Things That Go Bump In The Night II

by Lani Aames

  A frown wrinkle appeared on her perfect, creamy forehead. "Yeah, I did. Don't read anything into it. So blow, okay?"

  "Richard Will."

  "What?"

  "My name is Richard Will." He held out his hand, hoping she wouldn't be startled by his long fingers. Most people—women—were.

  "Yeah? Well, Dick, I don't trust people with two first names." She stared at his outstretched hand, then crossed her arms over her chest.

  He let his hand drop. "And you are…?"

  "Tired of this conversation."

  "Is that your first name or your last?"

  Her lips curled into an unwitting smile. "Very funny. You never answered my question."

  "Which one?"

  "What are you? Your heart…" She started to reach for him, then let her hand drop. "Let's just say you should get your ass to a doctor, pronto."

  "You know what I am." He bent toward her, and was thrilled when she didn't back off. "In your heart, you know."

  "Dick, as my family will tell you, I don't have a heart."

  He rested his palm against her chest, feeling the rapid beat. "Such a lie, dearest."

  She knocked his hand away, and sounded gratifyingly breathless when she said, "Don't call me that."

  "I have no choice, dearest, as you never told me your name."

  "It's Janet."

  "Janet…?"

  "Smith," she said rudely, and he chuckled. Then laughed, a full-blown guffaw that sent more stragglers hurrying away. "What the hell's so funny?"

  "Don't you see? We simply must get married. Richard and Janet…Dick and Jane!"

  She gaped at him for a long moment and then, reluctantly, joined him in laughter.

  * * * * *

  "So you don't like the new wife?"

  Janet moodily stirred her coffee. It was after midnight, and they were the only couple in the coffee shop. "It's not that I have a personal problem with her, she's just…not our kind, is all."

  "She's Polish?"

  She snorted a laugh through her nose. "Nothing like that…I'm not that big a bitch. It's hard to explain. And you wouldn't believe me anyway."

  He grinned, flashing his fangs. "Try me."

  "No way, José. I want to hear about you. I didn't know there were such things as vampires. Assuming you're not some pathetic schmuck who filed his teeth to get the girls."

  He considered lifting her, in her chair, over his head, but decided against it. Among other things, it was unnecessary. She knew what he was, oh yes. She had felt his heart. And he had felt hers. "I didn't know there were such things either, until I woke up dead."

  She leaned forward, which gave him an excellent view of creamy cleavage in her wine-colored dress. "How old are you?"

  "Not so old, for a vampire. Not even a hundred yet. And as it's not polite to ask a lady her age—"

  "Thirty-six."

  Perfect. Giggling girlhood was left behind, she was closing in on her sexual peak, and the best was still ahead. He tried very hard not to drool.

  "I'm the old maid of the family," she was saying. "Most of my friends have teenagers already."

  "You have plenty of time."

  She brightened. "See, that's what I always say! Just because we're trapped in this damned youth-obsessed society doesn't mean we have to do everything in our twenties. What's the fucking rush?"

  "Exactly. That's what I—"

  "Except my family thinks totally differently," she said, her shoulders slumping. "They're very in-the-now, if you know what I mean. Sometimes there's…there's fights and stuff and you never know if today's your last day on earth. There's lots of pressure to make every single day count, to cram everything you can, as often as you can. Nobody really stops and smells the fuckin' roses where I come from, you know?"

  "That's fairly typical of…of people." He'd almost said 'of mortals', but no need to push things. As it was, he had a hard time believing this conversation was taking place. She'd insulted him, pounded him, knew what he was, and was now having coffee with him. Amazing! "If your life span is so brief—what? Seventy years or so? Well, of course you want to make every minute count."

  "My family's lifespan is even shorter," she said moodily.

  "Ah. Dangerous neighborhood?"

  "To put it mildly. Although it's better since…well, it's better now, and I just hope it lasts."

  "Which is why you can take care of yourself so well."

  She cracked her knuckles, which made the lone counterman cringe. "Bet your ass."

  "Indeed I would not." He stirred his coffee. He could drink it, though all it would do was make him thirstier. Instead he played with it; he enjoyed the ritual of cream and sugar. "How long are you in town?"

