I gape at him, unable to speak.
Then his gaze shifts to the paper bag in my hand. “Oh.” His momentary relief turns into dread. “Oh.”
Dexter steps forward, sniffing. Shane grabs his collar. “No.” He leads the dog back to the bedroom. “This is one spill you can’t clean up, buddy.” The door shuts, and Shane reappears alone.
“I’m so sorry.” I step away from the puddle, leaving bloody sock prints. “I thought it was my breakfast.”
“No, it was my breakfast.” He scratches his head and stares at the pool of red. “I was saving it for later.”
“I thought you saw a donor last night.”
“I did, but he was just getting over the flu. It wasn’t safe for him to bleed.” Shane sidesteps the puddle and grabs the paper towel roll on the counter. “I called all my other donors, but no one was available.”
To keep from vomiting, I focus on his well - being. “Why didn’t you drink it last night when you got home?”
“I don’t know when I’ll get to see another donor.” Hands trembling, he sops up the blood with a clump of paper towels. “This time of year is crazy. So I figured I’d ration it.”
I stare at him, so pale in the fluorescent kitchen light. “What are you going to do now?”
He gazes bleary - eyed at the blood on the floor, and I wonder if he’s considering licking it up or sucking the paper towels. “This expensive tile of Elizabeth’s is absorbing the stain. We’ll need an area rug or something to cover it.”
“I mean about drinking.” I bend over to enter his line of sight. “Shane, call a female donor. This is a last - resort situation.”
“You’re probably right.” He blinks hard and fast, as if to jolt his brain. “But first I should try the next - to - last resort.”
I open our apartment door to David.
“Hi,” is all I can muster.
“Good morning.” His voice is smooth and level as he passes me to enter the apartment.
I take his coat, avoiding his eyes. “Shane’s in the bedroom.” I turn away with a nervous chuckle. Yes, it’s a brilliant idea to remind us of my dream. “Oh, and there’s bottled water in the fridge. He said you’d need to be hydrated first.”
“I had some on the way, but I’ll grab another.” He goes into the kitchen. “Bleach’ll get rid of this stain on the floor.”
“Thanks.” As he heads for the hallway, I blurt out, “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” He turns slowly to look at me. “I help them any way I can. Hopefully it makes up for their crappy salaries.” His lips tug up as if he’s trying to smile, to no avail.
“But here, of all places.” I don’t say Elizabeth’s name. “And after Gideon attacked you—”
“Yeah, well.” David runs his fingers inside the collar of his green turtleneck. “It is what it is.”
Without another word, he enters the bedroom and closes the door.
I spend the next hour researching my term paper and pretending I’m not straining to hear noises from the bedroom.
I decided to take Franklin’s brilliant suggestion and do my paper on identity theft. It’s given me a great excuse to call up investigative agencies and ask them how they catch the bad guys, i.e., people like me. These agents are so smug, once I provided proof I was a real student and not a criminal—as if the two pursuits are mutually exclusive—they were thrilled to share examples of their semisecret techniques.
On the sofa next to me, Dexter raises his head suddenly and looks down the hall. I hold my breath but hear nothing over the background hiss of the forced - air heater.
My mind turns to that dream again, though I know that not even the tamest version of it could be taking place right now. Since becoming my boyfriend, Shane no longer fools around with the guys he bites. Some of them jerk off while he drinks them, which is their prerogative, but he doesn’t lend a hand.
Still, curiosity drives me to set my laptop aside, then creep to the thermostat to shut off the heat.
In the ensuing silence I hear voices raised in what sounds like anger.
I tiptoe down the hall, then sit outside the bedroom door and press my ear to it. The voices have changed in tone.
“God, David,” Shane moans. “You taste so good.” The mattress creaks in a steady rhythm. “You like that?”
David murmurs “Yes” again and again, his pitch heightening. My mouth drops open slowly.
“That’s it,” Shane says. “I want to feel it when you come. I want to taste it.”
