by Laurell K. Hamilton, Charlaine Harris, MaryJanice Davidson, Angela Knight, Vickie Taylor
Garth pulled his thumbs back, and bright red blood bubbled out of the twin wounds he'd inflicted.
Daniel flailed in midair. "Let her go, you bastard. Let her go. I'll kill you for this. By God, I swear I'll kill you for this."
Garth flicked a careless look at Daniel. "You can't touch me. And neither can your God."
He winced as if he suffered some sudden pain, then lowered his head and suckled on the punctures he'd made on Sue Ellen's neck, a thin red stream of blood—her blood—trickling out the corner of his mouth as he drank.
1
AT a corner table in the condemned warehouse that had been converted to a bar, at least for the night, Déadre Rue hunched over her tonic water and watched the throng of sweaty, drunken bodies on the dance floor gyrate to the sound of heavy metal rock with lust in her eyes.
Blood lust.
Sometimes the ache, the desire, the never-ending, sharp-toothed, razor-clawed, freaking craving for blood was so strong she thought she might die from it.
But then, what the hell? She'd died once. It hadn't been so bad. Infinitely better than coining back to life, actually. Oh, yeah. Rising as one of the undead—now that had been nasty.
Not that living, for lack of a better word, as one of the undead was much better, wandering the streets with a parched throat night after thirsty night, eyeing ready prey on every corner, yet forbidden to stalk it.
Raising her drink in a trembling hand, she drained the glass, but the cool, clear liquid couldn't quench the fire in her throat that had driven her out of her grave tonight and into the shadowy bump and grind of a rave party. The pulsing music had called her. The sweet smell of blood running just under the thin veil of human skin had drawn her.
And she needed money. Needed some token to bring her superior in order to be granted permission to take what she needed.
Damn the High Matron for putting a ration on human blood, anyway. Just because a few too many exsanguinated bodies had turned up on the streets of Atlanta this last year. Just because the mortals were starting to whisper, getting nervous. The Matron and her Enforcer had the vampires of the city starving themselves for fear of her punishment. Worse, she had them stealing and selling themselves to bring her bigger and better offerings every month, hoping to win her favor and a little larger share of blood. They were like those boys in a Dickens novel, thieving to earn their keep.
Déadre rubbed her right shoulder, which bore the scars of that punishment, inflicted because she'd dared to sip at the wrist of a drunk she'd stumbled over on a late-night walk three months ago.
She'd learned her lesson that night; she hadn't had a taste of blood since.
It wasn't fair. The old ones, like the Matron, could go years without feeding. Decades, if need be. But Déadre had only been undead since 1934. Like a kitten, she needed to nurse frequently, at least once every few weeks. She couldn't die from lack of blood, but she could grow weak from it. Sick. She could suffer.
Even now her limbs felt heavy. She couldn't gather enough saliva to moisten her lips. The scent of blood, heated by the tight crush of bodies in the club, made her dizzy with need. Her heart, if it were capable of beating, would have been racing, her pulse, if she'd had one, shallow but rapid.
As she watched one particular dancer, a blonde with skin so translucent that Déadre could see the veins in her neck when the girl tilted her head back, swaying with the beat of the music, her thumbnails began to lengthen, thicken. To sharpen to fine points perfect for perforating the jugular.
Déadre closed her eyes, rocked in her mind with the girl. Licked her dry lips. She imagined herself trailing her hands up the column of the girl's throat, feeling the heady pulse beneath her fingertips, searching for just the right spot—
"You look parched."
Déadre snapped her eyes open and jerked her hands beneath the table, thumbs tucked into her fists. While she'd been daydreaming, the music had stopped. The band was on break.
The dancers had disappeared, and a man loomed over her. Tall. Lean. Average brown hair gelled up in clumpy spikes. Leather pants, biker jacket with no shirt underneath. Studded dog collar around his neck. Nifty scar running diagonally across his left cheek.
