After navigating the switchboard and speaking to a guard, I hold while five minutes tick by on the antique alarm clock, the kind with a mallet that strikes two giant bells in the loudest noise outside of a sonic boom. Then another five minutes. Is her cell really far from the phones, or does she just not want to talk to me?
I get up and start to pace again, sipping my wine, though my head is already pounding. Figures—only I could get a hangover while I’m still drunk.
Finally someone picks up on the other end. “Hello?”
The word almost sticks in my throat. “Mom?”
She gasps, and for once her melodrama might not be exaggerated. “Ciara? Is that you?”
“Who else calls you ‘Mom’?” There was a time when that would have been nothing but a joke. These days I wonder.
She lets loose a high titter, the one that always used to grate on my nerves but today sounds like birds singing. “How long has it been? No, let’s not waste time on the past. How are you?”
“I’m good.” As the words leave my mouth, I realize they’re true. I sit cross - legged on the bed and give her a short rundown of my job, eliminating the vampires - are - real part. She sounds like she’s actually listening.
“That’s fabulous, honey. You must send me a T - shirt.”
“Don’t you have to wear a uniform?”
“I’ll hang the shirt on my wall. Of course, you can’t send me a button, because I could stab someone with it.”
“Are you sure it’s not too profane?”
“I’m proud of you, no matter what unsavory elements you’re consorting with. Are there any special men in your life? Come on, spill.”
I tell her about Shane, keeping an eye on the clock. If I can draw out this part of the conversation, maybe the prison will cut us off before she can ask about Dad.
“Sounds nice enough for now,” she replies. “Of course, in the long run I think you could do better than a disc jockey.”
Yeah, maybe if I’m real lucky, I could nab myself a professional fraud like you did.
“Then again,” she says, “I suppose I’m in no position to judge.” Several seconds of silence follow. “Have you heard from your father?”
I close my eyes and picture the postcard at the bottom of my purse. “No.”
“You’re a poor liar, Ciara. Didn’t we teach you anything?” After a pause, during which I hope an ice storm will tear down all the phone lines in Illinois, she laughs and says, “I’m only teasing. I’m sure you would have told me if he’d contacted you. We don’t keep secrets from each other, right? Just from everyone else. I bet your boyfriend doesn’t know about us.”
“I told him everything.”
“Oh, Ciara.” She starts to cry. Maybe it’s just the tin - can resonance of the cell phone speaker, but it sounds phony. “How could you bring that shame upon yourself?”
“I’m not ashamed of anything with him.”
“I suppose that’s a gift.” She sniffles. “It sounds like the kind of trust I used to have with your father.”
I crush the heel of my hand against my temple. She gave up so much for him, and he never even married her. But she doesn’t know he told me that, because she doesn’t know he’s not still in jail, that he turned state’s evidence on his own family in exchange for his freedom and an undercover job with the Control. I’m pretty sure it’d be a felony to tell her.
I pick up the wineglass and empty it down my throat. “I’m sorry you haven’t heard from him.”
“I guess I know how you feel now. I used to beg him to call you. I told him he had to forgive you or he’d regret it one day. Excuse me one moment.” A nose - blowing sound comes from the line, and when she returns, her voice is clear. “Maybe that was why he stopped calling me. He got tired of me nagging him about you.”
I set down the empty wineglass before my hand crushes it. She’s not perfect by a long shot, but she doesn’t deserve this.
A low - pitched female voice speaks to my mother. “All right,” Mom says to her. “Ciara, my time’s up. Thank you so very much for calling. It meant a lot to me.”
Though I know it’ll make her cry, and this time for real, I say, “I love you, Mom.”
Instead of bawling, she falls silent, and I wonder if the prison has cut the call. Then she says, “I love you, too, sweet pea.” Her whisper is tight around the edges, as if for once in her life she’s holding back her feelings instead of exaggerating them.
She hangs up. I slump back on my pillow and watch the ceiling spin. Antoine leaps onto the bed with a brraaap!