I close my eyes against the dizzy sensation and rest my palm on the door. David’s words turn incoherent, and I can see them in my mind, hands and teeth sliding over bare skin—
The door jerks open, and I pitch inward, nearly planting my face on the carpet. I look up to see Shane, fully dressed.
He smirks at me. “I knew you couldn’t resist.”
David laughs, sitting up in bed, also dressed.
I get to my feet. “I could tell you were faking it.”
“Sure you could.” Grinning, Shane examines my face, which must be red as a radish.
“But it was a good show.” With a great effort, I glance at David, who looks slightly pale but otherwise hearty.
Shane offers his arm to David to help him stand. “Thanks, man. I owe you.”
“What were you fighting about?” I ask them.
David scoffs. “Super Bowl Forty.”
“He can’t admit the Steelers won fair and square,” Shane says.
“The refs gave it to them.”
“Yeah, the refs and the Seahawks.” He ushers us out of the bedroom, and in the low light I see him nearly glowing with energy, nothing like the shriveled shell of a man he was this morning.
In the living room, Shane switches on the satellite radio to the punk station. Dexter runs for the bedroom away from the noise, his sensitive ears no doubt assaulted by the wailing chords and relentless backbeat.
I fetch an energy drink from the fridge for David. “Are you okay to drive?”
“I’m fine, thanks.”
“Are you sure?”
“He can’t stay.” Shane slides his hand over my shoulder and gives David his coat. “Much as he’d like to.”
“Right.” David avoids my eyes as he takes his coat and opens the door. “See you both at work tomorrow.”
The moment the door shuts, Shane slams the deadbolt and chain in place. He turns to me, his eyes holding a predatory fever that starts a flame in the bottom of my belly.
I give a little squeak, then run.
Halfway down the hall he catches me, grabbing me around the waist. I scream and kick, laughter choking my protests.
Shane presses me face - first against the wall. “So you knew we were faking?” he says as he reaches around and unbuttons my jeans.
“Maybe.”
“You liked it, anyway.” He slides his hand inside, over my underwear, down to where I need it most.
I moan and angle my hips to meet his touch. “Yes.”
“I knew you were there, listening. I heard you breathing.” One finger slips under my panties. “I smelled you.”
The first jolt arcs through me. I cry out, long past ready for him, and hope he doesn’t make me wait.
Shane drops to his knees, slipping off my jeans. Then he turns me to face him.
When he looks up at me, the fangs are out. He wraps an arm around my legs so I can’t move.
With a delicious mix of fear and desire, I watch his mouth move in on my hip. He bites through the strings of my bikini underwear, then hurls the material away.
“Come here.” Shane carries me into the living room, sets me on the floor on my knees, and shoves my belly against the side of couch. His mouth brushes the back of my ear as he undoes his own jeans. “Should I tell you what it was like?”
My fingertips tingle, and I grind eagerly against him. “Yes.”
“We took off our shirts.” He tears his own off, then rips mine over my head, bra and all. �
�I held him in my arms until he stopped shaking.”
My body goes still. “Shaking?”
“He was scared.” His voice rasps against the back of my shoulder. “So we just talked for a long time.”
“About what?”
“Music. Football. You.”
“What about me?”
“Little things. Like the way you look in those sleep shirts, the ones with the buttons that go down to here.” He traces his fingers between my breasts. “And big things, like the taste of your mouth.” He slides his teeth—the human ones only now—against my back. I know he’s probably making this up, but the thought of being between them, even just in conversation, makes me squirm and writhe against him.
“Then when he was ready,” Shane says, “I held him down and bit him.”
Shane enters me, smooth and slow. I give a long, throaty moan. He’s never fucked me this soon after drinking. I didn’t know a man could get so hard.
“His blood was hot.” He strokes me deep. “And sweet and salty.” He does it again, deeper. “He tasted like heaven.”
My body jerks and spasms, every inch inside lit up like a firecracker.
