Bite My Fire: A Biting Love story.

by Mary Hughes

  “Just a sip.” I passed over my mocha. “How do you know this stuff?”

  She took a huge swig. Passed my mug back nearly empty. “Master Bo belongs to a group of v-guys who believe humans are equal. They keep their existence secret. But for the humans who know, they share what information they have.” She snorted. “In fact, the training is quite rigorous. That first month I felt like I was back in school, between the lectures and practicums. Of course, Steve’s patrol training is even harder.”

  Diana brought Gretchen’s tea and caught sight of me draining the few drops my dear younger sister left me. “Anything else for you, Elena?”

  “Me?” I blinked. She knew my name? And was now offering me the same service my sister got because of Bo? “Um, no. Thanks.”

  “Okay. Call if you need anything.” She sauntered away.

  “Whoa. That was just strange.” As if this whole day hadn’t been Whedonesque. “So, what lectures? And practicums on what?”

  “Oh, you know. How not to act like prey. Attack drills. That sort of thing.”

  Of course. That sort of thing. “Well, thanks for being honest with me, Gretch. I know it can’t’ve been easy.”

  “Actually, it’s a relief.” Gretchen smiled, full and easy for the first time in months. “Now you won’t think I’m messing up Stella’s head with a fake Daddy.”

  “And I know why her bedtime’s skewed. You were acting so odd I was going to haul you down to the cop shop for a serious grilling.”

  Her face turned sober. “I know you’re a cop, that it’s your job, your instinct—but you can’t say anything, Elena. About Steve, about Master Bo. V-guys have been underground for centuries. Please, you can’t expose them.”

  “Pretty please with pus?” I raised a hand. “My job, as both a cop and a big sister, is to protect and to serve. To keep you and Stella happy and safe. As long as Steve makes you happy, and you feel safe at Bo’s, I won’t rat. But—” and here I tapped the table for emphasis, “—if they ever do anything to harm or scare you, deal’s off.”

  “I understand. Thanks, Elena.”

  I left her to finish breakfast. When I hit the sunlight, I squinted a little. I wasn’t sure I believed everything Gretchen told me. But if true, it cleared up quite a few things.

  Like where all Schrimpf’s blood had gone. Drusilla’s flat tummy. Unless female vampires were like camels. Maybe they stored the blood they drank in their boobs. It would explain her foot-long cleavage.

  Then I remembered I was off the case, and it made my thoughts feel petty and cheap. I dug my hands into my pockets, bowed my head, and started toward home.

  Only to reverse when I remembered stiletto knives.

  Stilettos, according to Officer Mancuso, had killed John Smith. At the time I thought fangs, and maybe it was. But I hadn’t ruled out actual knives.

  By the book. Check it out.

  My destination was Meiers Corners’ premier survivalist shop, Armageddon Three. I really didn’t want to know where One and Two were.

  Armageddon Three was run by a big guy dripping hair and conspiracy theories. His name was Bruno Braun and he looked like a shaggy brown bear. He was ex-SEAL, had tattoos braided in with all the hair, and was the sweetest guy you’d ever want to meet. It was seven thirty Friday morning but I wasn’t worried about the store being closed. Bruno opens at eight p.m. and doesn’t lock the doors until the last diehard scoots for the bunker. For Bruno, it was still Thursday night.

  I cracked the door. A cheery tinkle welcomed me—and ten zooming surveillance cameras. “Hey, Bruno.” My eyes passed over aisles of desert cammie and racks of guns, rifles and grenades. Everything you’d need in the event of the country completely disintegrating. “What’s new?”

  “M16 fire sale.” His voice was deep and growly, as bear-like as his appearance. “Good as new.”

  “Sweet. What do you have in the way of stilettos?”

  He lumbered out from behind the counter. “Heels?”

  “No, knives.”

  “Knives? Oh. Oh!” Bruno flushed red. “Of course. Stiletto knives. They’re in back.”

  I followed him. “What did you think I meant?”

  “What did I…oh, I just got confused, that’s all. Thinking of something else, you know how that is.” He laughed, self-consciously. Bruno was never self-conscious. “Yeah. Well. Here we are.” He patted a couple display cases. “We have all sorts of knives, but the stiletto is best for stealth. Slim, easy to carry, useful for all sorts of puncturing.”

