Susan closed her eyes and stayed perfectly still, listening to her heartbeat and Michael’s soft breathing. Listening for more footsteps, or even worse, the soft squeak of a door opening.
Silence.
Nevertheless, sleep was not going to happen for her. She sat up, felt beneath the mattress for her gun, and took it out. When she slipped out of bed, the wood floor was like a sheet of ice against the balls of her feet. She pulled her robe on over her t-shirt and panties and padded to the stairs.
He was down there. She knew .
Blown in like a wintry breeze, Devin McCree was in her house. Perhaps he sat prying through her purse at the dining room table. Maybe he was waiting in the dark for her to come to him. In the depths of her mind, Susan saw him, the black shadows falling across his handsome face, hiding the haunted indigo of his eyes. She gripped the gun tighter, her palms growing slick with sweat.
At the top of the stairs, she paused, heart pounding, breath hissing through her clenched teeth. As she started down, she felt as though she were descending into a dungeon. The old, curved staircase was pitch black and seemed much longer than usual.
At the bottom of the stairs, in the foyer, Susan turned toward the living room with her gun thrust out in front of her. Then, she moved toward Michael’s office. Nothing but shadows.
Her finger stroked the trigger of the Glock.
“Who the hell’s there?”
Hot breath on the side of her neck. “You know who.”
She whirled toward the sound of the voice, her gun raised. “I’ll blow your stupid head off,” she whispered.
She saw him standing in the bar of moonlight that fell between the opening in the drapes, illuminated gray and blue like a ghost, or a sinister angel. Devin McCree bent and pressed his forehead against the muzzle of the gun, then stretched his arms out to either side like a dancer.
“Be my guest,” he said. ”But make sure you finish the job.”
She pushed the gun hard against his skull and bit her lip. She could do this. Her fear of this man was reason enough.
As if reading her mind, he whispered, his tone mocking, “Do it, Susan, if it will make you happy.”
“Why are you here?” Susan lowered the gun, but remained on guard. “Why now, after all this time?”
“You know why.” Devin caressed the side of her throat. Grimacing, she pulled away from his searing touch.
“I don’t.”
“You do,” Devin said.
“Get away.”
“I don’t believe that’s what you really want.” Devin’s sharp, white teeth flashed in the moonlight.
“Then, what is it I want? You seem to know, so tell me.” He was exasperating. “I want to move on with my life. I’m tired of all the wondering about what happened that night. I thought you were dead. Hoped .”
“I want to make things up to you. I want to finish what we started that night.”
“What we started?” Susan asked, laughing softly. “I can’t believe this.”
“You know exactly what I’m talking about. Think about it, Susan. Why do you still appear so young? Do you really believe I had nothing to do with that?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Susan snapped. “And I don’t know what the hell you are, or think are, but it’s nothing I ever asked to be a part of. All I know is that you killed my brother.”
Devin shook his head slowly. “I never meant to hurt either of you, Susan. I’ve lived with that every single night of my life since.”
“You know, I would love to shoot you right now,” Susan whispered through clenched teeth.
“You’ve already said that.” Devin stepped closer and pushed the gun down to her side. His nose brushed hers, and he wet his lips slowly. “I never meant to hurt you.”
“You’re lying.”
He slipped his hand behind her neck and cupped her head. “I want you near me, Susan. That’s all I have ever wanted.” He pushed her gently back, pinning her against the living room wall.
Susan struggled against him, raised the gun and held it to his temple. But he kissed her so deeply, so sweetly, she couldn’t resist. The length of his warm body pressed hard against hers, and she met his kiss. She couldn't stop it, just as she couldn’t help herself when she had been just a girl.
They entwined their eager bodies together in the shadows of the winding staircase, but in the back of her mind, she knew Michael could wake at any moment, find her missing, and come looking for her.
Would Devin kill him, if that happened? She didn’t know. He had, after all, saved Michael from certain death at the hands of Alton Lee.
