by Mary Hughes
“All right. Hang on.” Julian rose again, this time taking me with him.
We wound our way through tables to the bar. Cary Grant had given up pushing buttons and flipping switches in favor of more brute force. Right now he was shaking the blender.
“Excuse me,” Julian said in Grant’s ear.
“Shit!” Grant squealed. Half-blended frozen daiquiri shot up onto the ceiling. Little snottules dripped onto my cheek from above. I wiped them off, absently licked. Hmm. Needed more lime.
“Who’s there, and why are you trying to scare me to death?”
Grant wouldn’t know Julian, so I spoke up. “It’s Nixie, Cary. What’s wrong?”
Deprived of the blender, Grant started on the dishwasher, poking and prying. “No phones, no lights, no motor cars. What do you think is wrong?”
I thought we were under attack. But I said, “Electricity out?”
“Well duh, Sherlock.”
“Have you checked the circuit breakers?” Julian asked.
“Um…no.” Grant stopped his frantic poking. “I, um, don’t know where they are.”
“Could they be behind this plate on the wall?” Julian indicated a hinged metal door.
“No, no. That’s just the…safe. The safe where I keep receipts…and bills…”
But Julian had already opened the metal door. “You keep your receipts in the circuit breaker box?” Sure enough, rows of black switches were revealed, along with a pile of paper and envelopes. Julian removed the stack and started sifting through it.
“Hey! Those are private!” Cary Grant snatched at the papers but Julian was too quick for him, pulling away at the last instant.
“This could be part of the problem.” Julian held up one of the envelopes. I could just make out the Meiers Corners Electric Company logo. He extracted two sheets of paper.
Grant snatched at them. Julian simply raised them higher until Grant couldn’t reach. Julian tsked. “How long has it been since you paid bills?”
“None of your business!” Grant jumped. When he realized Julian’s height made even pole-vaulting for the papers impossible, he added petulantly, “Besides, it’s winter. They’re not supposed to cut off your electricity even if you don’t pay.”
“I believe that’s heat.” Julian handed Grant his stack of unpaid bills.
“Oh. Yeah.”
I put fists on hips, disgusted. “No electricity, Now how will the bands play?” Even if they had their stuff memorized, they’d need power for their amps and keyboards. And, looking over at the Death Turkeys, their drum machines.
“You could pay the bill, Nixie. Since you’re the one who needs the lights.” Grant pushed the electric bill under my nose. That close, all I saw was OWE in big red letters.
“Pay? Me?” My wild take number thirty-two was lost on him in the sketchy moonlight. “I barely have enough money for my chewing gum habit. Why don’t you ask the golden idol Godskrilla here?”
“Can’t.” Julian gave a curt shake of his head. “My cash is tied up. Long term investments.”
I blinked. “You understood that?”
“‘Golden idol’ is universal. We might as well go, Nixie. Since the bands can’t audition tonight.”
I meant Godskrilla, but let it ride. “Yeah, but when? I need to audition the bands like yesterday. The festival’s less than two weeks away!”
“You’ll find a time, I’m sure.” Julian dragged me out the door of the Kosmopolitisch. The moonlight etched his flared nostrils and sharp eyes.
“What,” I said as he dragged me down the street.
His eyes were so intense they must have pierced every shadow. When he answered, he sounded distracted. “What, what?”
“You’re doing your Elmer Fudd imitation. Do you think the lights-out wasn’t because Cary didn’t pay his electric bills?”
His eyes closed briefly, as if in pain. “Do you ever speak a known language? Sanskrit, perhaps?”
“Look, it’s a simple enough question—”
I was interrupted by another streetlamp blowing a bulb. The sharp pop made me jump. “What is it with these cheap-ass lights? Or did Meiers Corners forget to pay its electric bill, too?”
Julian’s fingers tightened on my elbow. “Don’t blame the city.” The hunter face was back in spades. His eyes were bright violet, like Bo’s when he got really angry. And he was working his jaw like he tasted something nasty. “Apparently some people don’t know a warning when they hear it.”
Four figures swirled out of the dark. Three long coats and a suit.