  Puncturing. Schrimpf’s wounds could have been made by knives, not teeth. Maybe I was off base about DD-Drusilla.

  Bruno pulled a long wicked blade out of the display case, handed it to me. “Isn’t she a beauty? I call her Charletto.”

  “Um, okay.” I respected my deadly tools, but I didn’t name them.

  Sticking his face next to mine, Bruno pointed. “Note the blade. Hollow grind.”

  His whiskers tickled. I stifled a sneeze. “Hollow grind?”

  “As opposed to flat, or chiseled. Gives a nice, sharp edge. Like a cutthroat razor, you know?” He made a slashing motion across his throat, accompanied by an ack.

  Ew. “Sure.” Such a blade could easily have caused puncture wounds, not only with John Smith, but with Schrimpf. I was almost relieved. The Case of the Punctured Prick didn’t have to mean the v-word.

  “Not as good as a meat cleaver, but what is? Now look here.” Bruno turned the stiletto until I was looking point-on. Sharp, wicked. Definitely puncture-material. “See this?” He pointed at the blade. “Triangular cross-section. Hallmark of the stiletto.”

  “Triangular?” I looked closer. The blade was not round, as I had first thought. Not like a skewer or a knitting needle.

  Nothing like a fang.

  “Do you have anything I could try, er, Charletto on?”

  “Sure.” He rummaged behind the display case. Pulled up a two-by-four, plunked it on the glass. “Go ahead.”

  Carefully, I stuck the end of the stiletto into the board. Just the tip went in. When I pulled it out, I’d only made a little dot.

  “You gotta whack it.” Bruno pulled something red and shiny from under the case, raised it over his head. Whammed it into the board. It sank in a half inch and stuck.

  It was a lady’s spangled spike heel, scarlet, size thirteen and a half.

  Bruno flushed just as red.

  Huh. Apparently small towns still had secrets. “Friend’s shoe?”

  “Yeah.” Bruno flushed brighter.

  “Why don’t you show me with Charletto?” I handed him the knife. Red-faced, he wiggled out the pump and stowed it.

  Bruno switched the knife to his right hand with an expert flick. Stabbed the board, almost too fast to follow. He might have been a closet cross-dresser, but it didn’t mean he wasn’t dangerous.

  He pulled out the blade, slid the board over to me.

  I stared at the hole. Triangular. Subtle, but definitely not round.

  Napoleon Schrimpf’s puncture wounds had not been made by a stiletto blade.

  –—

  On the way home I stopped to replace my cell phone, then I dragged myself to bed. I had no sooner dropped into a fitful doze than my new cell went off. Slapping a hand on it, I cracked an eye to check the number. Blocked.

  I stifled the urge to shoot someone, anyone. Not professional. And when I flipped the phone open, it was not like how I pulled my gun. “What?”

  “Elena O’Rourke.” The hollow voice from hell.

  “What do you want, Ruthven?”

  “You ignored my warnings, Elena O’Rourke. I was forced to take direct action. So I phoned my old friend Ernest Titus.”

  “What? Why?” I was suddenly, unpleasantly awake. “Why’s CIC Insurance so interested in this case, anyway?”

  The pause let me know he hadn’t expected that. “I am calling you, Elena O’Rourke, because it was your idea.”

  “What was my idea?” His constant use of my name was
hitting me between the shoulder blades. Maybe I could shoot him just a little.

  “How creative of you, Elena O’Rourke, to tell Titus the corpse’s holes were made by a vampire.”

  “What? I said no such thing!”

  “Since dear Ernest is already thinking vampire, the rest was pathetically easy. I simply pointed out that Bo Strongwell is suspiciously absent during the day. That a search of his so-called apartment building—especially the basement—might yield surprising results. And it’s all thanks to you, Elena O’Rourke.”

  I gritted my teeth. If he pounded me with my name one more time I was going to arrest him for assaulting an officer, throw him in our three-cell jail (a converted greenhouse, but still) and throw away the key. “Titus is a seasoned police captain. He wouldn’t take action based on unproven suspicion.”

  “No? Then perhaps I mistook his urgency to have the case solved, Elena O’Rourke. Perhaps it was eagerness, rather than desperation.”

  “Dammit, Ruthven!” If I could have climbed through the phone I would have shot him. So much for last month’s sensitivity and communication skills refresher. “Titus doesn’t believe in vampires.”