Devin took the gun from her loose fingers and placed it on stairs. He slid his hand under her robe, opening it; the belt fell to the floor, followed by the robe itself. Then, he slipped his fingers between her legs, under her panties. It was as if he was inside her head. He knew exactly how she wanted to be touched. She writhed against his hand, her breaths coming in short gasps.
Hurriedly, she tugged at the button on his jeans, then at the zipper. Freeing his enflamed member, she caressed it. He moved his mouth down over her neck. He rested his lips there an instant, then bit into her skin, causing her to gasp at the sudden, yet somehow familiar, pain.
Devin yanked her underwear down, and she stepped out of them. Lying back on the stairs, she opened her legs to him, and allowed him to enter her. Hooking one leg around his waist, she wound the other around his thigh. Silently, they moved in rhythm. Devin flicked his tongue against the small opening in her skin, lapping at the blood, sending shooting tremors of pain through her.
Susan’s mind swirled. The dim house swayed and the shadows danced. She felt she might faint.
What the hell am I doing?
Devin filled her up, almost painfully. Even then, the agony laced with pleasure, and her orgasm caught her off guard. She wrapped her arms around him, her fingers digging into the taunt muscles of his buttocks as she pulled him even deeper into her. Suddenly, she became aware of him drawing her blood from her. It was just as it had been that night in Charlestowne. Alarmed now, and thinking of all the blood, of their tiny flat painted in blood, she began to fight him.
“Stop, Devin.”
“Hush. Let me finish this.”
“No—“
Susan struck at him, but it was futile. His lips worked at her throat, making the wound sting again. She felt her blood escaping, and there was nothing she could do to stop it. Dizzy and confused, she clutched at him. Her breathing grew constricted, as though she was having an asthma attack, but then, a surge of adrenalin flooded her body, and she flailed at Devin once more.
What’s happening to me?
Again reading her mind, Devin whispered, “You’re dying. Don’t worry, it happens to all of us.”
She thought she was still fighting him, but her hands had fallen to her sides. She was so thirsty, so very dry. A raw, excruciating sensation ripped through her chest.
Devin whispered her name as he came. Afterward, he held her tenderly for a few moments.
She no longer saw anything. Her thoughts remained panicked, yet resigned.
“Don’t be afraid, Susan. Just listen to me, okay?” Devin’s voice became a low drone, a vibration against her ear and neck as he spoke. A warm wetness touched her lips.
“If you want to live, open your mouth. Don’t worry. I have you.”
With what little understanding she had left, she did what he told her to do. Devin pressed the inside of his wrist against her slightly parted lips and silky, warm liquid flooded her mouth. Finally, as strength flowed back into her limbs, she grasped his arm, sucking hard at the open vein. She swallowed and ran her tongue out to trace the edges of the open gash. Awareness slowly returned.
“That’s it, Susan,” Devin told her. “Yes. You’re coming back to me now.”
Acutely alert now, and greedy for his blood, Susan continued to drink. She held his arm with one hand and a fistful of his shirt with the other,
gripping him closely to her.
“Oh, hell,” he muttered.
She felt him try to pull away, but she was amazingly strong now, and she was not about to let go just yet. She was far more powerful than she had ever been. She could break him into a thousand pieces, if she wanted. Devin shoved her against the wall and yanked his arm away.
Susan stared at him, and noticed that the dark stairwell suddenly seemed well-lit. With the back of her hand, she wiped his blood away from the corner of her mouth.
“What have you done to me, Devin?”
Devin backed away, closing his pants. Then, he kneeled, retrieved her lace panties, and handed them to her. Grinning rather devilishly, he picked up her gun and gave it back to her, as well.
Susan quickly pulled on her panties, and then groped around for her robe. When she was dressed again, she drew her fingers across the tear in her neck; they came away sticky with cooling blood.
“Susan? Where are you?” Michael was on the landing.
