The Last Vampire- Complete series Box Set

by R. A. Steffan

  “Here you go,” he said, proffering a piece of paper. “You’ll be wanting that banking information. I expect most of these accounts are buried under god-knows-how-many shell corporations and LLCs. But if this can help you out at all, more power to you.”

  Albigard took the sheet and unfolded it, glancing over whatever information it contained and nodding to himself. “All information has value, Leonides.” His eyes flicked to me. “I will take my leave, now. Watch your back, demonkin. I should hate to think I’d dealt with all of this tiresome nonsense only to have you die anyway.”

  “Gee, thanks,” I told him, but he was already stalking off, presumably to find someplace where a magical portal in reality wouldn’t cause mass panic.

  “Pointy-eared arsehole,” Rans muttered.

  I took a deep breath and let it out, smelling the sea air. “Stop complaining, lover. He got us here safely, didn’t he? Now, I don’t know about you two... but I was promised drinks with paper umbrellas. Shall we?”

  TEN

  TURNS OUT, TRAVELING with two vampire companions and a whole lot of cash was a pretty good way to go, when it came to cruise ships. I hadn’t been sure what to expect when we’d gatecrashed this ocean-going party. In fact, I’d half-expected it to be a straightforward stowaway situation where we’d be hiding out in the cargo hold the whole time, jokes about fancy cocktails or no. I should have had more faith.

  There were probably ethical concerns related to mesmerizing the ship’s concierge into giving us a pair of high-end staterooms. Especially after I’d reamed Albigard for messing with Len’s mind. It was, however, mildly amusing to watch the guy’s expression shift from snooty dismissal of our practical, travel-stained clothes, to fawning admiration as Rans rattled off a list of everything that was to be delivered to our rooms—including what sounded like a full wardrobe’s worth of suits and dresses, complete with my exact measurements.

  We did get a number of odd looks as the flustered concierge took us on a tour of the ship’s main points of interest before escorting us to our rooms. The vessel was freaking massive. It had a goddamned shopping mall, for Christ’s sake. Which... I supposed would explain how the poor guy was expected to provide us with all the stuff Rans had requested. Especially from a tiny tourist island in the middle of nowhere.

  The ship also had a huge selection of food and a truly staggering amount of alcohol on offer. Not to mention a staggering number of beautiful people—especially women. They were all dressed to kill, with sparkling gems and milky cleavage as far as the eye could see. I tried not to be self-conscious in my Target top and stretchy black leggings.

  “Okay,” I said, pitching my voice for vampire hearing as we passed a lounge full of rich passengers getting drunk and, in several cases, shamelessly making out on the plush furniture scattered around the room. “Why are all of the women young and hot, while half of the men look like they’re one double martini away from their next heart attack?”

  Guthrie snorted. “Welcome to the good ol’ boys’ club. I imagine three-quarters of the female passengers are professional escorts. The remaining quarter are probably trophy wives.”

  I frowned. “Oh, yeah? Well, that seems sexist as hell. Where are the rich cougars with gold-digging boy-toys on this boat? Let’s go hang out with them.”

  “At a guess, they were too smart to get roped into this kind of shit-show in the first place,” Guthrie said.

  I glanced at Rans, surprised that he didn’t seem more amused at the byplay. “Well,” I said lightly, “I don’t plan on playing the role of escort or trophy wife, thanks very much. So if anyone asks, I’m... I dunno... the CEO of a hot new tech startup or something.”

  Rans visibly roused himself to join the conversation. “Am I to be your arm candy, then? I daresay I’m a bit rusty in the role, when it’s not taking place in a sex dungeon.”

  “No, not at all,” I said, before generously adding, “Tell you what—you can be my partner in the startup. We found unexpected love over three a.m. Chinese takeout when we were poring over the accounts receivable.”

  “How terribly romantic,” Rans said, flashing a smile at me.

  I couldn’t help noticing that it looked forced, just as I couldn’t help noticing the tension coiling along his spine... or the fact that a man who normally thrived on this kind of banter still seemed to be visibly phoning it in.