  “Are you sure of that, Elena O’Rourke? Sure enough to stake your lover’s life on it?”

  “My lover—how did you know—” I was talking to a dial tone.

  It took me a long time to get back to sleep after that.

  –—

  I woke that night to a warm weight on my body and a very clever mouth nuzzling my neck. “Bo?”

  “Elena.” More nuzzling. “Why aren’t you getting ready for work?”

  I should have freaked, gone for my gun. Instead I turned my head to look at the clock, giving him better access to my throat. Donate my brain to science, I was done using it. Evil creature of the night, vampire—and I was throwing open the door to Six Flags Over Jugularland.

  But his lips only warmed and stroked skin. The eight-oh-one on the clock blurred to pleasure. “I’m off the case.”

  The lips stopped. Bo raised his head. My throat felt unaccountably lonely.

  He rolled off me and raised himself on one arm. Concern etched his face. “Why?”

  I grimaced. “Why do you think? I told Titus my theory that Schrimpf’s puncture wounds were really bites. Don’t worry, I didn’t mention the v-word. I just said Dru’s love-bite turned a little deadly. But Tight-ass shot into space anyway.”

  I didn’t say anything about the call from Ruthven. No need to worry Bo with vague threats, even when they weren’t so vague. Captain Titus was an ass, but he was a good cop. Too good to haul Bo in only on Ruthven’s say-so. I hoped.

  I realized then that I was afraid for Bo. Surprise made me blink. I was never afraid for people. Well, except Gretchen, but she was my sister and I loved her…oh no. Couldn’t be that.

  “Elena. You can’t think Drusilla had anything to do with Schrimpf’s death.”

  Resolutely I turned my mind to work. “Hello? Holes in balls? Fangs? How can I not think that?” I remembered Widow Schrimpf’s dress-up routine and groaned. “It was there in front of me all the time.”

  “Drusilla didn’t kill Napoleon Schrimpf.” Bo said it with the calm authority of a man used to being obeyed. Of a male capable of making others obey.

  “And I’m just supposed to trust you on that.” I shook my head, smiling reluctantly. He was all earnest blue eyes and honest, chiseled features. Spank me with a puppet, the man was gorgeous. “For heaven’s sake, Strongwell. You’re a soulless creature of the night. Why should I believe you?”

  He rolled on top of me with that supernatural speed and agility. Caressed his lips over mine. “Are you so sure that I’m soulless, Detective? Have you proof? Ever actually seen a soul to know I’m without one?”

  My skin sparked pleasure where he kissed. Excitement fizzed along my nerves, buzzed into my brain. “Bloodsucking killers…don’t have…souls.” Or beds, maybe. I opened my mouth to ask but he short-circuited my brain by nibbling down my jaw.

  “Didn’t Gretchen explain it to you? We don’t suck people dead. We take transfusions. Think hemophiliacs.”

  His mouth moved past my neck, surprising me. He crawled down my body until he landed on the small strip of exposed skin between my sleep shorts and tee. Somehow my shorts loosened and lowered on my hips. His tongue found my navel, licked it delicately.

  “Someone sucked Schrimpf dry,” I gasped.

  “Rogues.” His breath heated my belly. “The bad guys. I’m one of the good guys.”

  I pushed against his head. My fingers threaded through his thick blond hair. His neck was incredibly strong. I couldn’t budge him. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. Good guys, bad guys. You’re all vampires!” I couldn’t believe I said the v-word.

  Something sharp ran lightly across my belly. “And you and Jeffrey Dahmer are both humans. Does that make you a serial killer?” Fingers gently tugged off my shorts.

  The sense of his words came through a haze of delight. His lips pressed warm kisses against my mound. I moaned. “But humans are not soulless…soulless…”

  “What makes a monster, Detective?” His tongue dipped into the crevice of my pussy, tangled in pubic hair. Dug around, trying to get past the mass of curls. I pushed my hips into his face, made a frantic note to myself to shave down there.

  Bo raised his head and grinned at me. Two long, elegant fangs glinted between the curve of lips.

  A scream rose in my throat.

  Before it emerged, he used one fang to untangle my curls. That sharp canine parted hair as easily as a comb. Bo’s tongue dipped back into my crevice, quickly finding the hood of my clit.

