by Casey Lane
The warmth of his touch surprised me. It made my skin warm and tingly.
I stared into his beautiful, strong face. The unusual hazel color of his eyes brightened by desire.
I dropped my gaze lower. His legs were open, giving me a full view of his muscled chest, his flat belly, and his groin.
I licked my lips.
“Oh, Hattie. No.”
I started to straddle him and immediately he straightened his legs. His hands guided my ass down to rest on his thighs.
“You keep saying no, but your actions say yes.”
“God, I want you. You don’t know how much I want to. I’ve wanted to for so long.”
“Really?” I stopped, surprised.
Fang laughed. “Yeah. Well, I guess I’m strong enough to take that. Why do you think the only women I date have long dark hair?” He ran his fingers through my wet hair, fanning it out over my bare shoulders. He gathered a handful, bringing it to his nose and inhaling the scent deeply. “But they never smell like you.”
I’d dropped my hands to his shoulders, liking the feel of warm muscle beneath. Vamps have a low body temperature, so we’re always cool to the touch. I knew shifters had an elevated body temperature, but I’d never paused to consider how good that would feel under my hands.
“You dated them?” I asked, surprised. “I thought you just fucked them.” He was sought after by female paranormals—mainly witches, from what I’d seen—but he seemed to prefer other shifters.
He laughed again. “You’re an original, Hattie.” His hands rested at my waist, his fingers flexing into my skin again. “You look so delicate. And all I want to do is fuck you long and hard.” He leaned forward, his tongue lightly licking my nipples.
A heat shot through me that surprised me, reminding me of the touch of sun against my skin as a young girl all those years ago.
I arched against him. His hands moved up to cup my breasts. He took me into his mouth. I gasped. Ribbons of molten heat shot through me.
Despite appearances, I was about as far from delicate as was possible on the humanoid spectrum. But then all thought left my mind as I kissed Fang.
His sighs and growls encouraged me to repeat whatever I’d just done. When I did, warmth and tenderness bloomed inside me. I’d never known such feelings in my short life as a human or my eternity as a vampire.
Chapter Two
Fang
My marriage ended over a burned tuna casserole and a missing troll.
It was a reminder that the turning points in life are often a whimper, not a bang.
The snow was falling heavily and the higher elevations would be even worse, pretty typical for late October in the mountains. I generally liked the change of seasons, but this meant the last of the golden leaves on the white birch trees. The precipitation softened the harsh landscape and made my job as sheriff more difficult, especially when I was looking for a missing troll.
My wife and I were both wolf shifters. Our community of Nowhere, New Mexico is entirely paranormal. It’s thought that all paranormals have a common gene pool linking us back to the Ancestral Puebloans. The magic that binds us runs deeper than our outward appearance. I’d been dropped here as an orphan, so I had no idea about who my people were originally. I’d made sheriff a few years back and married the de facto town princess. The whole thing looked good on paper.
“You’re going out again.” Tina pouted. “You just got home.”
I chewed my way through casserole noodles. Tina was not interested in cooking, but she’d made an effort. She was also out of her pajamas and had taken a shower, so that was good news. Her pills sat on the counter. I hadn’t seen her take them in a while. Hard to know whether to open up that old argument or not.
In the end I went with not looking for trouble.
“The dinner was delicious.” I’d eaten two servings. She’d pushed her own small one around her plate. “I really appreciate it. But I gotta do my job. You know the hours of sheriff work aren’t regular.” I pulled my duster off the hook in the hallway. “I thought you were helping Leon at the casino?”
“I’m well aware of your hours and the effect it has on our marriage. And don’t try to fob me off on my brother.”
“I’m not trying to do anything. I don’t know what you want me to do, Tina. Tell me.” So much for peace and harmony.
“You know what I want.”
“No,” I rubbed my hand across my brow tiredly. “I don’t. You said you wanted this house. So we got it.”
“My brother gave it to us as a wedding gift.”
And neither of them ever lets me forget it.
“I built you the barn for raising goats.”
“It’s not my fault being a wolf shifter made them nervous.”
“You might have looked into that before I built it. But”—I raised my hands to ward off her onslaught—“there’s been a string of vehicles, renovations, and hobbies since then. The last being the yoga studio.”
“Paranormals don’t like hot yoga.”
I pressed my lips together. “My point is I’ve really tried to be supportive of your interests. My work is important to me and our community.”
“You think I’m scattered and immature. I don’t have a fancy job like you.”
I sighed. There was no winning with my wife. The best I could do was reduce the damage. I plunked my hat on my head. “There’s a missing female out there. I gotta find out what happened to her.”
“You care for strangers more than me.” She pouted, crossing her arms over her chest.
“Tina, think of her family and friends. She left for a training shift at the casino and never showed up. They’re frantic with worry.”
“What about me? I’m frantic with worry when you’re gone. Every time you head out that door, I never know if I’ll see you again.” She sniffed. Our housecat, Tom, picked his way through our domestic melodrama to sit by the refrigerator door and meow.
“I mean it this time. If you go out that door, you’ll never see me again,” she said.
Promise?