  She shrugged. "Long as I want. The wedding's over, so we'll probably hang out for a couple days, then head back to our homes."

  "And home for you is…?"

  "None of your fucking business. Don't get me wrong, Dick, you seem pleasant enough for a blood-sucking fiend of the undead…"

  "Thank you."

  "…but I'm not opening up to you with all my vitals, no matter how good-looking and charming you are."

  "So my powers of attraction aren't completely lost on you," he teased.

  She ignored the interruption. "And if you don't like it, you can stop dicking around with your coffee and get the hell gone."

  "I cannot decide," he said after a long pause, during which he guiltily put his spoon down, "if you're the most refreshing person I've ever met, or the most irritating."

  "Go with irritating," she suggested. "That's what my family does." She glanced at her watch, a cheap thing that probably told time about as well as a carrot. "I gotta go. It's really late, even for me." She laughed at that, for some reason.

  He leaned forward and picked up her warm little hand. The palm was chubby, with a strong life line. Her nails were brutally short, and unpolished. "I must see you again. Actually, I would prefer to spirit you away to my—"

  "Creaky, musty, damp castle?"

  "—condo on Beacon Hill, but you're quite a strong young lady and I seriously doubt I could do so without attracting attention. So I must persuade you."

  "Damned right, chum." She jerked her hand out of his grasp. "Try anything, and—"

  "I'll vomit my teeth, or be split down the middle, or my head will be twisted around so far I'll be able to see my own backside—" She giggled. "—yes, yes, I quite understand. Have dinner with me tomorrow night."

  "Don't you mean 'let me watch you eat while I play with my drink'?"

  "Something like that, yes."

  "Why?" she asked suspiciously.

  "Because," he said simply, "I've decided. You're refreshing because you're irritating. Do you know how long it's been since I've had a nice conversation with a lady?"

  She stared at him. "You think this has been a nice conversation?"

  "Nicer than 'Help, eeeeeek, stay away you horrible thing, no, no, noooooooooo, oh, God, please don't kill me!' I can't tell you how many times I've had that conversation."

  "Serves you right for being a walking wood tick," she said. "Dinner, huh? On you?"

  "Of course." Possibly on you, he thought, suddenly dizzy with a vision of licking red wine off her stomach.

  "Mmmm. All right. I'll admit, it's nice to be myself with a guy and not have him be such a fucking Nancy boy whenever I say something the least bit—"

  "Fucking obscene?"

  She giggled again. "But you gotta tell me all about waking up dead, and what it's like to be on a liquid diet. And how come my family didn't know about you and your kind?"

  "Why would your family know about my kind?"

  "We're pretty far-flung. There's not much going on the planet we don't know. So you'll feed me, and we'll talk. Deal, Dick?"

  "Deal…Jane."

  "I find out you've got a dog named Spot, dinner's off," she warned.

  Chapter Three

  The phone rang, that shrill "pay attention to me!" sound she hate
d. She groaned, rolled over, groped for the phone, and knocked it off the hook. She relaxed into the blessed silence, which was broken by a tinny sound.

  "Hello? Jane?"

  She burrowed under the covers.

  "Jane? Are you there? Janet. Hello??"

  She cursed her werewolf hearing. Tinny and faint the voice might be, but it was also unmistakable. "What."

  "Pick up the phone," the telephone receiver squawked. "I want to make sure you're getting all this."

  "Can't. Too tired."

  "It's six o'clock at night, for God's sake. Pick up the phone!"

  She muttered something foul, and obeyed the caller. "Whoever the hell this is, you'd better be on fire."

  "It's Moira, and I practically am…the high today was eighty-two. In May!"

  "Moira."

  "You should see what the humidity did to my hair."

  "Moira."

  "I look like a blonde cotton swab."

  "Moira! This is fascinating, but you sure as shit better not be calling me to babble about your for-Christ's-sake hair. What do you want?"

  "It's not what I want," Moira went on in her irritatingly cheerful voice. "It's Michael. The big boss wants to see you on the Cape, pronto."

