Bitten 2

by A. J. Colby

  Ah, shit, I thought as I remembered the vamp rearing back to strike, yellowed fangs gleaming in the light of my cell phone.

  “God dammit!” I cursed. “That fanged fucker bit me!”

  “A run-in, huh?” Hank asked, his eyebrows crawling halfway up his tanned forehead.

  “Shut up and just take a look at it, will you?”

  Peeling back the collar of my shirt, Hank grimaced as he inspected my shoulder. “That looks nasty.”

  “Yeah, well, it hurts like a bitch,” I snarled in reply, craning my neck to try to get a glimpse of the bite.

  I didn’t see much except a bloody smear across my skin, and judging from the pain suddenly making itself known, was a little relieved that I couldn’t see anything else.

  “Take off your shirt.”

  “Hey man, like I told your sister, I’ve got a boyfriend,” I said, trying my best to sound indignant while ignoring the half of my brain that was chanting Yes, yes, yes, yes!

  “I’m not looking to cop a feel, Riley. I need to take a look at your shoulder.”

  “Oh.”

  Pointing at the empty chair, he commanded, “Sit down. I’m gonna go grab the first aid kit.”

  Removing my shirt proved to be about as much fun as a root canal, and I’d just finished wrangling it over my head when Hank returned with a rather sparsely stocked and dusty first aid kit. As a were, he didn’t have much need for a lot of first aid supplies. Like me, he could heal everything from a paper cut to second degree burns in a matter of minutes, which begged the question why my shoulder felt like it had been reduced to a piece of raw meat. It should have been little more than a fading scar by now, not the bloody ruin I glimpsed in the corner of my eye.

  “This might sting a bit,” he warned before dumping what was surely molten lava on my shoulder.

  The label on the bottle proclaimed it to be hydrogen peroxide, but I was convinced that was a lie. It took every ounce of self-control I had not to whirl around and punch him in the face when he doused the wound with lava once more. Instead I settled for gritting my teeth and clutching the edge of the table hard enough to make the wood creak.

  “Son of a...” I hissed.

  * * *

  I watched the pile of bloodied cotton balls grow on the table as Hank went about cleaning out the wound, his motions as gentle as possible, but making me cringe and whimper like a pup nonetheless. What felt like hours later he taped a gauze pad into place and declared me done.

  “I’m no doctor, but that should hold you over for a while,” he said, and then paused when he glanced down to where my hands still rested on the table.

  Following his gaze, I saw that I’d managed to gouge eight matching grooves in the wood.

  “Umm, sorry about your table,” I offered with a sheepish smile.

  “It’s okay,” he reassured me. “I’ve been looking for an excuse to get a new one anyway.”

  “Really?”

  “No,” he replied with a weak smile. “But it’s fine.”

  Busy berating myself for being as destructive as a tornado, I didn’t sense his hand moving towards me until he swiped the pad of his thumb against my cheek. A spark of sensation rippled through me, blocking out the throb from my shoulder, filling me with feelings of a much more lustful and heated nature.

  “You had a little blood on your cheek,” he explained, though his gaze was firmly planted on my tongue peeking out between my lips to moisten them.

  “Thanks,” I replied, my eyes drawn to the gleam of the light on the golden stubble covering his cheeks.

  I didn’t realize I’d meant to move until I was already on my feet and reaching for him. We crashed into each other like colliding asteroids in one of Saturn’s rings, drawn together by our own gravitational pull, unable to stop the impact.

  A low moan rumbled deep in his chest, vibrating through him and into me, stiffening my nipples into aching peaks. Snaking my hands up to fist the thick curls of his hair, I pulled his lips down to mine. For all the heat in the hands that grabbed my ass to pull me tight against his body, Hank’s lips were soft and smooth like sun-warmed silk, and tasted faintly of cinnamon and honey. Arousal rippled through me like fire in my veins, warming me from the inside out and making every nerve buzz with excitement.

  It was the loud snap of a button popping off Hank’s shirt that cut through the lusty haze long enough for me to realize what a humongous mistake I was about to make.

