Don’t Bite the Messenger

by Regan Summers

  I pushed through the red fire door, unable to stifle a groan. Then I realized I’d have to ask him in, and once he was in…well, I wasn’t sure how the threshold rule worked in an apartment building. Would I be jeopardizing the other tenants by inviting a vamp inside? What if he got hungry while waiting for night to fall?

  “What part of town?”

  “Fairview,” I said, confused. The head under the blanket cocked slightly to the side. “You don’t know where I live? You stalked me to bars on both sides of town, but didn’t have my address?”

  “No.” He made some impatient gesture that, under the blanket, was slightly Muppety. “The first time I was following those who hunted you, and you wandered into a turbulent vampire haunt the second time. I merely made sure that others knew you were spoken for.”

  I sputtered. “If you think one kiss makes me some kind of possession…”

  “Spoken for by Bronson,” he said, and I swear I could hear him smiling. “As a human under his protection.”

  “Why is he so concerned with his delivery girl?” I didn’t like the idea that Bronson thought I belonged to him. Protection was nice, but I’d worked my ass off to stay out from under undead thumbs.

  “You’ve beguiled him,” Malcolm said dryly. “Probably with your unimpeachable manners. Speaking of which, please invite me in. This is not as comfortable as it looks.” I rolled my eyes and held the door all the way open.

  “Oh please, Mr. Malcolm Kelly, won’t you come inside?” He did. Then the door slipped out of my grasp and slammed closed, the blankets dropped to the ground, and he picked me up, carrying me through the building.

  “For the love of God…”

  “You can barely stand.” He surveyed my face. His hair was mussed, a few wavy locks hanging down past his eyes, and close up I saw how dark and thick his eyelashes were. I already knew how generous his lips were. The sickly yellow hall lights probably weren’t doing me any favors. I hadn’t cared while tromping about in the snow, but this close the bags under my eyes and all my nasty injuries would be apparent. Not the sort of thing a girl wants a male, even a vampire, to see. I turned away.

  “Which apartment?” he asked.

  “Four C,” I ground out, struggling against my body’s instinctive relaxation against him. I’d never been so tired, not even after working a triple shift. But then, I’d never been blown up before.

  I had to twist and lean toward him to get the key out of my pocket, so I very distinctly heard his breath hitch when my chest pressed against his. And then, to my horror, a blush crept across my cheeks, over my ears and down my neck. I was in bad shape. The apartment was in worse, with all the drawers and cupboards emptied and half-packed into boxes.

  I was amused by the décor, but it was no doubt shabby to him. He registered the boxes but didn’t say anything, simply carried me into the bathroom and set me on the counter. I leaned back against the mirror and watched him turn on the water in the bathtub. It took my brain a moment to wake up.

  The back of his sweater hung in singed strips and, from what I could see of the flesh underneath, he had been cut. Badly. No wonder he hadn’t gotten away. His house was miles from anywhere he could consider safe. A wounded vampire was compromised, at risk of attack both from pro-beating heart humans and enemies among his own kind.

  He leaned down to hit the diverter and adjust the temperature and I hissed as I got a better view of his skin. He straightened, absently brushing his hair off his forehead, and looked at me inquiringly.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked. “Are you okay?”

  I slid off the counter, one hand holding on so that I didn’t fall. He reached out to steady me.

  “Am I okay? What about you, Malcolm?” I turned him around, pulling the ruined material away from the angry, red marks on his skin. “Look at this mess.”

  “I know,” he said mournfully. “I really liked this sweater.” He reached up and pulled the remaining fabric away. I held my breath when he turned back to me, presenting smooth skin over pronounced muscle. I was already light-headed, and he smiled when he saw the effect he had on me. I flushed again, the steam filling the room making my clothes feel tight and unwelcome.

  “I’ve shown you mine.” His eyebrows rose.

  “I guess I’ll have to owe you one. There are towels under the sink.” I shuffled toward the door, then gasped when Malcolm caught my upper arms. I fell back into him, tears stinging my eyes.

  “Sorry.” His arms dropped to my waist. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.” Somewhere in the distance my brain yelled at me to fight him off, or at least stop leaning on him, but all I could focus on was the feel of his fingers skimming my belly as he brushed the hem of my shirt.

  “What are you doing?” I asked, my voice airy.

  “I’m not sure how to tell you this,” he murmured into my ear, “but you smell like you were sprayed with Lysol and then tossed onto a tire fire.” I turned around, blinking rapidly when his knuckles brushed my navel.

  “What?”

  “The shower is for you.” He grinned. “Now, shall I undress you, or…” My nightly self-grossing up, plus the ferrous scent of fear, melted snow and a weird, antiseptic smell I must have picked up at the hospital, was bad. Normally I hit the shower the second I got home. But normally I was by myself.