  “Hey, I can totally be romantic,” I told him, doing my best to keep things light. I nudged his shoulder with mine, gratified when he tangled our fingers together in response. And if his grip was a bit too tight? Well, at least we might finally be facing a lull in the ongoing series of crises that made up our lives these days. With luck, that lull would last long enough for me to get to the bottom of whatever had been quietly eating him alive these past few days.

  Finally, we ended up at our staterooms. The still-dazed concierge showed us around the one Rans and I were supposed to share, and we tagged along as he continued on to Guthrie’s. I had to clamp my lips to stop the semi-hysterical noise that wanted to escape as I took in the decor. For his part, Guthrie looked like he wanted to vamp out and start ripping arteries, but he packed away his reaction a moment later in favor of a long-suffering sigh.

  The concierge left with promises that everything we’d requested would be delivered to our rooms shortly. Once the door had closed behind us, I blew out a slow breath.

  “Oh, my god. No offense, Guthrie, but it looks like a seventies bordello threw up in here.”

  Rans gave the room a slow once-over. “Well, to be fair, seventies bordellos were usually a lot more... beige than this.”

  Guthrie scrubbed a hand over his face and sat on the edge of the bed. Specifically, the edge of the huge, hot pink, heart-shaped bed. “Give me whatever blood bags you’re carrying, Rans, and both of you get the hell out. I don’t want to see either of you until tomorrow. Late morning at the earliest, am I clear?”

  I drew breath to ask if that was really a safe plan or not, but he raised a hand and cut me off before I could speak.

  “Look. There’s a pissed-off demon out there with the power to snuff me out like a candle flame at any moment. That’s been the case for decades, and having you two breathing down my neck all night won’t do a damned thing to protect me from him. Her? Whatever. As for the rest of it, we’re in the middle of an ocean, no one knows we’re here, and I don’t feel the overwhelming urge to kill the next random human I see—even after getting a good look at the decor in this room. If that changes later, I’ve got a small blood bank stashed in here with me that I can use to take the edge off.”

  I looked to Rans, who nodded. “If you’re sure, mate.”

  “Yes, I’m fucking sure. Now get out of here, and leave me and my goddamned king-sized porno bed in peace. Who knows, maybe I’ll even figure out a use for the mirrors on the fucking ceiling once you’re gone.”

  I couldn’t help it. I glanced up. Yup... mirrored ceiling.

  Wow.

  “Good night, Guthrie,” I said in a tiny voice.

  “Good night, Zorah. And fuck you very much, Rans.”

  “G’night, mate. I truly am sorry about all of this.”

  Guthrie settled a piercing gaze on Rans, holding his eyes for a long moment. “I know you are,” he said eventually.

  * * *

  While our assigned suite had a bit of a gothic romance vibe going on, it wasn’t anywhere near as much of a travesty as poor Guthrie’s. To my considerable shock, we’d barely gotten back to it when a knock at the door announced the arrival of several obsequious lackeys toting a rather staggering number of garment bags and packages. I watched, wide-eyed, as Rans directed them to put everything away before peeling off a few large bills for tips.

  “So this is how the one percent lives, huh?” I asked, once we were alone again.

  “The point-zero-one percent, perhaps,” Rans replied in a distracted tone. “Now, as Guthrie correctly pointed out, we are currently as safe as we’re likely to get anytime
soon. It’s been... quite a couple of days. You must be tired, so feel free to rest for a few hours.”

  My alarm bells were still going off in response to his distantly thoughtful demeanor and general air of not being himself. And while it was true that I should be tired, I didn’t honestly think I’d be able to do more than toss and turn if I tried to lie down in the spectacular four-poster bed just now.

  “I’d rather go back out there and walk around a bit more,” I told him. “Maybe get some food? I’m way too wired to try and sleep right now, I’m sorry to say.”

  “Fair enough,” he agreed easily. “It feels like the ship has just unmoored and left the dock, which is good timing. Highly unlikely that anyone will have managed to track us here yet, if they’re even looking for us in the first place right now.”