He flashed her an easy smile. "Can I buy you a drink?"
She hesitated, considering. She needed a mark, and by all appearances, he would be easy enough to lure outside and separate from his wallet. All she had to do was return his smile, lean forward, and give him a glimpse down her shirt. He'd follow her anywhere. But something felt wrong about the man before her.
On the surface, he blended easily with the other Goths and punks milling around, but his posture—too straight—and his eyes—too guarded—said he didn't belong. Whatever he was up to, she wanted no part of it, even if blowing him off did mean losing a chance to beef up the paltry offering she'd gathered for the High Matron this month. Besides, getting close to a strong, vital body like his in her current state of need was not a good idea. She might forget about the High Matron and her blood rationing and suck him dry.
It took all her will to turn away. "No," she said, and made a point of looking bored, looking at anything but him and his surprisingly broad expanse of bare chest.
She couldn't look at that chest. Not without thinking of the heart beating inside it. Without hearing the swish of his blood through each of the four chambers, thinking how good it would taste.
He pulled out the plastic chair next to her. The legs scraped across the cement floor the same way his smile grated on her nerves. "Even if it's a Bloody Mary?"
She gasped at the offer. Her stomach tumbled as her gaze latched onto his. She'd love a Bloody Mary. Or a Bloody Tom, or Henry, or Heather…
She was so lost in her need that it took her a moment to realize he hadn't meant the offer literally.
Of course, he hadn't. He was mortal.
But she got the feeling, looking into the serene green of his eyes, that his choice of words hadn't been a coincidence. "Who are you?"
"Daniel Hart." He stuck out his right hand.
"What do you want?"
"To get to know you, for starters."
"Why?"
"You seem like an interesting person."
He seemed sincere enough on first glance. He had a handsome smile, full of straight white teeth. Even the scar on his cheek didn't detract from the personable expression he wore so comfortably. But on closer inspection, Déadre noted the fine red web in the whites of his eyes, the strain at the corners of his full mouth.
"Sorry. Not interested." She shoved her chair back and made for the door, the chain she wore as a belt jangling with every step.
Daniel swore under his breath. Picking up women in bars had never been his forte. Picking up a vampire was proving to be an even more elusive skill. He'd spent weeks researching her kind, finding them. He'd picked her out especially for his needs—a loner, young, female. Vulnerable to a man who paid attention to her, he'd hoped.
So she'd proved a little less vulnerable than he would have liked. He still couldn't let her go. In the days he'd spent in the hospital after taking the beating from Garth and throughout the weeks of recovery afterward, he'd searched for a way to kill the man—the monster—who had taken Sue Ellen's life, who held her undead body under his spell. Daniel had studied; he'd read. When he was able, he walked the streets and used the last of his money to buy information.
He knew what Garth LaGrange was, and he knew as a mortal he had no chance against him. There was only one way to win, to free Sue Ellen's soul, and it all depended on getting Déadre Rue to help him.
If Plan A didn't work, he'd go to Plan B.
He started after her, giving her space as she worked her way through the crowd and out the door, then caught up to her in the parking lot, where they'd have some privacy.
At least, he thought he'd caught up to her.
He stopped beside the red Jeep Wrangler in the last row and checked the plate. It was definitely hers. He scanned the darkness, t
he cones of light from scattered streetlamps. "Déadre?"
He felt a breeze, saw a blur of motion, and found himself flying backward to slam into the Corvette in the next parking space. His feet were on the ground, legs spread, but his back was bent over the rear quarter panel.
Déadre stood between his knees, holding him down with a fist clenched in the collar of his coat. Her pale skin looked as stark against her dark hair as a full moon against the night sky. Except the moon didn't usually scowl so fiercely. "How do you know my name?"
With her hands so close to his throat, now seemed like a good time for the truth. "I've been watching you."
"Why?" Her hands tightened. "Did the Enforcer send you to spy on me?"