  “I can do it,” I said. Malcolm stepped back, leaning against the counter so that muscles popped in his arms. I looked away. “Alone, please.”

  When had I turned into such a priss?

  “Well, you did say please.” He pushed himself up and I watched the door close behind him, thinking that his back already looked better. I pulled my shirt off, cursing when it scraped against my stitches. I dropped it to the floor, my pants and underwear completing the pile. I tried not to look at my silhouette in the mirror, the red and blue marks ominous reminders of how close I’d come to losing—really losing—last night.

  I stepped into the tub, curling my toes as my cold feet adjusted to the heat of the water. I aimed the showerhead up and turned around, closing my eyes and wrapping my arms around my middle, cold despite the warmth of the room. My breath hitched on a sob and I opened my eyes wide. None of that. I didn’t do crying.

  Careful to keep my stitches out of the spray, I grabbed soap and a washcloth and scrubbed vigorously, brushing off the sweat and fear, the smell of my burning car and everything else I’d picked up along the way. The water ran red, partly from the dye running out of my hair and partly, I suspected, from blood. Washing my hair was an exercise in precision, and the back of my head was tender where I’d smacked into the open trunk. When Malcolm had grabbed me. When he’d picked me up, trying to save me. My hands stilled, lather dripping. I wouldn’t have gotten clear of the blast without his help.

  Was that part of the job, part of Bronson’s orders that he watch over me? Maybe it was implied since I was, unbeknownst to me, a special part of the Master’s human stable. I rinsed, watching the bubbles running down the drain until the water cleared and my vision went blurry.

  I turned the water off, dried numbly and slipped into my robe. My weary hand found the light switch, and I shuffled through the static darkness into my bedroom. I lay down and my bones seemed to melt right out of my body and into the mattress. I sighed, and then felt myself roll slightly toward a warm indentation filled with a long, hard body. My eyelids fluttered up and I could see Malcolm’s teeth as he smiled in the dark, a dull fox-fire glow in the depths of his eyes.

  “Well, hello there,” he said.

  “I don’t even care,” I mumbled, drifting off. “Just, please, don’t touch me while I sleep.”

  Chapter Four

  The problem with not caring enough to kick Malcolm out of my bed was that he was still there when I woke up. Also, my body had betrayed me in my sleep by slithering across the bed—unwrapping the robe in the process—and gluing itself to the vampire.

  To his credit, Malcolm didn’t say anything. Not right away. Probably he was savoring
my discomfort because his energy was tap dancing against me with an insistent, almost electric heat. And I’d always thought vampires felt cold.

  I blinked, eyelashes brushing against his chest. My hand rested on his hip. Not the hip closest to me, which would have been marginally acceptable. No. My arm, looking small inside of gaping blue terry cloth, was stretched diagonally over his bare torso and my hand rested on his equally bare far hip. Claiming the continent of his body. I stretched my pinkie below the covers, subtly scouting for underwear or—better yet—a chastity belt. He jerked, the muscles of his stomach contracting.

  “Mary, I did as you asked.” His voice was low. “I did not touch, despite you wrapping your hot little body all around me. But this…” He covered my hand with his and my wrist brushed against something hard and prominent beneath the down comforter. “This is too much.”

  I snatched my hand back and rolled away, breaking the connection his energy had made with an audible snap. My robe abandoned me, one side of it pinned suspiciously beneath him. I whimpered as I pulled the covers up, the muscles of my shoulders and back screaming in protest. Malcolm propped his head up on his hand. I stared at the ceiling, wide awake, clutching the duvet beneath my chin.

  “You could have left the bed at any time,” I choked out. It was still light out, but getting darker. My bedside clock read three o’clock, but it was winter in Alaska, so it would be fully dark shortly. And then he could go.

  “I tried to leave you alone. I showered, attempted to sleep on that brick of a couch you have. But do you know that you moan in your sleep? Tantalizing sounds.”

  I cranked my head around to glare at him and I must have looked truly pathetic, because his easy smile faded.

  “You should be feeling better by now,” he said.

  “Why? Did I sleep for a week?”

  “No, but I leant you energy after the blast, and you’ve been beside me for hours.”

  “You were trying to…heal me? Without blood?”

  “That’s not possible,” he said dismissively. “But your body should be able to use the power I emit to speed its own repairs.” I rolled toward him, mirroring his position.

  “Why couldn’t I sense it before?” I reached toward his chest, not quite touching, letting the feel of him pulse against my skin. “You’re so clearly a vampire.”