  Are you insane? What the hell are you doing? my inner voice cried while the wolf growled her disapproval. She was one hundred percent team Holbrook and was none too pleased that I was jeopardizing our relationship in a moment of alcohol- and fear-fueled lust.

  Leaping back, missing the warm weight of his hands on my hips almost immediately, I swiped the back of my hand across my lips to erase the taste of him.

  “What the hell did you do that for?” I demanded, feeling my face flush with a tangle of self-hatred, arousal, and embarrassment.

  “It takes two to tango,” Hank replied with kiss swollen lips, his voice rough, and the ice blue of his eyes shrunk down to thin bands around his dilated pupils.

  “Well, I’m not interested in whatever dance this is,” I shot back, gesturing to the space between us.

  Taking a step towards me, eyes flashing with barely restrained desire, he said, “You seemed interested enough a minute ago.”

  “Let’s just attribute that to a moment of insanity and move on,” I said backing away and retrieving my shirt. “I’m seeing someone.”

  “So you’ve said, but where is this elusive ‘someone’ you keep mentioning?” he challenged, lips that had felt so damn good against mine quirking into a derisive smile.

  “I...” I faltered, wetness welling up in my eyes when I found that I didn’t have a response for him. The truth was, I didn’t know where Holbrook was. Like a sharpshooter, Hank had zeroed in on my vulnerability and fired true, piercing me to the quick.

  Seeing the pain on my face, his expression softened as he took a step back. Even as I sagged in relief at the distance between us, I fought the desire to be wrapped up in his arms instead. I was almost thankful when my phone rang in my pocket, even if it was “Coffin Whore” flashing on the screen. Seeing Chrismer’s nickname reignited the fire of rage at the Shepherd’s attempt on my life, squashing any lingering traces of desire.

  My voice was sharp and brittle when I answered. “What do you want?”

  “Ms. Cray,” a rich masculine voice replied in a purring murmur that would have sent a cold shiver down my spine if my anger hadn’t warmed me all the way through.

  Cordova. Even better.

  I’d been expecting him to call sooner or later and had to fight against the urge to immediately tear into him.

  “Cordova,” I replied, forcing the word out between my clenched teeth while my heart pounded in anticipation against my ribs. I was looking forward lambasting the master vamp for his ill-conceived attempt on my life. A mixture of expectant delight and trepidation tangled in my stomach to give me an almost weightless feeling. Of course, as the old adage says, what goes up, must come down.

  “Ms. Cray, where is my automobile?” Cordova asked with deathly calm, chipping away at my excitement. I had no doubt that if he could have reached through the phone and wrung the answer out of my delicate little neck he would have, but I was damned if I’d go down without getting a few licks in myself.

  “Your what?” I asked, affecting an air of puzzlement and boredom.

  “My Ferrari. Where. Is. It?”

  “Oh, that.” Looking up, I found Hank staring at me, his eyes wide and his mouth hanging open, whether in shock or abject horror, I couldn’t tell.

  “You stole the Shepherd’s Ferrari?” he asked in a hissing whisper. “Are you nuts?”

  Probably.

  Covering the phone with my hand I replied, “I didn’t steal it, I merely borrowed it.”

  “I’m waiting, Ms. Cray,” Cordova murmured in my ear, each rep
etition of my name feeling like a nail being driven into my coffin.

  “I had to borrow it due to unforeseen events.”

  “If there is a single scratch—” he started to threaten, and I rolled my eyes at his dramatics.

  “Tell me, Cordova,” I began, cutting him off while examining the damp label on my beer bottle. “What pisses you off more: the fact I took your precious Ferrari, or that your little plan to get rid of me didn’t work? What was it? Did I get too close to discovering something you’d rather keep buried in the dark?”

  Whatever I had been expecting Cordova to say in reply, it wasn’t the plainly spoken “Have you suffered a stroke?”