Except the thought wasn’t only inside my head; my brain let it release from my lips.
Tina stopped.
“Tina, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. I’m just worried about that missing troll. And the weather is only getting worse. We’ll talk when I get back, OK? In the meantime maybe see what’s on cable?”
I reached out to her but she pulled away, sniffling, with her head averted.
“Go. You’re right,” she said.
“Have a good night. I’ll call if I can,” I said to her back. She was already headed to the den.
Tom hopped up on the table, circling the leftover casserole. I didn’t bother waving him away. He was welcome to it.
Chapter Three
Silverthorne
I had the perfect life. Too bad I had to die to get it.
There I was in the UCLA Medical Center amphitheater, surrounded by my neurosurgery colleagues, slicing into my human patient’s brain on the operating table. The surgical lights were hot overhead. I liked them; they were like a spotlight. Not everyone in the operating room felt this way. For humans this made the room uncomfortably warm. They were prone to overheating during long surgeries, so air conditioning was pumped into the operating room. For us vamps, the heat increased our functionality. Not unlike a lizard warming up on a sun-drenched rock.
The difference being that we vampires combusted in actual sunlight.
The tangy smell of fresh blood made my nose twitch under my mask. Rich red oxygenated blood covered my extra-small surgical gloves. I could hear the elevated heart rate of the vamp medical student behind me. The graduate fellow across the table swallowed for the third time.
Likely the human physicians in this room had no idea how much effort it took to not rip into the patient on the table before us. That was just part of the challenge, though. Being a vampire and a physician required the highest level of self-control. It was a badge of honor to combin
e both. And considering our potentially endless lifespans, it was a boon to the medical community.
Deep in my scrub pants pocket, my phone vibrated. Irritation surged through me, and my grip on the scalpel slid a fraction of an inch. I doubted anyone noticed—or if they did, they assumed the adjustment was planned.
I ignored the twitchy phone. It was muffled deep in my pocket, but I knew every paranormal in the operating room heard it.
The caller persisted.
Someone’s head was going to be separated from his shoulders. It was my emergency phone, only to be used in actual emergencies. Experience had taught me most such requests were the result of someone else’s shitty planning.
“Dr. Sardino, will you please silence that?” Even though he was a senior surgeon, Sardino was all claws on the best of days. I was never clear why the demon had chosen neurosurgery, given his dexterity challenges. At least he couldn’t harm my phone.
I felt the edge of Sardino’s claws in my scrubs pocket. With one steak-knife-sized talon, he punched a button that shut down the phone entirely before he returned it to my pants.
I continued carefully slicing in into the brain before me. A sticky black goo, not unlike tar, covered its left hemisphere. It was another example of a street-drug epidemic targeting city residents. This drug, known as “Reap,” promised to give humans enhanced physical prowess. It often did this, but the cost was corroded brain tissue within days, creating irreversible damage. This was my sixth surgery in as many nights.
I continued my lecture. “With treatment, we’re seeing modest recovery in the affected region. There’s no turning back the damage that has been done, but we are able to prevent further destruction of the cerebrum by preventing the spread of diseased tissue.”
I was aware the staff around me were craning their necks to get a closer look. It was tricky work, cutting out small parts of the diseased brain. It required focus and precision. Today’s demonstration was to discourage heavy-handed procedures. I’d seen the results of several of those lately. “Remember, nothing about this should resemble carving a pumpkin.” I scooped up a thimbleful of blackened cerebrum and deposited it in a waiting specimen cup.
“Dr. Silverthorne.” The head nurse appeared at my side. I could tell it was Lydia by her limp. I’d heard she’d served in the armed forces and suffered a land-mine accident. This went a long way in explaining why she organized the operating room with military precision. Even the chief of surgery didn’t cross her. “You have an urgent phone call,” she continued. “May I assist you with the earpiece?”
Fuck. So much for not answering my emergency phone.
I was not interested in anything other than the patient’s brains all over my fingers. Still, I had other responsibilities.
“Everyone, if you will excuse me for a moment while I take this call. In the meantime, you will now observe me cutting into the dura mater.”
“Silverthorne here.” I continued slicing during the slight delay of the earpiece installation. Lydia remained next to me holding the phone. She was a human, but she always smelled of antiseptic. Usually humans have some overriding odor like sweat, perfume, or—heaven forbid—garlic. Not Lydia. Now she carefully draped the earphone cord over my shoulder, away from my sterile surgical field. I loved Lydia.
“Sorry to bother you, but we’ve had an urgent request.” Ben’s breathy voice came on the line. He keeps my daylight life running when I’m in the crypt. I feed from him when necessary. He’s kinda like a live-in personal assistant whose blood I drink. I think of him as my consort, but he prefers personal assistant with benefits.
Humans are always so curious about our arrangement—sex being the primary object of interest, let’s just get this out of the way. We’d been together eight years and, yes, slept together at the beginning. It’s hard to say who was happier when Ben decided he preferred male lovers. I’d been in my current state for two hundred years, and sex with humans was not memorable.
Back to Ben. In his background was a noise I couldn’t quite identify, but there was something vaguely familiar about it.