The hall light switched on, and Susan and Devin moved deeper into the shadows of the stairway. Devin glanced upward. She placed one hand on his chest and a finger to her lips.
She pressed her lips to his ear. “Don’t hurt him. Please.”
Devin frowned. “I’ll be back for you, Susan,” he whispered. “I’ll be back to take you with me, home to Charlestowne.” Then, without a sound, he vanished down the stairs.
“I’m here, Michael. I’m coming.”
She made it to the top of the stairs and then collapsed. It seemed as though her strength was drained from her. Her world spun and white-hot pain shot through her head. Blissful darkness blanketed her.
chapter nine
Once she was conscious again, Michael helped Susan to the bathroom. Examining her throat, his face pulled into a cute little frown of concentration, his glasses sliding down on his nose. A pang of guilt stabbed at Susan’s heart. How could she have just given herself to another man?
“How the hell did you do this?”
“I don’t know,” she lied. Still groggy and a bit confused, she wondered if Michael could smell Devin on her skin. She turned back to the sink, twisted on the cold water, and patted some on her face. Michael handed her a towel, and she dried off. She looked at herself in the mirror. There were bloodstains on the collar of her t-shirt and across the swells of her breasts.
Deep, dark pockets had settled under her eyes; she looked as if she hadn’t slept in days. Her face was pale and sallow, and she wondered how much blood Devin had stolen from her.
She turned back to Michael and leaned against the vanity. Michael put some antiseptic on a swatch of gauze and touched it to her skin. She flinched at the sting and hissed softly though her gritted teeth.
“Sorry,” he whispered. “You have no idea how close you came to severing your carotid artery, Susan. You might have died.” He placed a clean bandage over the little wound and covered it with medical tape. “Funny,” he said, almost to himself. “It looks like a tear. Or a bite.”
Laughing nervously, Susan pulled on her robe and closed it tightly around her neck. “A bite? Must have been one hell of a mosquito.”
Michael chuckled softly. “Must have been,” he agreed. “Now, we should get you to the hospital.”
Susan shook her head. “I’m not going to the hospital for a mosquito bite, Michael. I’m going back to bed.”
“The hell you are. Besides, we both know that’s not a mosquito bite.”
She stiffened and waited for him to tell her he knew everything. “So, what did this, then?” she snapped.
“How should I know?”
Susan pushed past him, determined to hide the wooziness she felt. She threw off her robe and climbed into bed, then pulled the covers up to her chin. “I’m fine.”
Michael switched off the bathroom light with a sigh and followed her. “Why don’t I believe you?”
She leaned over and kissed his cheek, then said, “Because you never do. Plus, you enjoy worrying.”
Michael removed his glasses and placed them on the nightstand. He switched off the lamp and slid down deeper under the covers. “Maybe so.” He sighed and added, “I do feel like there’s something you aren’t telling me.”
“Don’t be silly, Michael,” she whispered just before she drifted into an exhausted sleep.
***
The bang and roar of a garbage truck jarred her awake. The sun poured its hateful light through the window, and Susan pulled the covers over her head to shield her eyes. Then, she lay there a moment longer, gathering the strength to climb out into the stream of yellow light. Her head pounded, and when she finally stood, she swayed drunkenly, a wave of nausea hitting her like a punch in the belly. She dashed to the bathroom and knelt at the toilet. She heaved painfully and then regurgitated a thin drool of undigested blood. Devin’s blood.
She heard Michael come in behind her. She flushed quickly, then wiped her mouth with a small wad of toilet tissue. She turned, still unable to raise her eyes to meet the morning sunshine, and saw only his bare feet and goofy hairy legs poking out of his boxers. Before she had a chance to say anything, nausea washed over her again, and she hung her face over the bowl, her body racked with dry heaves.
He kneeled, his hand gentle on her back. “Jesus, Susan.” He held her hair from her face and kissed the back of her neck. “What can I do?”