“Hey.” I stroke the cat’s sleek white back. “I just drunk -dialed my mom.”
My phone rings in my hand, startling me enough to drop it on the floor. My head swims as I bend over to pick it up. It’s Shane.
I answer it upside down. “Crappy Thanksgiving, baby,” I say.
“You have no idea how true that is.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be at that donor’s house, having your little T - Day shindig?”
“I am. You and David need to get over here.”
“Thanks, but I like my blood in my veins, not your belly. And if David goes, then I’m stuck doing the dishes alone.”
“Ciara, this is serious.” He pauses. “Jim brought the reporter.”
15
Dazed and Confused
The T - Day feast is in a large Colonial home on the outskirts of town. Like a lot of houses this Thanksgiving evening, its driveway is packed with vehicles. Probably where the similarity ends.
Standing on the porch with David, I knock on the door, afraid of what it’ll reveal.
Shane opens it, looking worried.
“Are we too late?” David says.
“No. They’re still eating.” He lets us pass into the warm, high - ceilinged foyer. The aroma of sage - slathered turkey and stuffing greets my nose. In a room down the hall, murmurs and laughter blend with the clank of dishes and utensils.
Shane whispers, “The other donors know there’s a newbie among us, one who doesn’t know the truth yet. That’s part of the fun.”
I try not to cringe. “Let me guess: initiation is a T - Day tradition.”
He nods. “Being surrounded by other humans who accept us helps the virgins adjust. It gives them an instant community.”
“But virgins aren’t usually reporters for national magazines.”
“Which is why I called you.”
Shane leads us down the hall into the dining area. The room is surrounded by floor - to - ceiling windows lined with white Christmas lights, setting off the darkness of the night sky beyond.
A holler of greeting goes up when we walk in. About a dozen people are sitting around the table—Travis and four DJs, along with an array of happy humans. The only one missing is Noah, who’s at the station. I spy Jeremy sitting at one corner of the table, next to Jim, who is not smiling.
“Welcome.” The woman at one end of the table slides back her chair. Her chin - length salt - and - pepper hair swings elegantly in a neat curtain as she approaches, hand extended. “I’m Marcia, Spencer’s donor. Please join us.”
I hesitate before shaking her hand. “Thanks, but I’ve already eaten. You have a lovely home, by the way.”
“Oh, I adore entertaining, and T - Day only comes once a year.”
The others laugh, some more slyly than others.
David shakes her hand. “Sorry to interrupt, but we just need Jim for a quick second.”
Jim shoves back his chair and stalks over to us. He sneers at Shane as he passes him. “Thanks, rat.”
Spencer stands up at the other end of the table. “Really, now, is this necessary?” He spreads his hands to encompass the table. “There’s no harm being done here.”
“Don’t bother,” Regina snaps at him. “Nothing’s the same since the fascist came on board.” Her ebony - lined eyes send me a withering glare.
Jim turns to them. “Guys, it’s okay. I know how to handle this.” He sweeps p
ast me and hooks his arm into mine. “Let’s talk, just you and me.”
I look back at Shane and David as Jim drags me away. Shane starts to move after us, but David stops him.
“Five minutes,” David says to Jim, and checks his watch.
We go back down the hall, into a cozy sitting room off to the side of the foyer. Jim plops down on the loveseat and stretches his arm over the back.
“You can’t bite the reporter,” I tell him.
“Sorry, I can’t hear you from all the way over there.” He pats the cushion next to him.
I cross my arms and stand in the doorway. “If he writes about it, and someone believes it—”
“No one’ll believe it.”
“He’ll have physical evidence.” When he shrugs, I add, “Are you willing to risk the station?”
“You don’t get it, do you?” he says softly. “Jeremy won’t talk.”
“He’s a reporter. A truth - seeker. That makes him the enemy.”
“He won’t jeopardize what we have.” His dark gaze falls to my throat. “He’s addicted to the feel of my mouth against his skin.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I say, but my voice comes out strangely feeble. “It’s sick.”