  Infuriated by his flippant dismissal of my near death experience at the hands of one of his vamps, I snapped, “Fuck you, you undead sack of shit!” and hung up, my hand trembling when I set my phone down on the table. Sitting down heavily in the chair, I splayed my fingers on the tabletop and wondered whether the tremor was from my anger, or the knowledge that I’d just hung up on one of the most powerful men in the state.

  Only a few seconds passed before my phone began to vibrate and chirp emphatically. Slumping back in the chair, I retrieved my now warm, half-empty beer, and sucked down a reassuring gulp.

  “You gonna get that?” Hank asked, eyeing the buzzing phone as if it was a coiled rattlesnake, poised and ready to strike.

  “Nope,” I said, biting off the word with a sharp smack of my lips.

  The buzzing and chirping cut off as Cordova was kicked over to voicemail, and I fought to ignore the growing feeling of nausea.

  It’s just from the beer, I tried to reassure myself, though I knew the words were hollow.

  Although I’d expected it, I still jumped when my phone lit up again, filling the warm kitchen with the sound of dozens of crickets until it went to voicemail. On Cordova’s third attempt, I decided I’d better answer before he came to the conclusion that more physical means of communication were needed.

  “What’s up, Al?” I asked, regretting the casual moniker when an icy chill seemed to flow down the phone line to pierce the warmth of my irritation, and freeze me to the core.

  “I’d advise that you never do that again.”

  I wasn’t sure if he meant hanging up on him, or calling him Al, but figured that avoiding both was probably the wisest choice in the long run.

  What long run? He just tried to kill us.

  “Now,” he said, sliding back into the velvety purr that was half aristocratic refinement, half undead creepiness. “Would you care to explain the reason for absconding with my vehicle?”

  Raking a hand through my hair, the stab of pain in my shoulder brought my anger back to the forefront, instantly burning through my intentions to play nicely with the master vamp.

  “Sure. As soon as you’re done explaining why you tried to kill me.”

  “I understand you may be suffering from some sort of mental episode, so I do apologize for my use of crass language, but what the fuck are you talking about, Ms. Cray?”

  “The two vamps you set loose to drain me like a juice box. If that wasn’t intentional, then you’ve got some serious security issues going on over there.”

  There was a long pause on the other end of the line, accompanied by the faint rustle of movement, as if someone had pressed a hand over the phone to silence their words. In my mind’s eye I was envisioning Chuckles getting the reaming of a lifetime, and although I kinda liked the guy, I felt a flutter of vindication in my chest.

  When Cordova came back on the line, he was once again oozing cool charm. “I apologize, it appears there was an unfortunate security breach this afternoon.”

  “An... unfortunate... breach? Is that what you call almost having my throat torn out?” I demanded, wincing at how shrill my voice sounded.

  “I believe you were advised not to wander about unaccompanied.”

  Listening to Cordova play the part of the slippery politician with ease, I felt my temper rise once more. As scary and intimidating as he was, he sure seemed to have a way of inciting my anger.

  “I didn’t have much of a choice, unless I wanted to let crazy vamp number one use me as a daytime snack, in your fucking office, no less! What the hell was with those guys anyway? Are all your vamps total nut jobs, or just the ones you let wander around during the day?”

  Another long silence and murmur of movement made me wonder if Chuckles was likely to be in one piece the next time I saw him.

  “As I said, an unfortunate breach in our security protocols. The matter will be thoroughly investigated,” he said, and I cringed at the unmistakable threat. “Now, back to the matter at hand. Where is my car?”

  “I tell you that your minions tried to eat me, and you’re worried about your fucking car?”

  “Ms. Cray, I assure you, the matter is well in hand. Unlike my car.” The icy chill increased. “If you insist on this course I will have no recourse but to terminate our relationship.”

  For some reason I didn’t think he was just talking about my attempts at detective work.

  Given the chilling turn our conversation had taken, my enjoyment in tormenting Cordova had dissolved into something more closely resembling fear.

  I wasted no time replying, “It’s here, it’s fine.”

  “And where exactly is ‘here’?”

  “Hank Stone’s house.”