"No. I mean, I don't know. Who is the Enforcer?"
"If you're not working for him, why are you following me?"
"I need your help."
"To do what?"
"To—" He hadn't planned to announce his intentions so soon, but he didn't see where he had much choice, at this point. "To become one of you."
For a moment, disbelief held Déadre immobile. He knew what she was. And he wasn't screaming in terror or running away from her.
The warmth of Daniel's body seeped into her. The feel of his firm thighs riding her hips gave her a brief reprieve from her craving for blood and stirred a long-unfed craving for another kind of fulfillment.
Then she whirled away from him. Disgust had her wanting to howl.
It happened once in a while. Mortals with terminal illnesses decided they wanted to live forever. Punks or Goths thought they wanted to do more than play at being creatures of the night. So they sought out a vampire and asked to be converted.
Some vamps were happy to oblige in the first part of the process, draining the mortal's blood to the point of death. But they often neglected the part that caused the conversion, giving some of the blood back.
The fools' corpses were usually found rotting in the gutter the next morning.
Before the rationing, that was. Now, the vampire would be a fool to take human blood without the authority of the Enforcer.
She turned and sneered at the man pushing himself off the car and rubbing his throat. "Go home, little mortal. While you still can."
"I don't have a home anymore. Or a car, or a job, or anything else, for that matter."
"Aw, and you want me to feel sorry for you?"
"I want you to make me a vampire so I can kill the bastard who stole them."
A long moment ticked by.
Petty revenge. He wanted to give up his beating heart, warmth, sunlight, to rise as one of the undead just so he could get back at someone bigger or stronger or smarter than himself.
She shouldn't feel so disappointed. She didn't know the man well enough to have expected anything better of him.
But she had.
Strangely deflated, she turned her back to him and fished in her pocket for her car keys. So absorbed with her disillusionment was she that she didn't hear him move.
Didn't realize he stood behind her until she felt the sting of the needle he plunged into her shoulder.
2
DANDELION fuzz floated on silver beams of moonlight as Daniel sat on a grassy hillside an hour north of the city, Déadre handcuffed to his side. In the distance, the lights of Atlanta blazed like so many earthbound stars. Above them, the moon settled toward the horizon.
He dragged his free hand through the stiff spikes in his hair. It would be dawn soon, and she was still out cold. He checked for vital signs for the thousandth time.
She wasn't breathing. Had no pulse. But then, she wasn't supposed to, was she?
He wasn't sure. All the research he'd done on vampires, and he still didn't know a thing about their basic biology. Apparently no one did, since most of the literature he'd amassed had been based more on speculation and fear than fact, as far as he could tell.
He glanced down at the unconscious woman—at least he hoped she was just unconscious—at his side. A vampire. It was still hard to believe. Not the fact that they existed. Everyone knew vampires were real; they just weren't talked about in polite company. Kind of like venereal disease.
What he had trouble believing was that she could be one of them and still be so beautiful. She had a heart-shaped face with bowstring lips. Her dark auburn hair was thick and shiny and slid through his hands like silk. Even though she wasn't a big woman, her body flowed from one enticing curve to another.
She was the kind of woman who had always attracted him before he'd met the long, leggy Sue Ellen. The kind of woman who still turned his head, though it made him feel guilty every time he did. Except this woman was a vampire.
Jesus, he couldn't have killed her, could he? Only exposure to sunlight, a stake through the heart, decapitation, cremation, or being completely drained of blood by another vampire could do that.
He hoped.
Her pale skin shone like marble. A cool breeze teased her bangs over her eyes and he brushed them back and tried shaking her again.
To his relief, her eyelids finally fluttered. She groaned.
When her eyes opened, he asked, "Are you all right?"
"Wha—What was… ?"
"Holy water." He let go of her shoulders when she stiffened. "Only a couple of CCs. It was just supposed to make you weak, not knock you out."
Wincing and arching her back, she rolled the shoulder he'd stuck with the hypodermic. "It burns."