  “That is good news,” I said, letting myself relax a tiny bit. Now that I concentrated, I could feel a vague sense of the deck beneath me being in motion. It wasn’t anything really noticeable. Still, it was reassurance that we were indeed moving away from the island, where someone might conceivably have been able to find us, given enough motivation and resources. “Come on. Let’s go take a better look around.”

  “Certainly.” His hand pressed against my lower back, turning me toward the walk-in closet that had so recently been swarming with garment-bag toting employees. “First things first, though. If we want to maintain a relatively low profile in this shark tank, we’ll need to dress the part.”

  ‘Dressing the part’ took nearly an hour of preparation in the end. I was in desperate need of a shower, and afterward, I took advantage of the plethora of beauty products that had magically appeared at the same time as the clothing. Cleaned, powdered, moisturized, conditioned, coiffed, and painted, I emerged wrapped in a towel to find a red sheath dress, matching red stiletto heels, and a set of lacy black lingerie waiting on the bed.

  Shrugging, I changed into it, unsurprised to find that everything fit perfectly. I had a sneaking suspicion that the shoes alone cost more than the entirety of my Target wardrobe combined. As recently as a couple of weeks ago, that realization would have really bothered me. Sometime in the intervening whirlwind of drama and near-death experiences, I’d finally internalized the idea that money meant very little to people like Rans... or Guthrie, who was technically bankrolling all of this.

  The door connecting the bedroom to the living area that formed the other half of the suite we were occupying opened. I turned from the oh-so-classy boob readjustment I was performing in the mirror, and couldn’t help catching my breath.

  Rans eyed me up and down, nodding in approval. “Oh, good. It looks like I guessed your measurements right, after all. You’ve been putting on muscle over the past few weeks, so I wasn’t sure. And I must say—filthy rich is a good look on you, love.”

  “Likewise,” I managed faintly, once I’d worked up enough moisture in my mouth to speak.

  Left to his own devices, Rans migrated mostly toward the bad-boy ethos, all dark jeans, combat boots, motorcycle leathers, and black t-shirts. When that would be too conspicuous, he tended to wear unremarkable casual slacks and button-downs. They didn’t really suit him, in my opinion, but to be fair, with a build like his, he could make just about anything look good.

  I... was not prepared for what that build looked like in the latest designer fashion. In my defense, I’m not sure how one would prepare for such a thing. And, I was totally staring right now, wasn’t I?

  The weird, half-strangled ‘guh’ noise that came out of my mouth when I tried to speak was my first clue that my jaw was hanging open. His eyebrows went up.

  “D’you like it, then?” he asked, doing a brief, side-to-side twist in place as though he truly had no idea what he looked like.

  Did I like it? That was like asking if the Pope was Catholic, or if bears shit in the woods.

  The ‘it’ in question consisted of a pair of slim-cut wool trousers in charcoal gray that were basically making love to his ass, along with a white shirt with the top two buttons undone, and a fucking corset vest. Crisscrossed lacing wove down the smooth curve of dove-gray silk covering his back, accentuating the way the breadth of his shoulders tapered to a narrow waist and hips. The matching charcoal suit jacket was slung carelessly over one shoulder, and a pair of black Italian loafers completed the ensemble.

  With difficulty, I dragged my gaze up to his face and re-engaged the speech center of my brain. “Huh. The guyliner is a nice touch,” I managed. “It brings out the blue in your eyes.”

  “Consider it my minor act of rebellion against the ‘rich douche’ sensibility,” he said, shrugging into the perfectly tailored jacket. A red pocket square in exactly the same shade as my dress peeked out at his left breast.

  I smiled, unable to help it. “Well, that and the hair,” I teased. “Maybe we should change your cover story from ‘startup co-founder’ to ‘the hot rock star I’m sleeping with.’ So, are we ready? I hate to say it, but I’m starving.”

  “One more thing first,” he replied, reaching into a trouser pocket and retrieving something. A length of gold chain with a heavy pendant hanging from the end slid through his fingers. “Turn around, love.”

  I did, a frisson slipping down my spine as his cool fingers swept my hair out of the way. He fastened the necklace so that the square-cut diamond settled into my cleavage, quickly warming to my body temperature.