“He loved it,” he hisses, “just like always. I could’ve taken his life, ripped out his throat, and still he had his hands on me, begging for more.”
My fingers crawl over the leather couch cushion, searching for an edge to clutch as I scream and snarl with the music throbbing from the speakers.
“David’s a part of me now.” Shane shifts his angle, planting one foot to the side. “He’s inside me, fucking you.”
I plunge over the edge, shrieking as he pumps fast and hard and deep enough to lift my knees from the floor. Shane’s moan turns into a long, harsh growl. He finally collapses atop me, face damp with sweat between my shoulder blades.
When I can breathe again, I turn my head to the side. “Was that really what happened?”
“Of course not.” He swipes his mouth over the back of my shoulder. “I’d be out of donors in three seconds if I told what happens during a bite.” He caresses the side of my hip. “I just wanted to see if it would make you hot.”
I feel my face warm. “Bet you’re sorry you have your answer.”
“Why?” Shane lifts himself up and helps me turn on my back to face him. “You think I’d be jealous?”
“A little.”
He shrugs. “Maybe a little. But I’d be a hypocrite to take it personally, considering I keep myself alive with my mouth against other people’s skin.”
“David isn’t just another faceless donor.”
“True. He’s our friend.” Shane stretches out beside me on the couch. “So should I have asked him to stay?”
I stare at him until he starts to laugh. “Just kidding,” he says. “He may be our friend, but he’s also our boss. That’s got about a million levels of wrongness.” He swirls his fingertips in circles over my belly button. “In reality, at least.” His eyes meet mine, tinged with mischief.
“Fantasy, I guess, is another matter.”
“Entirely.” He kisses me, teasing, his lips and tongue hot against my mouth as his fingers skate over my hips to my thighs, where they slip in between.
I gaze into his eyes, trying to find the courage to trust him enough to tell him about my dream. I could leave out the part where Shane was a murderer. The rest of it would probably turn him on, based on the things he just said.
But what if he’s baiting me? What if I tell him I dreamed about David and he goes ballistic? Or worse, shuts down and stops speaking to me in any way but fridge notes? How much jealousy lurks under that cool exterior?
I can’t take that chance. Total honesty might bring us closer, but in my experience, it usually rips people apart.
So I just close my eyes and murmur meaningless sexy phrases, urging him on the same as usual, as if this day has left no mark at all.
21
Personal Jesus
Lori and I attend another meeting of the Munched—I mean, the Bitten. She has a fresh wound near her collarbone, which her shifting shirt reveals as she peels off her coat. The others (especially Kevin) give her a world of shit about it, and she gets defensive, and then we all eat donuts.
Afterward, Kevin stalks out without speaking to Lori. She hurries off to meet Travis, leaving me alone with Ned.
He invites me to go bowling. I tell him I’d love to, but the balls wreak havoc with my tendonitis. Then he invites me to a movie. I tell him I’d love to, but the flickering images wreak havoc with my epilepsy.
Like an angler who senses the fish losing interest, he tosses out the tastiest bait of all.
He invites me to the Fortress.
* * *
Ned and I stand on the porch of a Victorian mansion in the swanky section of Frederick. The Christmas decorations in this part of town consist of tastefully draped white lights and wreaths with red velvet ribbons. Not an inflatable snowman in sight.
Ned pokes the lowest of three gilded doorbells with a trembling hand. Half a minute passes while no one opens the door. They’re probably examining us via the closed - circuit camera over my left shoulder.
“Is this wreath real pine?” I reach toward the pale green branches on the door.
Ned grabs my hand. “Don’t. Touch. Anything.”
The sound of urgent feet approaches the other side of the door. Someone turns and slides a series of locks and chains.
A face appears in the six - inch crack between the door and the frame. “Who is she?” a tight - faced middle - aged woman asks Ned.
“A special friend.”
She eyes me up and down, perhaps wondering if I’m that kind of friend. “Friend of yours?”
“Friend of the Fortress.”
Ooh, can I get that on a T - shirt?