Julian inclined his head toward them. “Gentlemen,” he said, his voice dark and thorny.
If I thought by his calm nod he was being all friendly, that dangerous tone would have clued me otherwise. That, and the fact that he was grinding my elbow into powder with his tight grip.
“Emerson.” The lead suit greeted him cautiously.
“Did you deliver my message to your bosses already?” Julian was the epitome of cool. He could have been at a Victorian tea party, asking “one lump or two”.
The suit shrugged. “We phoned it in.”
“It doesn’t have the same impact if they didn’t see my…little gift.”
“We took a picture.” One of the leathercoats held up a cell phone.
At least Julian wasn’t so digitally challenged that he didn’t recognize a camera phone. “Ah. And their response?”
The suit shrugged again. “You die.”
“So you waited until I was alone.”
“Hey,” I objected.
“Yes.” The suit smiled. And his canines were really long.
I leaned closer to Julian. “Four of them, two of us,” I said under my breath. “We’ll have a better chance with a plan. You take the toothy Lupin, I’ll take the left coat.” But as I started to move, something tugged my head forward, and the lights went out.
I was suddenly blind. Couldn’t see a damn thing.
Fighting down panic, I realized something covered my head. Something clingy and soft. At least I hadn’t had a stroke. Struggling with the thing, I realized it was some sort of cloth. A sack? A hood?
Growling and snarling slashed the air around me. It sounded like a pack of ravenous dogs. I had to do something. But how could I fight without my sight?
A couple quick little snicks were followed by a deeper ka-click.
And I realized I could fight—with my ears! I swung both fists. Hit nothing.
In front of me came a sound uncomfortably like meat tearing. I flailed at it, again swiping air.
And then came that terrible, awful sound I hoped never to hear again. Wet plopping. Blood, spattering onto the pavement.
Inside my restraint, I gasped for breath. I had to see! I reached for my face but a roar startled me into falling on my ass. The voice was Julian—if Julian had eaten a lion. What the hell was going on? Frantically, I tore at the cloth over my face. It wouldn’t come off.
My fingers hit some lumps in the stuff. Gathers, like a tie in a channel of cloth.
It was my hoodie! My own freaking hoodie. I traced down until I found the laces. They were knotted tight.
Blindly I picked at the knot. Around me were sounds of a fierce fight. Four against one. I could only imagine the beating poor paper-pushing Julian was taking. If only I could help! The knot loosened but refused to come free. In impotent fury I jerked at the hood, as if I could rip it open. The cloth remained stubbornly whole.
The sound of fighting died away. What was going on now? Was Julian down? Was he…no, he couldn’t be dead. Julian Emerson, Super Suitguy, was too damn arrogant to be dead.
But it was so silent. What else was I to think? And what would happen to me if Julian was…down?
Chapter Six
Hands came around my waist. I went ballistic, hitting and scratching with no finesse at all. Strong fingers grabbed my wrists, restraining me. Arms wrapped around me like steel bands. Lifted me. Caught me tight to an immense chest. My legs curled automati
cally around a lean waist.
My fight died. Strong fingers, steely arms, concrete wall chest. I recognized these body parts. And the oh-so-lean waist. Panic flamed into instant desire. I tightened my legs, snuggling my crotch up good and close.
Well, hello. Someone was very glad to see me.
“Nixie.” Julian’s voice. But not his usual cultured drawl. No, this voice was tight and strained. The kind of voice you got when all your blood drained from your vocal cords to your baseball-bat-sized cock. Ooh, he really did carry foot-long things in his clothes. I rubbed my hips against Mr. Big Gavel. That drew more blood down. “Nixie,” he said again, even more strained. I found I liked Julian’s voice all stiff and growly.
“Stop that. I’m trying to untie your hood.”
Damn. Aroused, but in control of himself. How disappointing.
In my dark cave, I blinked. Disappointing? No way. I was not disappointed that Julian Emerson, stodgy old hoag, was not interested in me. Well, feeling his big nightstick flex, maybe he was interested. But not enough to be out of control about it. And that was a good thing, right?
