I gently push his hands away. “It feels like she’s still here.”
He studies my face. “But you don’t believe in ghosts.”
“Not real ones.” I glance past him down the hall. “She’s on my mind a lot lately, maybe because of all the time I’ve been spending with David.”
“I knew Elizabeth Vasser. I worked with Elizabeth Vasser.” He brushes my hair off my cheek. “Senator, you’re no Elizabeth Vasser.”
“Huh?”
“Sorry. Eighties humor.” Shane kisses my forehead, then takes my hand. “Let’s move you in.”
Sunday evening I roam the aisles of the local discount store, examining the list Shane and I made of the housewares I need. As a vampire, Elizabeth didn’t eat, so plates, bowls, and forks are at the top of the list. (Technically, only bowls are at the top, since Shane ordered the items alphabetically.)
I stop in front of an endcap of ten - dollar throws. Hmm, maybe a cheap - ass blanket would warm up Elizabeth’s couch and give it that college - student grunge factor I’ve been missing. I wonder if they sell prestained slipcovers.
“Ciara?”
I raise my head before I turn. It can’t be. Please don’t let it be.
A man steps out of the area - rug aisle behind me. “It is you. How have you been?”
“Fine. Uh . . .’’ I snap my fingers, pretending I don’t remember the name of the squirrelly bald guy who saved my life.
“Ned!” He pats his chest. “Ned Amberson. From Gideon’s Lair. Remember?”
“Of course. Ned. What are you doing”—Outside an asylum?—”in Rockville?”
“I live here. Well, I live with my parents for the moment, which is pathetic, I know, for a
thirty - five - year - old man. But.” He gestures to the cart parked halfway down the aisle. “I just found a new place, looking to spruce it up.”
“Are you, uh—” Sane? “Do you have a job?”
He laughs melodically, blue eyes sparkling. “No, but I’m getting help.” He shakes his head as he stops laughing. “I needed a lot of help, as you can imagine, after leaving that place. I went through the whole de - culting process, and let me tell you, I learned so much about myself.”
“I bet.” I check my watch. “I’d love to hear more about it, but—”
“Then let’s go get coffee.”
“Now?”
“Come on, it’ll be fun. The store has a little food place up front.”
My mind scrambles for an excuse and somehow finds the truth. “I have homework.”
“Well, I don’t want to stand in the way of that.” He takes my shopping list and jots an address on the back. “I’ll be here for the foreseeable future. It’s sort of a halfway house for ex - cult members. They keep an eye on us, make sure we’re consorting with the right people.” He holds up a hand. “Don’t worry— even though you work with the monsters, you get bonus credit for getting rid of Gideon.” He leans closer and whispers. “Tell me, did all of him disappear, or just his body? Rumor says your boss has Gideon’s head in a meat freezer.”
I step back from him. “Um, let’s save that story for another time.” Like during the intermission of a hockey game in hell.
“Okay, Ciara.” He puts his hand next to mine on my shopping cart handle. “But I encourage you to call us soon, before it’s too late.”
“Too late for what?”
His face turns somber. “To save you from hell.”
At the discount store’s “café,” the chairs are all bolted to the frames of the orange acrylic tables—as if someone would walk off with one.
“So tell me,” I say to Ned with an encouraging smile, “how did you find this organization?” The going - to - hell statement could be just a coincidence, or there might be a connection to the wackos who tried to roast the station. It’s worth spending a few more minutes with Ned to find out.
Bad to the Bone Page 13