"Burns? Is it supposed to burn?"
"Ohhhh."
"All right. All right. It burns. What can I do?"
She bit down hard on her lower lip. "Mmmmmmm."
"Okay." He picked her up, curving his shackled left arm behind her back and lifting her beneath her knees with the other. "There's water at the bottom of the bill. Regular water," he added when she looked up at him with alarm.
She was definitely breathing now, shallow little gasps that tore at his conscience. Maybe she only stopped breathing when she slept. How the hell did he know?
At the moment, he didn't really care. He only cared about taking away the pain carved into her ivory-smooth face.
He set her on the creek bank facing land and peeled back her leather jacket, but he couldn't get it off over the cuffs, so he pulled it down her arm and then lifted her shirt over her head to join it.
She gasped and tried to cross her arms over her chest, but surprisingly enough, it wasn't her breasts that had him ogling. It was the jagged scar on her shoulder.
Surely to God he hadn't done that.
Please, don't let him have done that.
"How did this happen?" He reached out to touch the reddened mark in the shape of a cross, but she flinched before his fingers even brushed the puffy flesh.
"Please." Her voice was close to a whimper. "Don't."
He gave her one searching look, but found no answers in her dark eyes. Unable to stand her pain any longer, he leaned her back, holding her just above the water with his left arm and spooning the cool liquid over her back and upper arm with his right hand.
"Better?" he asked.
Her hair drifted on the current. Her face gradually relaxed. "Better."
She started looking around. Cicadas serenaded her from the trees. A toad croaked downstream. "Where are we?"
"Cherokee County."
She frowned and jiggled her wrist as if just realizing she was shackled to him. "Why?"
Avoiding her gaze, he dribbled another handful of water over the cross branded over her shoulder blade. "Because it's a long way from anywhere."
She shifted in his arms. "Did you bring me here to kill me?"
"No."
"Then what do you want?"
"I told you," he said mildly. "I want to be like you."
"No, you don't. Believe me, you don't." She craned her head toward the east. "It'll be dawn soon. You know I can't be out here when the sun comes up, right?"
"I know."
She scanned the hillside, left and right. "How did we get h
ere? You—You have a car somewhere, don't you?"
"Somewhere." And just in case she decided to kill him and drive off in it on her own, he added, "But the keys aren't with it. They're hidden."
"You're going to hold me here?" She sat up, turned and tried to backpedal away, but didn't get far. She jerked the end of the short chain between their handcuffs. Her voice rose an octave. "You said you weren't going to kill me."
"I'm not. You're going to kill me." Tired of chasing her up the hill as she continued to back away from him, he pulled her to him. She wasn't strong enough to fight Yet. "You're going to kill me and bring me back… like you. Then I'll get the keys, and we'll drive out of here together. Before the sun comes up."
Once he had the strength and speed of a vampire, he could fight Garth on equal footing. Kill him and free Sue Ellen's physical body from his evil influence.
What he'd have to do later to set his own soul free he wouldn't put words to.
Not yet.
THE moments before dawn were always the darkest, the quietest, the most peaceful for a vampire. These were the moments Déadre held on to when she thought she couldn't stand being what she was for another night. When she couldn't stand the hunger. These were the moments she'd always hoped would be her last, should her existence ever come to an end.
She pulled Daniel's coat tighter over her shoulders. After bathing in the creek and having gone so long without fresh blood to warm her, she had been chilled. He'd turned his jacket inside out and settled it over her shoulders. The gesture of simple kindness had touched her.
And confused her.
"Do you know what happens to a vampire in the sunlight?" she asked without looking at him. Pine and magnolia and jasmine all mingled on the breeze.
"I have a vague idea."
"The eyes go first. Our night vision makes us so sensitive to light that we're blinded."
A muscle in Daniel's jaw jumped. He jerked a blade of grass out of the ground and rolled it between his fingers.