Except I was burning up. That thick rod pulsing against my crotch, the smell of fighting male, the feel of his hard body under me…I was wet enough to grease a Cadillac.
So when my hoodie came loose, I took one look at his beautiful, dark-bronze mouth and kissed him good.
He tasted like war. Like fast rides with a powerful motorcycle between my thighs. Like getting drunk on expensive champagne. I ran my tongue over his lips and drank.
Julian’s hands, in the process of putting me down, stopped. Came back around me. Crushed me to him.
His mouth opened against mine. With a raw groan, he kissed me back.
OMG. Julian hadn’t spent all his time studying law in law school. His tongue slid between my lips, stroking my skin like wet silk. He tasted me as a man savors the last pressing of summer grapes. Suckled my lower lip like it was sweet, heavy, and ripe.
And as Julian kissed, his hands, those square competent hands, were oh so busy. One slid up and under my shirt. The other stole down the back of my pants.
That wasn’t as easy as it sounded. Tonight I was wearing ruffled spandex over jeans cut to my ass over a French thong. But Julian wove his fingers over and under, smooth as a wet dream. Stroked my buttocks. Found that really sweet spot right at the base of my spine. Brushed the downy hairs until my bottom was wide awake and clamoring for more.
My brain filled with images. Me lying on my back, six-feet plus of male over me, all lean muscle and hot satin skin. Blue eyes clouded with desire as he did the passion pushups. Julian would be tender and attentive. Conscientious. Sober. Staid. Deadly dull.
We would have vaginal sex in the missionary position.
Would he even take off his tie?
Lust turned off like a light. I pulled away.
Julian didn’t put me down immediately. He lifted his head, looked at me. Intently, as if he could read why I’d cooled in my eyes. It was weird. His hand was still down the back of my pants. I was still breathing heavily. I could feel my lips, still wet and buzzing. But Ms. Malebox no longer wanted any deliveries.
I expected Julian to be angry. I expected him to accuse me of being a cock tease or worse. After all, I had started it. And pulsing against my crotch was an erection as big and swollen as a Usinger sausage. It had to be painful.
But Julian only continued to stare into my eyes. Deeply, as if he could read my thoughts.
And maybe he could, because slowly he bent his head. He pressed warm lips to my neck. As if he had all the time in the world, his tongue came out and tasted me.
Not a little lick or tickle. No, a full, curling hot swipe. Intimate. Wet. Sinfully erotic. And just a little bit kinky.
That hot lick was not staid at all. My motor revved back up, going directly into third gear. I clutched Julian’s shoulders. Hard muscle met my fingers. I closed my eyes and enjoyed.
The tongue grew bolder, tracing the line of my throbbing pulse. It slicked over my skin, steamy and questing. Hot male battle-scent spiced the air. Julian’s fingers threaded into my hair, pulled my head aside to give him greater access to my neck. His mouth opened over my skin. Fiery breath lanced me.
Oh, please, I thought. Give me the sharp edge of sex. Bite me.
The scrape of teeth hit me like a step-up transformer. My whole body shuddered. My heart started hammering double-time. I grabbed Julian’s head and mashed his lips into my neck. Do it again, my fingers screamed. Bite me. Harder.
Needle-like teeth touched my flesh. And then—
He bit me. For real.
His teeth penetrated my neck like lightning rods. My whole body convulsed in shocked reaction.
I shrieked. Electricity tore through my system. Caromed off my brain and knocked me sideways.
My world narrowed to black-edged waves of powerful climax.
When I could think again my heart was pounding and my mouth was dry.
Thin hot threads trickled down my neck. Julian was licking them like a man possessed. His eyes were closed, his lashes long and beautiful against his bronzed cheeks. A deep rumble came from his chest.
“What…what are you doing?” I croaked.
“Mmm?” His voice was half-murmur, half-purr.
“Kinky’s good, and all…” I tried to swallow, couldn’t get past the hot feeling of being consumed. “But if this is sex, it’s not anything I’ve seen on the Internet.”
Julian stiffened. The tongue stopped abruptly. With a final, gentle swipe, he set me down. “I need to get you home.”
