Bite My Fire: A Biting Love story.

by Mary Hughes

  I found a box marked size nine, eased off the lid. Bingo. Roller-Blayds. I’d never skated as a kid, but how hard could it be? “So why’d you do it, Drac? Why’d you kill Napoleon Schrimpf?”

  “Bleh. You don’t really expect me to answer that, do you?”

  “I answered your question.” Keeping my eye on Fakeula, I set down the bazooka and pulled on a skate. As I started to lace it up, Vlad lunged for me.

  His depth perception was as good as his stamina. He started the lunge from about halfway across the warehouse. I snatched up the bazooka, had it pointed at his chest before he was close.

  “Just try it.” I couldn’t resist adding, “Make my night.”

  Vlad raised both hands and backed off.

  I patted my bazooka, pleased. “Way to go, partner.” That didn’t sound quite right. “Way to go, bazooka.” Nope. “Way to go, Bob.” Me and Bob, yeah. “As soon as I get skated up we’ll finish this, you and me.”

  When I set Bob down to finish lacing the skate, Vlad took off for the single unchained door like a…well, like a bat out of hell. He grabbed the wood I’d fastened on and yanked. I heard the creak of staples giving.

  I sprang up, tottering on one skate. Hell with it. I only needed one. I grabbed Bob and pushed off. It was like riding a skateboard.

  I shot straight for Vlad. He saw me coming at the last instant and sprang aside. I smashed into boards, bounced off like a superball.

  On the plus side, the impact nailed the staples back in place.

  Vlad dashed away. I swayed to my feet and shoved off. Wavered, nearly fell, but not because I’d banged myself stupid against the door. Dammit, now I remembered why I’d never taken up skating—stupid weak ankles. Even Stella rolled circles around me.

  I stiffened my resolve, if not my ankle. Wobbled after Vlad, who was dashing up the metal stairs to the office platform. At the bottom of the stairs, I stopped, suddenly in sympathy for people in wheelchairs.

  Vlad peered over the railing at me. Stuck out his tongue. “Can’t get me up here, copper!”

  Rules said wheels and stairs didn’t mix. But I wasn’t going by the rules, I was going By Elena. “What do you think I am, a Dalek?” I grabbed stair rail and hauled up. Thud-bang, thud-bang. What goes ninety-nine, bang, ninety-nine, bang? A centipede with a single skate.

  As I neared the top, Vlad’s face poked over the edge, turned white. “Bleh!” He disappeared into the office.

  I pushed onto the platform. The office took up the center, leaving a foot or so on each side. A low railing gave the illusion of safety.

  The office door was opposite the stairs, opening out. Vlad slammed it behind him. The office itself was mostly Plexiglas, so I could see him hanging hysterically to the knob, his body cantilevered almost parallel to the floor. He was using his whole weight to keep the door shut.

  No lock, then, or not enough time to engage it. Either way, my advantage. I clumped around the platform. “Come on, Vlad. Tell me why?” Gut feeling urged me to add, “Something to do with…Ruthven?”

  I’d pulled the name out on a guess, definitely not by-the-book, but it worked. Vlad’s eyes squeezed shut, and he started muttering. “Made me do it. ‘Make trouble for Strongwell,’ he said. Threatened me. Me, Dracula! I wanted revenge on Dru, but…oh, damn Ruthven. And now this.”

  Vlad’s motive. The last piece clicked into place. I grinned like a ripsaw. Vlad opened his eyes, saw me and squeaked. “Go away!”

  “In your dreams.” I got a hand on the knob and pulled. “Or nightmares.” The door didn’t give an inch. I pulled harder.

  Still nothing. So I gripped the knob like death and jerked my entire weight against that door.

  I apparently had not watched enough Road Runner cartoons as a child. Vlad let go. I went ass over tea kettle over the railing, off the edge of the platform.

  Not the stairs. They were around the corner. Oh, no. I went sailing off the second story grate into nothing but air.

  I fell. Had enough time to think shiiiit before landing—

  On a pallet stacked high with empty boxes.

  The boxes crushed on impact, cushioning me. I staggered off, shaken but whole. I stood stupidly for a second, blinking at my landing site. I didn’t remember that pallet being there.

  A flash of wind and a bleh-like cackle snapped my head up. Vlad was dashing for the boarded-up door.