“Help me back to the bed,” she whispered, when she was finally able to speak. “And please, close the drapes.”
chapter ten
Michael didn’t understand what was happening to Susan. From the eyes of a physician, she appeared ill, but it wasn’t that she looked sick. looked different. appearing tired, it seemed she was stronger, the muscle-loss she had experienced during the recovery from the gunshot wound miraculously reversed. Maybe he was losing his mind, but he swore her canine teeth were a bit more pronounced. Her teeth had been perfectly even—one of those insanely gorgeous things about her, like her unlined skin—but lately, it seemed those two teeth were very sharp. He felt them against his lips when he kissed her. Her appetite had diminished. He couldn’t make a proper diagnosis without running tests, but Susan refused.
Being with her had become increasingly frustrating. He agonized over her lack of communication and the sudden lack of physical intimacy. Every couple endured those things from time to time, but she acted just plain odd.
She talked in her sleep. Michael desperately wanted to know who the hell Devin McCree was, and why the man entered her dreams night after night. He wanted to know what was behind her sudden interest, albeit only in her nightmares, in returning to Charlestowne. But as always, he said nothing to her the following morning.
She was jumpy, and this was especially strange to him. It had been more than three weeks since they had been attacked at Yeoman’s Wharf, but Susan was a cop. She should have gotten over it more quickly, he reasoned. Typically, she moved on from things so easily he sometimes wondered if she was even human. Like the loss of the baby. She had not uttered a word about how she felt over it, and when he brought it up, she somehow made him feel he was prying, as if he had no connection to the child at all. Her behavior was symptomatic of posttraumatic stress syndrome, or even postpartum depression, but he was no psychiatrist, and she was stubborn as hell.
This morning, she was just this side of frantic, her hands shaking, and her eyes welling with tears. Sitting at the empty breakfast table, she cradled her head in her hands and wept. Over the kitchen sink, she had pulled the drapes tightly against the morning sunshine. In fact, the blinds over every window in the house were tightly closed. It might as well have been dusk instead of just after dawn.
Maybe it was fear, or maybe it was the lack of sound sleep. Whatever, Michael couldn’t take it anymore. He knelt in front of her. “We need to talk.”
“Talk about what, Michael? Should we discuss why I feel nothing? I feel nothing for that guy I killed. I feel nothing for his kid. Fuck! I feel nothing for our . Maybe you wo
uld like to talk about how you think I’m losing my mind?”
“I didn’t say that,” Michael said, stung by her venom.
“What didyou say, then?”
“Come on, Susan. You know how strangely you’ve been acting. This can’t go on. You realize that. You’re bottling things up, and that’s not good.”
“I could leave,” she offered.
“No,” Michael cried. “I mean, I want to help you.” He took her hands in his, but she pulled them away. He stood up and turned away. “I found all those toys in the trash, Susan. Don’t pretend you’re not hurt. We’re both hurt. But, we can get through it.”
He removed an orange from the basket in the center of the table and began to slice it. He wasn’t paying attention, and the blade slipped and nicked the pad of his forefinger. The blood welled quickly and ran onto the white tablecloth.
“Shit,” he muttered, popping the bloody tip into his mouth. He tore a paper towel from the roll and pressed it against the wound.
Susan turned away as if she was repulsed by the sight of blood. She had never been one to be grossed out before. She closed her eyes tightly and massaged her temples.
“You okay? You still look sick,” Michael asked. He touched her cool cheek, and his own blood turned icy in his veins. Why was she so cold?
“Listen to me. We can go, okay? We can leave here, if that’s what you want to do,” he said. “Is it the threats? I have money; nobody will find us.”
Susan only shook her head. “It’s too late, Michael. It’s already started.”
chapter eleven
“It’s already started,” Susan had told Michael. That was an understatement, if there had ever been one. She had died that night with Devin. She had died, yet she was alive, more alive than she had ever been.
Darklands: a vampire's tale Page 5