“Says who?”
Ned gives the woman a strong, level look. “Says Gideon Rousseau, the vampire she killed.”
“Oh, her.” She steps back and swings the door wide.
Ned motions for me to precede him into an enormous foyer, with a staircase on one side and a hallway leading to a dark room on the other. I step onto a thick Oriental rug. The sconces on either wall contain bulbs that flicker like flames. Neat effect, I think, before realizing they are flames.
The woman slinks down the far corridor without introducing herself or beckoning us to follow. I peek into the cavernous living room to my right. Its only light comes from the fireplace, but since the blaze is stoked high, the room is brightly illuminated. Shadowy figures sit in armchairs before the fire, a wisp of smoke rising from each.
Someone grasps the collar of my coat. I spin to see Ned.
“Relax,” he whispers. “I’m just trying to be a gentleman.”
I pull my coat tighter around me. “I’ll keep it on. It’s chilly in here.”
He nods. “No electricity downstairs. It gives the illusion of old - fashioned values.” He shrugs. “Things were better back then.”
“Back when?”
“Eighteen ninety - nine. That’s when the Fortress was formed.”
You mean the Citadel.
“Come.” He raises his arm toward a dark room in the opposite direction from the living room. “My brother will explain everything.”
I follow Ned through the room, smacking my elbow into what turns out to be a baby grand piano, which I can only see from the streetlight leaking in through the sheer lace curtains. A tiny red beam glows in the room’s upper corner—another video camera, no doubt, probably running on batteries.
Ned knocks on a door. After hearing no response, he cautiously slides apart the carved wooden doors.
The light of a huge fireplace streams over a wide oak desk. Ned leads me forward, hand on my elbow. On the desk, a closed laptop with a chrome case sits next to a quill pen and crystal inkwell. Beyond it lies an ornate set of French doors covered in sheer white curtains. My gaze flicks to all the shadowy places someone could lurk, and my finger clenches the pepper spray in my pocket.<
br />
“I thought he’d be here.” He pulls out his cell phone and hits speed dial 2, which I remember as B from his contact list. Hmm, maybe B stands for “brother.”
A voice comes on the other end of the line, speaking in a sharp, rapid tone that leaves no room for Ned to get in a word. He simply nods along and opens his mouth every few moments, to no avail.
Finally the voice stops, and Ned folds up his phone. “I’ve been instructed to ask you to wait, and in the meantime show you a short video presentation.”
Is he kidding? Will the Fortress turn out to be some sort of pyramid scheme, where I’ll be asked to sell scented soaps and garden gnomes to all my friends and recruit them, too, to make money money money?
“What’s this about?”
“Please.” He gestures to one of the chairs on the side of the desk nearest the door. “You’ll want to sit down.”
“That’s okay. I’ve been sitting all day.” Plus, I want to be able to run for it.
“Suit yourself.” He opens the laptop and turns it around so that the monitor faces me.
An image lies frozen on the screen. I examine it, and suddenly my stomach feels like it wants to crawl up my throat.
In an empty, brightly lit room, my father stares into the camera.
My knees turn liquid. I shift my weight, searching for a stronger leg. I will not sit down.
Ned presses play, and the picture jumps to life. Someone nudges my dad from the side, and a male voice says, “Talk.”
Dad glances at the unseen speaker, but his eyes hold no defiance, only despair.
He focuses on the camera. “Ciara, you have no reason to believe anything I say. I’ve let you down so many times. It broke my heart to betray David’s secret to Gideon.” He stops and rubs the back of his neck, looking older and thinner than ever.
I look at Ned. “Get me your brother. Now.”
“Sorry, I can’t do that.” He angles the laptop screen to give me a better view as my father speaks again.
“These people say they’re going to kill me. It’s probably what I deserve.” Dad looks directly into the camera, at me. “But I don’t want to die. Not without seeing you again and telling you how sorry I am, how much I love you. Right now you’re all I can think about.”
Bad to the Bone Page 21