  I lit out after him, wobbling like a Slinky. Vlad had the plank loose before I was halfway across the warehouse. Just as I skated up, panting, he hoisted the board high. “You lose again, piglet!” With a triumphant grin he ducked into the hole.

  Biting back a scream of rage, I tossed myself on my ass to tear off the stupid Roller-Blayd.

  “Detective Ma’am!” A muddy rasp came from outside. “I’ll get him! I’ve got…erk!”

  Dirkenstein’s voice cut off with an ominous choke. And then—nothing.

  Horrible images plastered my brain as I practically ripped my foot off to get free. Vlad, slicing claws into Dirk’s guts. Vlad, bleeding Dirk dry.

  Vlad, actually getting Dirk to shut up.

  No, no! I missed the big lug’s nattering. I wriggled out of the hole. Thick clouds covered the moon, so dark I was almost blind. “Dirk! Dirk, are you okay?”

  No answer. Ice slipped down my spine. Throwing aside caution, I ran—

  Straight into Vlad’s claws. Five razor-sharp shivs skewered my belly. I gasped. My body went hot, then cold.

  A voice was whining in my ear. Vlad, curiously free of blehs. “Detective O’Rourke! I’m sorry… I didn’t mean… Oh, I only wanted you to stop, I didn’t mean to kill…oh, this is just like Schrimpf. Don’t die, please don’t die!”

  A deathbed confession. Proof that Vlad was the murderer. Although I was pretty certain the deathbed was supposed to be the killer’s, not the cop’s.

  The knives withdrew. “Oh, please, Detective O’Rourke. Don’t die. But if you are dying, tell Strongwell it wasn’t my fault, not really. It was Lord Ruthven’s fault, he threatened me if I didn’t make trouble for Strongwell. And when I saw Dru biting Schrimpf, I knew it was perfect, almost meant to be. I didn’t mean to kill Schrimpf, only sip a little. They’d blame Dru, and Strongwell would have to rescue her. Why should she get all the blood and never even give me a quickie? Oh, please don’t die!”

  His babbling was getting dim. I put one shaky hand to my midriff. Hot trickles ran down my belly. My one regret was my beautiful violet lace thong. Blood stains were hell to get out.

  But I still had a job to do. Even if I wasn’t a detective any more, I was a cop. Protect and serve. Somehow, I needed to stop the vampire.

  My vision was blurry. My aim wasn’t so good.

  But you don’t miss point-blank with a bazooka named Bob. I blew half of Vlad’s chest away. He gave me a look of surprise before crumpling to the sidewalk.

  I crumpled after him.

  –—

  A warm, gentle tongue licked my belly. The fiery pain eased with each stroke. I opened my eyes to a head of Viking-blond hair and a set of broad, strong shoulders. My pants were around my knees, and I was wearing ultra-sexy Level Zero underwear.

  This, I decided, must be heaven. “Wow. Being dead is really great.”

  “It is,” a black satin voice agreed. “But you’re not dead.”

  “I’m not? But Vlad…claws…”

  “I got to you in time. You lost very little blood.”

  I raised my head. Bo’s eyes were blue and twinkling. His clever tongue was still working. And since the wounds were all closed, he was working…lower.

  I laid my head back down. “I thought you were out of town.”

  “The Ancient One in Iowa is an excellent teacher. I learned what I needed in less than an hour. I would have been back sooner but he made me practice for the rest of the night.”

  “A stern taskmaster.”

  “You can say that again. I’m sore all over.”

  Bo might have been sore, but I was feeling n
o pain. “How long have you been here?”

  “Long enough to hear you say you love me.”

  Aw, shit.

  “Actually, I followed you from your townhouse.”

  “From my…” My head shot up. “Why the hell didn’t you step in earlier, buster?”

  “But you were having such fun, Detective.”

  “It wasn’t fun when I nearly died falling off the platform…oh, no. You didn’t.”

  “Move the pallet for you to land on? Would you be mad at me if I did?” Bo’s tongue snaked under the tiny lace triangle of my thong.

  “Oooh…probably not. If you keep that up.”

  “Then I’ll keep it up.” He gently stroked the nose of my clit. My breathing rasped faster.

  Muddy rasp. I jacked up. “Where’s Dirk?”

  Bo sat back on his knees. “I pulled him aside just before Vlad emerged. I suggested to the good detective that he make himself scarce.”

  Which was a much happier explanation for the erk. “And he went? Good grief, what powers of persuasion did you… No, never mind.”