  “Ah, the Denver pack master. Excellent. I will send someone over to collect it post haste,” Cordova said, filling my head with images of Mr. Burns steepling his fingers and grinning that awful shark smile.

  If it had been anyone else I would have asked how the hell I was supposed to get my car back, but, deciding that I liked having a pulse, I managed to keep my mouth shut.

  And people say you can’t teach an old dog new tricks.

  “Oh, and Ms. Cray?”

  “Yes?” I asked, hating how my voice quavered.

  “If I find any scratches on my car, I will make you pay,” he said, and I didn’t think he was talking about money.

  “You won’t,” I insisted. “Though the same can’t be said of me.”

  “I can assure you, the situation will be dealt with.”

  “Cut the cryptic crap, Cordova. What does that mean?”

  “We take care of our own,” he said with an intensity that made me wrap my arms around myself while praying that the sudden chill in the air was just a figment of my imagination. “Is there anything else I can assist you with?”

  Shuddering at the promise in the silken words, and the danger that lurked behind them, I said, “N-no. We’re good.”

  Just like his Day Servant, Cordova didn’t say goodbye and simply hung up on me; I wondered if she had picked up the irritating habit from the vamp.

  “Asshole,” I grumbled, rubbing my sweaty palm on my jeans to hide the fact that it was shaking.

  “You look like you could use another drink. I know I could,” Hank said, grabbing a couple of fresh beers from the fridge. In typical were fashion, my buzz from earlier had already dissipated, and I was glad for the cool bottle he placed in my hand.

  We drank in silence, each mulling over our thoughts as we avoided each other’s gaze, until the rumble of a tow truck pulling up outside roused our attention. Looking to the distant front door at the sound of a car door closing and footsteps approaching, I said, “That’ll be Cordova’s guys.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  STANDING ON THE curb with my arms wrapped around myself to ward off the cold, I watched the man, no doubt someone’s Day Servant, walking a tight circle around Cordova’s precious Ferrari, checking for scratches and dings. I’d already told him that the car was fine, but he’d insisted on examining it before he left all the same. Knowing Cordova, he’d told the guy he’d string him up next to me and flay us both if he found any scratches on the sports car. I just hoped my little light show while fleeing Asylum hadn’t left any permanent marks on the car.

  Beside me, Hank loomed as silent and solid as a s
tone pillar, seemingly immune to the cold wind that whipped my hair across my face. He watched the Day Servant with icy eyes, and I thanked my lucky stars I wasn’t on the receiving end of his gaze. A snippet of Duran Duran’s “Hungry Like the Wolf” cut through the silence, accompanied by a buzzing sound emanating from Hank’s pocket. Blushing an impressive shade of red Hank glanced at me before dropping his eyes guiltily.

  “Is that...” I started to ask, fighting in vain to keep from laughing.

  “Juliet’s idea of a joke,” Hank muttered, digging the phone out of his pocket and turning away from me. “This is Hank,” he answered, taking several steps away.

  Still grinning, I tuned him out to give him some privacy and turned my gaze back to the guy surveying the car, catching him smirking. We shared a fleeting moment of amusement across the Ferrari’s hood before he erased all emotion from his face and resumed his assessment.

  Probably afraid cracking a smile would make him lose points with the vamps or something. Heaven forbid any of the undead have a sense of humor.

  I smelled the change in Hank at the same time I noticed the stiffness in his stance. A wave of sour, burnt cinnamon flowed off of him, stinging my nose. The guy over by the car noticed it too, his eyes flaring silver beneath the streetlight as he turned them towards us. Something bad had happened.

  Stepping closer to Hank, reaching out a hand to touch his shoulder, I drew my hand back at the last second, his sharp gaze giving me pause. Dropping my hand back to my side I asked, “What’s going on?”

  Ignoring me, Hank listened to a sobbing woman on the other end of the line, and I felt the blood drain from my face at the few words I caught.

  “...it’s Ben. He-he’s dead. They killed him!”

  “Stay there. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  “What’s going on?” I asked again when Hank hung up and stomped back towards the house, his long stride forcing me to jog along behind him to keep up.