A corner of his mouth twitches. “You only say that because you’ve never tried it.”
“I’ve been bitten. Twice.”
“Not for pleasure.” His palm sweeps across the cushion beside him, caressing it like the skin of a lover. “You look tired, Ciara.”
My vision narrows to see nothing but his hand and his eyes. Everything else—my surroundings, my past, my future—turns to fog.
Suddenly my feet are killing me. I recall how many hours I stood today, chopping and slicing Thanksgiving dinner. My ankles weaken, and I don’t know if they’ll support me long enough to get over to the couch.
I stumble on the last step, so that Jim has to catch me. He lowers me to the couch beside him, one hand on my elbow and the other on my waist.
“That’s better,” he whispers.
A low, steady hum plays in the back of my head, and I wonder if that last glass of wine is just now kicking in.
“I’ll make you a deal.” Jim slides my hair behind my shoulder, and a shiver skates over my neck. “I’ll kick the reporter out after he eats, if that’s what you really want.”
What reporter? A vague worry pokes at my memory. It seems very important. “Yes. Yes, I want that.”
“But you have to take his place.”
My heart thuds, and I expect fear to turn my body cold. Instead, my skin heats as the blood vessels surge toward its surface, as if longing to be consumed.
My mind floods with panic. This is crazy.
I try to tear my gaze away from Jim’s eyes, but he’s paralyzed me, and now I know what it’s like to be caught in the web. Does the butterfly secretly crave the spider’s bite?
The tip of Jim’s forefinger slides down my neck, tracing the vein down past my collarbone, inside my open jacket. Another finger joins it as the vessel widens to join my heart.
His hand stops, the other fingers curling around to trace my breast through my thin silk shirt.
“Don’t.” I force out the next word. “Shane won’t—”
“Shane won’t mind.” He leans forward. “It doesn’t count as cheating if all I do is taste you.” He draws his lips near the corner of my jaw, just below my ear. “I want to taste you, Ciara.”
I start to tremble as the cold fear sinks deep into my core, but still my skin burns. It feels like if he stopped touching me, took that mouth away from my skin, I’d burst into flames.
One of his fingers grazes my nipple, and a moan escapes my lips.
“Shh.” His breath comes against my ear. “You know, since you’ve already eaten, we don’t have to wait. We can go upstairs right now and—aaaugh!”
His yelp spikes my eardrum, followed by a hollow crack.
I leap off the couch, the spell broken. Shane has his hands around Jim’s neck. He slams the older vampire’s head against the back of the loveseat. The frame splinters at the impact, and blood spatters on the elegant fleur - de - lis wallpaper.
A shout comes from the doorway behind me. I recognize David’s voice, but I can’t turn to look at him.
“What the fuck?” Jim shrieks. “I was just playing around.”
Shane rips a wooden shard from the back of the sofa frame and pulls it back as if to plunge it into Jim’s chest. At the last moment he hesitates. The two vampires lock gazes.
I lurch forward. “Shane, don’t.”
“Yeah, man.” Jim wipes the blood trickling from his nose, and I realize he’s not afraid. “Give her the stake,” he says in an even tone, “and I won’t tear your fucking head off and throw it into the street.” He smiles. “When all your blood runs out, your head’ll come sliding back into the stump as you die. You want your little girlfriend to see that?”
“He can do it, Shane.” David speaks from the doorway. “He’s almost twice your age and strength. You’d be dead before the stake was halfway to his body. Now drop it.”
Shane swallows, but his hand and his gaze remain steady. “Don’t ever touch her again.”
Jim gives me a sly look. “Or what?”
“Your car’s getting old, isn’t it?” Shane says. “Sometimes those antiques burst into flames without warning.”
Genuine fear sparks in Jim’s eyes. “You wouldn’t touch Janis.”
Shane tilts his head toward me. “Not if I don’t have to.”
“All right. I’ll leave her alone.” His gaze darts back and forth between me and Shane. “I promise, okay?”
I step forward and put my hand on the stake. “Okay.” Shane gives it up without a struggle. He backs up and lets go of Jim.