  “I only had to bite him a little, Detective.”

  I winced. “Well, I got proof Vlad killed Schrimpf. He confessed.” And with his confession, Bo was safe. I considered Mr. Edible Bo-dy, folded on his muscular haunches. “Did you know Vlad was the murderer?”

  “You’re working again, aren’t you.” Bo sighed and slid my violet lace back into place. “Not at first. And before you slice off my head and stuff my mouth with garlic, once I did know I couldn’t have told you. Not without giving away too many secrets. You ask tough questions, Detective.”

  “Is that a compliment?”

  His lips curved. “By the time I knew I could trust you, Vlad had disappeared. And I was rather distracted, by the rogues, and by you. Now, my turn. Why did you go after Vlad alone? Why didn’t you wait for me?”

  “Lorne Ruthven.” I pulled up my jeans, a little disappointed, but Bo was right. I was working. “He tried to convince me you were the murderer. Then last night, or actually early this morning, he ratted you out to Tight-ass. I had to catch the real murderer before Tight-ass arrested you.”

  “Ruthven.” Bo said the name with an angry growl. “I’m sorry you had to deal with him, Elena. I only found out he was behind the murder when I visited my mentor in Iowa. I suspected, but…well, he confirmed it.”

  “Speaking of your mentor, he was supposed to tell you to stay in Iowa.”

  “You spoke to the Ancient One?” The streetlight might have wavered, but it seemed like Bo got paler.

  “Yeah. He also told me about your problems with Ruthven.” I turned, checked Bob. He lay nearby, looking oddly sated. “He said Ruthven’s the ex-lieutenant who used you to join that Coterie dealie. That’s why Ruthven tried to implicate you. He was trying to get rid of you.”

  “Because he wants the Blood Center.” Bo shook his head. “I can’t believe you spoke with the Ancient One.”

  “Well, he wouldn’t let me talk to you. But he did say he’d pass on my message. Did he forget? Or was he lying?”

  “He doesn’t forget, and he rarely lies. He doesn’t have to. What exactly did he say?”

  I thought. “He said, ‘I’ll speak with Strongwell’…dammit! He didn’t promise to pass on my message at all. Why, that sneaky bastard.”

  “You learn a few tricks in a couple odd millennia.”

  I stared. “He’s that old?”

  “Older.”

  “You v-guys are kind of scary.” I glanced at Vlad’s broken body. “Well, most of you.” Flakeula looked like a life-sized gingerbread man with a giant Cookie Monster chomp out of his chest. “Poor Vlad. He wasn’t trying to kill Schrimpf. He was just scared of Ruthven. And resentful of Dru.”

  “Still, he killed.” Bo’s gaze followed mine. “He can’t be allowed to run loose. I bit him too, so I can locate him immediately. We won’t have this problem ever again.”

  “He’s dead, Bo. We won’t need you to find him, period. Although I would have found some way not to put him on trial.”

  Bo raised one sleek brow. “Really? But what about justice, Detective?”

  Justice. Patrick By-the-book O’Rourke might have prosecuted, and damned the fallout. Maybe, maybe not. Dad wasn’t alive to ask. But… “Rules alone don’t make real justice. What about Gretchen and Steve? Outing the bad vamps would also out you good guys. Where’s the justice is that?”

  “Mmm. That’s sweet, Detective. But you can put Vlad on trial—as a human. I’ll see that he sticks to the story.”

  “But he’s dead.” I waved at the broken corpse. “Vlad’s dead.”

  “Yes. But he’s been dead for several years. That hasn’t stopped him.”

  “You don’t mean he can recover from that!”

  “Actually, yes. If we find him another heart, all we have to do is put him in the ground. In a few days we dig him up, pump him full of blood. He’ll be as good as new.”

  I gaped at Bo. “You’re saying your kind is indestructible!”

  His eyes turned serious blue. “Not quite. But close. That’s what I was trying to tell you before I left for Iowa.”

  “Shit.” I grabbed my knees. “It’s a good thing I didn’t understand that before. I would have been terrified.” I gazed with new respect at the slim, small vampire.

  “Or a very bad thing.” Bo shook one finger at me. “Elena. You are a good cop. But from now on, leave the destruction of vampires to me.”

  “Well, sure. If I don’t have my trusty Bob-zooka, that is.” I patted the tube.

  “Elena.” I could hear the warning growl in his voice.