Like every other person in Los Angeles, Ben was an unemployed actor. Most likely he’d just returned from an audition for some hospital drama, hence his excitement.
If this was about Mr. Figgles’s run-in with another groomer . . .
I’d have been tempted to severely discipline Ben, but he loved being the submissive to my dom. Frankly, I was bored with that. If you think it can’t be very hard to find an excellent consort in Los Angeles, then I’m jealous of your ignorance. And Ben, despite his many flaws, was that.
Plus he was calling on the bat phone.
“There is no other kind of request,” I reminded him. “I’m surprised you even bothered. You already know the answer.”
“It’s from New Mexico.”
“Especially if it’s in New Mexico.” Someone in the operating room winced. Oops. No love lost for the Land of Enchantment from me. Sorry.
I rarely left LA except for the occasional conference in Rome or Tokyo. My work was here. I was a premier neurosurgeon, not some travel doc.
And especially not New Mexico. God, that entire state was stuck in some time loop. There was nothing quaint about outdoor plumbing. I’d lived through the nineteenth century the first time; I had no desire to repeat that.
Then it clicked. I remembered where I’d heard that snippet of sound in the background of Ben’s call.
“You’ve been watching Sherlock again, haven’t you?” I continued cutting and removing, dropping black brains into the basin on the tray next to me. A swarm of eager pathologists swooped in and ran the samples off to their waiting microscopes.
Ben was under the impression that he was Dr. Watson to my Sherlock Holmes. In truth, he was much more of a Mrs. Hudson. Still, I restrained myself from making the observation—no need to provide more fodder for my colleagues.
“It’s a missing-persons investigation involving a former colleague of yours.” Ben rustled papers on his end, purely for effect. He was never without some kind of electronic screen. He was probably flipping through Variety, searching for his next audition.
His sales pitch failed to move me. Having lived for two hundred years, I had many former colleagues. The reason they were former is that if I was to start running off to help every sloppy investigator who got him- or herself into trouble, I’d never be in LA.
And I liked LA a lot. I loved my condo and my interesting work. My life, such as it was, was there.
“Ah, here it is.” Ben rustled more paper. “It involves a Caleb Fang in Nowhere, New Mexico.” I could hear Ben’s smile. “That last part is not a joke. I checked. There is such a place, and they’ve got a sheriff named Fang. I cross-referenced your old case notes, but nothing came up. Just wanted to check with you: is this still a pass?”
My hands stopped moving. I closed my eyes briefly.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Anywhere but there. Anyone but him.
A debt remained.
“Dr. Silverthorne?” Ben might be human, but he knew me well. He could tell when I was surprised.
“I’ll be by to pick up my bag within the hour. Be ready.” I inclined my head slightly toward the nurse, who whisked the earpiece away. “Thank you, Lydia.”
“What about—” Ben’s voice faded away.
“Crighton, you need to take over.” I stepped back, allowing another senior surgeon to take my place. The surgical team reformed, filling my vacated space.
I inhaled to steady myself. I loved the smell of the operating room, its too-bright lightning and artificially controlled atmosphere. It was pared down to what was needed for the work. It may be messy in the sense of blood and brains, but it was tidy interpersonally. I valued that. That I was going to have to leave even for a short time pained me.
Lydia was still holding the phone, but she’d long since dispatched Ben. “Dr. Silverthorne, is everything all right?” she asked. Her brows furrowed over her mask and behind
her face shield.
I nodded briskly. It took some effort to shake myself from the daze that had settled though me.
“I’ll need coverage for the next three days.” My mind ticked through my schedule. In five days, I’d need to be back in LA as an expert witness in a REAP trial. The drug was spreading through humans like a wildfire. The more information we had about the damage it caused, the greater the medical community’s chances at raising alarms about it in the general population.
The nurse’s eyebrows rose. “Where are you going?”
“Nowhere.”
Nowhere, New Mexico isn’t hard to find if you’re a paranormal. It’s north of Santa Fe in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. Once in a while humans visit in the daytime. The smart ones leave before dark, and the stupid ones don’t last long. For the most part, it’s like a zoo without cages.
Paranormals have to live somewhere, and throwing their lot in with other nonhumans is, for many of them, making the best of a bad situation. It’s a rugged, harsh land and the opposite of LA.
I scratched my forearm before retuning my hand to the wheel. New Mexico gives me hives. My car, a custom hybrid, was uncharacteristically full. Usually it was just me in my low-slung two-seater, but now Ben slumbered in the passenger seat, his head resting against the window. With his neck exposed, his jugular was tantalizingly close. Even vampires struggle with emotional eating.
Mr. Figgles snored, belly up, in Ben’s arms. The tyrant shih tzu was a rescue and Ben’s idea. He grudgingly rescinded his alpha status in my presence. Mr. Figgles hated groomers and anyone with the word “sitter” attached to their name. His favorite pastime was sneaking off to shit in Ben’s leather loafers. He wisely avoided my possessions.
The steep black mountains sped by, illuminated only by the full moon. I was going too fast to see the stars, but I knew they’d be there littering the sky when I stopped. My ears popped as we gained elevation, and even my engine whined.