  Finally, the silly bitch had Jane's attention. Her eyes opened wide and she sat straight up in bed. "Michael Wyndham? Wants to see me? How come?" And on the heels of that, a panicked thought: What'd I do? And resentment. Come, girl, good dog, here's a treat for the good doggie.

  "Mine is not to reason why, girly…and neither is yours. I suggest you get your ass out here yesterday."

  Jane groaned. "Aw, fuck a duck!"

  "I'll pass."

  "I've got a date. Today." She squinted at her watch. "Tonight, I mean."

  "You do?" Moira sounded—rightfully so—completely astonished. She modified her tone, too late. "I mean, of course you do. Sure. It's only natural, a…a lively and…er…opinionated young lady like yourself. With a date on a Saturday night. Yep."

  "Cut the shit, you're embarrassing both of us." Young lady. Right. Moira was at least ten years younger. Half Jane's size (and weight). Twice the brains. Calling Moira a silly bitch was only half right. "Fuck! I don't need this now. You don't have any idea what it's about?"

  "Um…"

  "Come on, Moira, you and the boss are practically litter-mates. Spill."

  "Let's just say that in his newfound happiness with mate and cub, our fearless leader thinks it's high time you settled down—"

  "No, no, no!"

  "—and he's met just the right fella for you," she continued brightly. "He's sure you'll hit it off."

  "Doesn't the head of the pack have anything better to do than fix me up on yet another stupid blind date?" She could hear plastic cracking, and forced her fingers to loosen around the receiver.

  "Apparently not. Now tell the truth; the last one wasn't so bad."

  "He cried like a third grade girl when I beat him to the kill."

  "Well, you did hog all the rabbits yourself. Tsk, tsk."

  "Figures," Jane grumbled, swinging her legs over and resting her feet on the floor. "The first halfway decent guy I meet in forever, and the boss wants me to blow him off to meet some new dildo."

  "Sorry," Moira said, sounding anything but. "I'll leave the dildo part out when I tell Michael you're on the way. And now, having imparted my message, I'd say something like 'have a nice day', except I know you—"

  "Hate that shit. Bye." She hung up and resisted the urge to throw the phone against the wall. Fuck. Fuck fuck!

  She'd been so excited about dinner with Dick, she'd had a hard time getting to sleep. She'd finally dozed off near dawn…and slept the entire day away. Now she had to beat feet for the Cape, of all places…fuck!

  She did throw the phone. But it didn't make her feel any better, not even when it shattered spectacularly against the wall.

  * * * * *

  She was tapping her foot on the curb, waiting for the sloth-like doorman to hail her a cab. She could hail her own damned cab, thanks very much, but when in Rome, do what the sheep do. Or something like that.

  She'd packed like a madwoman and it showed—she could see the corner of her dress sticking out of the suitcase. Aarrggh! Fifty-nine ninety-nine at Sears, and she'd probably never get to wear it again. Like clothes shopping wasn't an unending horror anyway—now she'd have to go again.

  And Dick. She felt really bad about up and leaving town. He'd think she stood him up. Like that would happen. He was ridiculously good-looking but, even more important, she could talk to him. Not be herself—not completely—but close.

  Shit, she couldn’t even be herself with the pack; they'd written her off as an old maid a decade ago. Pack members mated young, dropped kids young, and died young. And she didn't want kids, which, among her people, made her El Freako Supremo.

  Getting knocked up—assuming your mate could get you pregnant without getting his bad self hurt—was one thing, but then you were a slumlord to a fetus for ten endless months. At least the humans only had to suffer for nine. Even worse, you puffed up like a blowfish and ate everything in sight, then squeezed out a kid during hours of blood and pain…blurgh.

  And afterwards! Just the thought of having to tote around a l'il nose-miner who cried and screamed and puked and shit—and that was just the first week!—was enough to curl her hair. She hadn't liked kids even when she was one. The feeling had been mutually—and heartily—returned. She'd felt that way at eighteen, twenty-three, thirty, thirty-four. Sure, kids were necessary—for other people. Janet preferred to sleep late, and wear clothes that hadn't been puked on, and not watch her language.