  “All right.” I held up both hands. “You got it, Viking. No destroying vampires. Except…” I lowered my hands. Scooted over to where he sat on the sidewalk.

  Bo’s eyes sharpened on me as I approached. “Except…?”

  Slowly I opened the buttons on his shirt. “Except…can I destroy you?” I put my palm against one of his powerful pecs. Latched onto the nipple through cotton and suckled.

  He gave a satisfying jerk. Groaned. Unsteadily, he said, “You got it, Detective.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Later that night I was sitting at my desk, typing up my notes. Bo was off burying Vlad (and I really didn’t want to know where he got the heart). I had to get this down before I forgot it.

  I had solved the Case of the Punctured Prick.

  A warm sense of accomplishment washed over me as I typed. I had solved it, not by being a textbook cop, but by being Elena. Dirk was actually right. Being a detective wasn’t a title. It was who I was.

  Vlad had come to Meiers Corners as a newbie vamp. Maybe he thought that as a big-city boy he’d own the place. Instead, he found it already owned—and well-protected—by Bo. Vlad couldn’t kill people without Bo knowing and he really didn’t have the temperament to be a rogue, but he only had so much cash. Blood was scarce. He watched with envy as Drusilla not only got regular donations from Bo’s household but from her clients.

  And to top things off, she refused to give Vlad sex. Not even a quickie.

  When Drusilla left Bo’s household, Vlad probably thought he was heir apparent to the spot. But Steve and Gretchen moved in. Worse yet, it was with Drusilla’s blessing. Vlad was likely angry with Bo but he must have been furious with Dru.

  She still wouldn’t give him sex.

  Then Vlad got the phone call. The one from Ruthven, threatening him unless he made trouble for Bo. I didn’t know what Ruthven threatened. Vlad came from Chicago, he might very well have been turned by Ruthven himself. Maybe Vlad had human relatives under Ruthven’s control. Or maybe Vlad just wanted the excuse to get back at the Meiers Corners vampires. He decided to do it.

  His opportunity came, possibly when he went to pee after a round of Red Specials at Nieman’s Bar. The window had a perfect view of the parking lot. Vlad saw Dru join Napoleon Schrimpf in his car. Either he saw her bite Schrimpf, or knew Nappy’s kink. With those dom
estic disturbance calls, the Schrimpfs didn’t exactly keep it secret.

  Vlad saw how to get a fill-up of blood while making life difficult for Dru—and her mentor, Bo. Vlad approached a sated Nappy Schrimpf (probably hypnotizing him) and bit him in the ’nads.

  I thought Vlad told the truth when he said he hadn’t meant to kill Schrimpf. As a young vampire, I guessed Vlad didn’t know a human body goes into shock after losing only a few pints, that it dies after only losing a few quarts. So he drank Napoleon Schrimpf nearly dry. Left the wounds, because he wanted Dru and Bo to get the blame.

  In writing the report, I didn’t put it quite that way. Instead of “vampire”, I worded around it. Dru “played the vampire” for Schrimpf. Vlad “thought he was a vampire”. Bo would make sure that when Vlad took the witness stand, he’d stick to that story.

  “Detective Ma’am! Thank goodness you’re all right.” Dirk’s yellow fedora bobbed into the office, his muddy eyes almost giddy with relief.

  “Ah, yes. Detective Dirk.” If I were going by the book, I’d now give the report to the detective in charge of the case, who would take all the credit.

  Thankfully, I was doing things By Elena. I could take this report, turn it in and get the credit I rightfully deserved. I hit print. As the pages churned out, I imagined Tight-ass’s wide-eyed appreciation. “Oh, Elena,” he’d say, no longer chafing his arm. “You’ve solved the case. Our department’s reputation is saved. And you did it without implicating Drusilla, saving my reputation as well. Elena, Elena, I misjudged you so. Here’s your permanent shield, the smallest token of my profound gratitude!”

  “What’s that?” Dirk asked.

  I surfaced from my daydream. Dirk smiled at me with his eager, puppy-dog devotion. He was genuinely happy I was all right. I remembered he dreamed of being a detective too.

  I pulled the report off the printer, stared at it. I’d had fun writing it. I’d had even more fun imagining Tight-ass eating humble pie.

  But a while ago I’d asked Bo to tell me the truth, not because of the rules or because he would feel better confessing, but because it was right. How could I do less?

  With a deep breath I held the report out. “This is for you.”