  My scream melted into a warm sigh. “Monster…bad.”

  “Really?” he said between licks. “Like this?” With incredible agility, he kept his tongue moving and shifted his hips up to my face. I was confronted with his Viking Horn of Plenty. And oh, boy, it was a quadruple-scoop.

  “Monster…good.” I took that long, smooth cock into my mouth.

  “Let me show you how good.”

  Chapter Twenty

  After two hard orgasms took the edge off, Bo got creative. Foreplay squared, and squared again. Sixty-fourplay. He started by tongue-fucking every hole I had and it just got steamier from there.

  “You know, tonight’s Friday.” He somehow managed to speak from the depths of my thighs.

  “Uh,” I said eloquently.

  “Isn’t that your free night?”

  “Uh,” I agreed.

  “So you’re not really playing hooky.” He shifted up my body. His Viking flagship trailed along my thigh.

  “Uh.”

  “I am. Playing hooky, that is.” He nibbled the outside of my breast while fitting himself to my vulva. “I should be patrolling tonight.” His fangs scraped the skin of my breast, making me shudder. “Hell, the way rogues have been attacking this week, all of us should patrol every night.”

  “Nuh. Uh.” That wasn’t fair. Even a rookie detective got one night off a week.

  “Maybe it’s not fair,” he said, as if he’d understood me. “But it’s needed. Now more than ever.” He paused, his throbbing erection inside me.

  “Huhhhh.” Which, roughly translated, meant enough talk. Soul-baring later. Pummeling now. I arched under him.

  “I tried to patrol. I’ve been responsible for this city for decades. And up until tonight, I’ve done my job, no matter how, no matter what.”

  Overly responsible was my gig. I arched more desperately. It levered his cock against my slit, felt like getting whacked in the crotch with a hot teeter-totter. “Oooh.”

  “I should be out there.” How could he still speak? “But your smell, Elena. It haunts me.” He looked down at me, his eyes the blue of a stormy northern sea. “Your taste. Your feel.” He rotated his hips. “You fit me like you were made for me. I want to thrust into you and never stop. I want to spend the rest of eternity inside you.”

  Well, finally. I clutched his shoulders and j
acked up my hips.

  “I take it that’s a yes?” He drove into me.

  “Uhhhh.” My eyes rolled back in my head.

  “Even now, I worry.” Sweet mother, he was still talking. “There’s something going on. Too many rogues lately. I should be out there. Protecting people.” He began to thrust, regular, strong.

  He needed to protect. To protect and serve, just like me.

  “You understand, don’t you? Ah, Elena. I’ve been dying to talk but who else would understand? You’re so perfect.”

  If I were perfect, wouldn’t I have bigger tits? Would I have this awful hair? Just love me, I said, only it came out “Grizzle vemmy.” English was apparently no longer my native language.

  “It’s getting hard.” It sure is, I thought. He drove into me, over and over. “It’s getting hard to fight the rogues, but still keep our nature hidden. Sweetheart. You’re a refuge, you know that? With you, I feel capable. Powerful.”

  “Yuhshur!” You sure are. Two orgasms already and past the checkered flag to a third.

  He began thrusting double-time and I turned the corner for the finish line. Oh, damn. I could see the tape. I stretched for it—

  The bedside phone rang. Bo’s head turned.

  Not now! He couldn’t stop now. “Noo! Dnn stipp!”

  “I thought it was your night off.” Thankfully, Bo didn’t stipp. He didn’t even miss a beat. “Who would be calling you?”

  “Grnng zzz!” I replied. I was sooooo close to the big O.

  No problem. Bo did translations. “Yes, Bo, it is my night off,” he said through steady thrusting. “But I, Detective Elena O’Rourke, am a consummate professional. I need to answer the phone anyway.”

  “Fffk nnnooo.”

  “Fffk? That’s a new one.” Hips still grinding firmly, Bo leaned over and picked up the handset, glanced at the caller ID display. “Expecting a Dirk Ruffles?”

  “Shfhft,” I complained, grabbing onto his buttocks with both hands. The man—er, vampire—had an incredible ass. I felt myself coming just from touching gluteus heaven.

  “Uh-uh, not yet.” Bo altered his rhythm, just enough to keep my oh-oh-O out of reach. He shifted his angle, thrusting down. I actually started building higher.