I felt lost. “Home?” What was he talking about? I had just had the best orgasm of my life—with a lawyer. And he hadn’t even touched my pussy.
And now he was sending me home?
Rejection, horrible and cold, struck me. What made it worse was that I was still incredibly aroused. I jammed my hands into my pockets. “Whatever.”
“It’s late.” Julian’s voice was still rough. And he shifted his stance like something was uncomfortable.
At least I wasn’t the only one to feel the furnace kick in. Not that it helped all that much. I had responded to Mr. Establishment not once but twice. Suit coats normally made me allergic. Had I no pride? I stomped off.
Only to slip in a pool of blood.
I would have landed on my keister were Julian not faster than a speeding bullet. He scooped me off my feet. And he kept going.
After I got over the shock of being carted along like a little kid, I wiggled my legs. “Hey, put me down!”
“Not until we’re a little farther away.”
I looked back at the rapidly receding scene. Blood was everywhere, splashes and pools of it.
But no bodies.
I remembered all the snarling and roaring. Before the licking and rubbing and biting… “Er. What happened to the gang?”
“They had to leave. Something about sending another message to their leaders.”
“Uh-huh.” All that blood, those gang members didn’t leave standing up. So where were the bodies? “Really, Julian. What happened?” Four very big, very bad gang guys. I didn’t really think law-book jockey Julian Emerson got all medieval on their heinies, did I?
He didn’t respond. While I waited, I watched the scenery go by. The man could walk. And he carried me like I weighed nothing.
I was kind of enjoying it. Except for the not-answering part. I relaxed into Julian’s arms. He had nice arms, strong and comfortable. He smelled good, too. The hot battle scent had faded but there was still something tangy and male. Not your basic Brut or Old Spice. “So the gang left.”
That he answered. “Yes.”
“To take a message to their leaders. To…the Coterie.” I studied Julian’s profile. Chiseled, very classic. Not so interesting. But he had a nice ear. Looked like it’d be soft and tender under my tongue. His hair made a sexy curve around it. Startled, I realized he’d look absolutely hawt with a diamond earring.
�
�Something like that.”
I had to trace back to my question. The gang leaders. “Uh-huh. So do these mac daddies have names?”
“Pardon me?” Julian frowned. Still no subtitles, I guessed.
“The Chicago Coterie guys. What’s their names?”
Julian made a face. “Their leader calls himself Nosferatu.”
“Nosferatu? Like a vampire?” I stiffened.
Julian stopped, put me down. His expression was strangely cautious. “Like a vampire, yes. If vampires existed.”
He was so literal-minded. It brought out the imp in me. “Spoilsport. I bet you don’t believe in Santa Claus, either.”
“Nixie…what I do or don’t believe is immaterial. What counts is that the Coterie is real. And dangerous.”
“Uh-huh. And one styles himself a gothy nightmare. Okay. What do the other ones call themselves? Attila the Hun, Michael Jackson, and Dick Cheney?”
He stared at me for the longest time. “That’s humor, isn’t it?”
I pressed a hand to my heart and gasped. “You recognized it! Julian! There’s hope for you yet!”
“I recognize your attempt at humor.” He grabbed my elbow and steered me north. “But it’s misplaced. The Coterie is nothing to laugh about.”
“Julian, if grown men are hiding behind daggy aliases like Nosferatu, how can you not laugh?”
“It’s not exactly an alias.”
“Uh-huh. It’s really a family name.”
“And that’s sarcasm.”
“No, that’s also humor. Sarcasm is you’re a big fucking dodo head if you think I don’t know you’re not telling me the whole story.”
“No, I’m not. Be grateful. It isn’t pretty.”
I stopped. My fists hit my hips. “Be grateful? O thank you Great Legal One, for not burdening poor little Nixie with such terrible truths. What do you think I am, Emerson, a teeny-tiny baby?”
He kept going. “No. I think you’re a very small but disproportionately annoying woman.”
I raced after. “Who you treat like a kid!”
“In case you hadn’t noticed, I wasn’t treating you like a child a moment ago.”
I had noticed. Grr. “Yeah, well, what do I know? Maybe you’re a pedophile.”