I turn to see the sitting room doorway blocked by a crowd of onlookers.
Everyone backs up as the four of us file out into the foyer. I’m relieved to see Jeremy toward the back, standing with Monroe, who apparently interfered with the journalist’s efforts to see the action.
“Sorry,” Shane says to Marcia. “I’ll buy you a new sofa.”
“It was an antique.” She peers into the room. “And look at my wallpaper. This room isn’t set up for bloodletting.” She hurries to shut the door.
“I’ll take care of the repairs.” Jim comes up behind Shane and pats his back. “I started it, after all.” He slides his hand over Shane’s shoulder and grasps the front of his shirt. “And I’ll finish it.”
“No!” I put out my hands before he can hurl my boyfriend through the window and across the street.
Jeremy clears his throat. “Jim, maybe we should go.”
He glares at his new donor. “We can’t miss T - Day. It only comes once a year.”
Marcia crosses her arms. “I think you should leave before my insurance company gets involved.”
Spencer steps up next to his donor, reinforcing the threat.
Jim reluctantly lets go of Shane. “Fine.” He puts his arm around Jeremy’s shoulders. “This scene has gotten too square.”
When they’re gone, the other guests file back to the dining room, all but Shane.
“You’re welcome to stay for dessert,” he tells me and David. “I mean, actual dessert, with coffee, not—you know.”
“I just want to go home.” I pull my jacket tight around my body. It’s hard to look at him, for so many reasons.
David and I share actual dessert, with coffee, at his table. We haven’t spoken since the car ride home, when David was on the verge of firing Jim before I convinced him it wasn’t worth the fallout from our fans.
Finally he sets down his fork, his piece of pumpkin pie half eaten. “It’s not your fault, what happened.”
“That’s the scariest part. When Jim was looking at me, and touching me”—my voice trembles—”I felt trapped in my own body. I would’ve let him bite me, but it wouldn’t have been my choice.” I rub my aching stomach. “It’s like this summer, when Gideon
was about to kill me, I was scared and sad and angry. I didn’t want to die. But my blood wanted to be drunk. It wanted to be part of him.” I put my forehead in my hand. “That’s so twisted.”
He shifts his coffee spoon on the table. “It can feel that way when it’s someone you fear, like Gideon, or who you simply don’t trust, like Jim. It’s terrifying.” His dark eyelashes cast long shadows on his cheek as he runs his thumb over the rim of his coffee cup. “But sharing your life force with a person you love isn’t scary. It’s, I don’t know—”
“Sacred?”
He nods slowly. “Yeah. Sacred.”
“Jeremy used that word, and he thinks it’s just a kink. He doesn’t know it gives them life.”
“But he senses it.”
“I’m worried about him.”
“Are you worried about you?”
I poke at the remains of my pie. I really don’t want to talk about it. But I really do want to talk about it.
“Shane asked to live with me.”
“Already?” David looks at the clock, as if it’s a calendar. “It’s only been a few months.”
“He likes to take things fast. He’d probably marry me if I wanted.”
“You can’t marry a vampire.”
“Legally he’s alive. He has his original social security number. Even when he gets old enough to change his identity, legally I could marry that person.” I flatten the remaining piecrust with my fork. “Though I guess I’d have to divorce Shane first.”
“I don’t mean legally. It’s just not done.”
“And you’ve noticed my love of tradition and convention, right?” I sit back in my chair. “I’m not going to marry Shane or anyone else. Not yet.”
“But you’re going to live with him?”
“I don’t know.”
“Ciara, you should know something.” He gets up and moves into the kitchen. As he passes, I catch the faintest hint of a sandalwood cologne. Has he been wearing that all day?
I hear him pull the coffee carafe out of the machine. “Remember that night you had the bad dream?” he says.
A cold sensation churns my gut. I set down my cup for him to refill. “Yeah. The one about—the one about Gideon.” I hurry to take another bite of pie so I don’t have to look at him.
Bad to the Bone Page 17