  “Okay, wow,” I said, fingers brushing it as I looked at my reflection. “You know, I just finished giving myself this great mental pep talk about how I was over being freaked out by the whole ‘throwing money around like water’ thing. Apparently I should have held off with that for a bit longer. Please humor me and don’t tell me how much this rock-on-a-chain cost.”

  His eyes met mine in the mirror. “Pretend it’s cubic zirconium if it makes you feel better,” he teased, a bit of his natural humor shining through the dark cloud surrounding him.

  “It’s totally not cubic zirconium, is it,” I said, resigned.

  “No, it definitely isn’t,” he agreed. “So, next on the agenda—food, and mingling with wealthy arseholes. Let me know when you get tired of the second part.”

  “If the wealthy assholes have burgers on hand, then consider tonight my debutante ball,” I assured him. “Trust me, once I get some calories in me, I can do passive-aggressive small talk with the best of them.”

  ELEVEN

  OKAY, SO RANS and Guthrie hadn’t been kidding. Most of these people were shitwads of the highest order. Apparently, the combination of me being both female and not one hundred percent Caucasian meant that I was automatically dismissed as having any value beyond tits and ass.

  I briefly debated the merits of making an issue of the casual racism-slash-sexism on display, only to dismiss it in favor of pulling animus from every entitled sonuvabitch who couldn’t seem to keep his gaze above the level of my collarbones. Meanwhile, I gained a sort of twisted amusement from watching them try to figure out Rans, who appeared content to play the role of urbane metrosexual while slipping casual little barbs into the swirl of conversation surrounding the evening buffet tables.

  On the positive side, the burgers were good. Though, honestly, they would have been even better without the ‘paté de fois gras in a truffle reduction’ smeared between the micro-greens and the top bun. Regardless, though, the combination of all-you-can-eat haute cuisine and horny, sexist assholes ogling me meant that I was pleasantly full of both food and stolen animus by the time Rans suggested we wander through the various shops lining the mezzanine level, before returning to our suite.

  I strolled along with him, my arm looped through his. He’d shed his jacket again, and was getting as many admiring looks from the women as I’d been getting lascivious ones from the good-ol’-boy crowd. He appeared completely oblivious to the attention, still trapped in his own private darkness, and I knew it was past time for me to call him out on it. I bumped his shoulder with mine and met his distracted blue gaze when he gla
nced at me.

  “You’re really worrying me now,” I told him frankly. “I mean—there’s just tons of material here for sarcasm and bad jokes. Not like you to let all of it go to waste, lover. Talk to me... please?”

  This was still new territory for me. In my admittedly not very plentiful experience with relationships, trying to get a man to open up was generally the prelude to hearing a litany of my many failings, and subsequently getting my ass dumped. I was taking it on faith that what Rans and I had was something different, but that didn’t stop my flutter of nerves at the idea of prying at his current mental state.

  He glanced at our surroundings—perhaps trying to judge the level of interest the self-absorbed people around us might have in our conversation. I suspected the answer hovered somewhere in the vicinity of absolutely none, and he seemed to agree. With a sigh, he led me to a stretch of wall between two shop fronts. I leaned back against it, letting him block out the world beyond with his body as he rested a hand next to my right shoulder.

  His chin dipped, his eyes closing as though in sudden exhaustion. “I’m sorry, Zorah,” he said in a low voice. “We’ve come this far, but... the truth is, I have no idea what to do next.”

  I frowned, tilting his head up with a touch to his chin until he opened his eyes and met mine. “I... don’t see that there’s much more we can do beyond hiding out, Rans. That’s not exactly something you need to apologize for.”

  “Isn’t it?” he asked. “We were at least in a marginally tenable position before I sent Nigellus packing in St. Louis. Now we’re—” He broke off with a frustrated shake of the head.

  “Kinda fucked?” I suggested wryly. “Well, at least we’re kinda fucked in nice surroundings with plenty of good food, horny old men for me to feed on, and a wide selection of blood types for you and Guthrie to choose from.”