  "Where to, ma'am?" the doorman asked, breaking her anti-infant reverie. He was ineffectually flapping a hand at the occasional cab. She could have hailed four on her own by now. Shit, she could have jogged to the airport by now.

  "Logan," she practically snapped. It wasn't Door Boy's fault she'd been ordered to leave town, but the big boss wasn't here for her to take her anger out on him. "Quick as you can."

  She thought about leaving a note for Dick, and reluctantly decided against it…better find out what Boss Man Michael wanted, first. And if it wasn't life and death, she'd let him have it, and who gave a rat's ass if he was the pack leader? She had a life. Well, before yesterday she really hadn't, but he didn't know that. It was his privilege to snap his fingers and have any one of them come at a dead run, but it was hers not to like it.

  She observed the doorman shivering and realized the sun had nearly set, and the temperature had dropped a good ten degrees. Still, it wasn't that cold. And why did the kid look like he was ready to drop a steaming load into his trousers? She was irritated, but not at him…surely he knew that.

  God, the reek the kid was giving off! Like mothballs dipped in gasoline. His fear—his terror—burned her nose. It put her wind up and she cupped her elbows, shivering. From grumpy to edgy in less than five seconds…a new record!

  The ball dropped and she understood a half second too late. She was spun around and had time to take in burning blue eyes before there was a walloping pain in her jaw and Dick turned off the lights. And everything else.

  Chapter Four

  He didn't care. He really didn't. She was fine, and if she wasn't, who cared? He hadn't hurt her. Not really.

  He checked on her for the eleventh time in sixty minutes, and was relieved to see the bruise on the underside of her jaw had faded to a mere shadow. Guilt rolled off his shoulders like a boulder.

  To save time and steps—if he left he'd just be in here five minutes later—he sat down in the chair beside the bed. He cupped his chin in his hand, leaned forward, and watched her sleep.

  Jane scowled, even in the throes of unconsciousness. It would have made him smile, if he hadn't felt so angry and betrayed.

  Betrayed? All right, tell the truth and shame the devil…yes. Betrayed! And angry and sick at heart and furious with the little twit tied to his bed. Most of his anger was dir
ected at himself, it was true, but he had a nice helping saved for Miss Jane.

  She'd fooled him; that was all. A simple thing, but unforgivable. She made him believe she accepted the monster, when in fact she most assuredly had not. The duplicitous wretch agreed to join him for dinner to placate him, then made arrangements to slink out of town like a thief. If he hadn't shown up early to escort her to dinner, she would have disappeared and he might never have known what had become of her. Would have wasted years of his life worrying about her fate.

  Instead, he'd taken in the situation at a glance, and acted accordingly. Well, all right, that was a rather large lie. He had panicked—all he could think of was to get her home, stop her from leaving him. Leaving town, rather. And in his panic, he'd smacked her when he only meant to tap her. The one bit of luck was that it had happened too quickly for the lone witness—the doorman—to see much more than a swirl of cloth. Dusk and speed were his friends, even if Jane was not.

  And that was the rub of it. He'd allowed himself to forget, for one evening, that he was the monster in the fairy tales. He had forgotten there could be no relationship with a woman other than the most carnal type. He wouldn't have vampire women, and mortal women wouldn't have him. Well, that was fine. That was just fine.

  He was a monster, and was done pretending otherwise.

  But Jane would pay for making him forget. She'd pay for making him think, however briefly, that he was a man first and a beast second.

  Chapter Five

  Jane groaned and tried to roll over. The phone was ringing. It would be Moira, telling her to get her ass to the Cape. She couldn't see Dick tonight. She had to answer the phone and tell Moira to go fuck herself, and then—

  Wait.

  That had already happened. So why was she still in bed?

  She opened her eyes and tried to sit up. Three alarming facts registered immediately on her brain: a) she couldn't sit up, and b) she was tied to a bed. She was, in fact, c) tied down in the same room with an annoyed vampire. And not a prayer of room service.

  "Ohhhhhh, you idiot!" she howled. If she could have slapped her hand over her eyes, she would have. If she could have slapped him, she would have. As it was, her ankles and arms were spread wide and tied to each poster of the bed. "Do you have any idea of the trouble you've landed me in, numb nuts?"