  “You have your disguises.” He smiled and trailed a single finger from my shoulder to my elbow. I told myself that it only felt nice, not fantastic. “And I have mine. How bad do you feel?”

  “Like I got blown up.” Fatigue crept back into me. I let my hand fall, grazing his chest on its way down. He sucked in a breath and my mouth twitched. I really did affect him. Maybe the offers of dinner and globe trotting weren’t a game.

  “It’s likely a symptom of your unusual condition,” he said. “Like how you never responded to my influence before you were too injured to fight it. If you would relax your guard, you might feel better.”

  I sank onto my back. “Your men’s magazine come-ons? Yeah, pretty difficult to resist.” In a single, graceful motion that I could never hope to mimic, he moved closer and maneuvered me toward him so that my head rested on his biceps. His other arm curled protectively around my waist. It occurred to me to protest, but since that required energy, and he wasn’t doing anything other than cuddling, it wasn’t worth the effort.

  I liked him, liked being touched by him, even now that I knew what he was. I wanted, suddenly and fiercely, for him to know my real name. I wanted to hear him say it.

  “If I asked you very nicely to stop taking risks, would you?” he asked, a firm edge to his tone that made it sound like a serious request. A little laugh escaped me.

  “I go to the gym. I go to work. I go home. When I’m feeling snappy, I go to the movies. I don’t take risks.” Not anymore. The other runners still referred to me as a wild child, but I hadn’t jumped out of an airplane or driven a snow machine past an avalanche warning sign in a long time. Hell, I barely even drank. I’d gone from sixty to zero in a little over a year.

  My eyelids drooped. I shifted into a more comfortable position that brought our legs into contact. He slid one thigh between mine and I smiled. If I wasn’t so tired, if I didn’t hurt everywhere, I might have been tempted to explore the position.

  “You came back for me when you should have stayed in the hospital. That wasn’t safe.”

  “I couldn’t leave you there,” I murmured, breathing in the spice and soap smell of his skin. His arms tightened around me for an instant, pulling aches from my bruises, before he relaxed.

  “Bronson would have sent someone eventually.”

  “Why do you call him that?” I asked. “Instead of …”

  “Because he didn’t change me. He isn’t my master.” Malcolm shifted, and I raised my head so he could recover his arm. He stared at the popcorn ceiling for a couple of minutes, and I nearly drifted back to sleep.

  “I found myself in possession of something he thought belonged to him,” Malcolm said. “He offered me the choice of service or an end to my existence. I’m not interested in true death.”

  “How does one find oneself in possession of something?” I asked, and Malcolm shrugged and frowned at his hands. He was uncomfortable, which was so precious that I couldn’t help but laugh. “Oh my God, you stole from him! There’s a rule against that. How long is this period of service? Do you have to, like, pick up his dry cleaning and laugh when he makes bad jokes?”

  “Twenty years. I’m bound to do anything he requires.”

  I sobered abruptly. He rolled back toward me, not quite looking me in the eye. If Bronson had turned him, he wouldn’t have any choice but to comply with an order. And, while he would have resented it, there would have been a kind of relief in knowing when he acted against his conscience it wasn’t by choice. But he was bound by an oath, which he was honoring, so when Bronson ordered him, he had to force himself to act. To march straight past his opinions and his beliefs, and do what he was told. I couldn’t imagine a worse situation.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have laughed.”

  “Some of my duties aren’t so bad.” He smiled, traced the lines on my palm with his fingertips.

  I wanted to twine my fingers with his, to press myself against him and engage in all sorts of acts I had never contemplated with a vampire. Instead I cleared my throat and tried to think of other important matters. Like why we were here in the first place.

  “Who was trying to kill you?” I asked. His hand stilled and he grimaced.

  “The bomb detonated after being opened to the air. I suspect the chemical detonator required a certain duration of exposure to oxygen before it went off.” I stopped breathing. Malcolm stroked my back gently, making a soothing noise in his throat.

  “What are you saying? That…that…”

  “That it was meant for you,” he said. “If you hadn’t wrapped and sealed it, it probably would have gone off a few minutes from when you picked it up. I have seen similar devices.” I pushed at him without any strength, and his arm tightened around me.

  Couriers were off-limits, but only until someone stopped playing by the rules. If he disrupted communications, a challenger could pick the existing vampire network apart, and I was Bronson’s main line. If a challenge succeeded, the new master would only have to pay McHenry a couple hundred thousand in restitution for a lost employee. My stomach clenched.

  “I can’t believe someone’s trying to kill me just because of my assignment.”

  “It’s not only that.” He shook his head. “You misunderstood when I said that you resisted me. I attempted, twice, to direct you. Both times you laughed in my face.”

  “What the hell?” I sat up, fast enough that it hurt, which distracted me sufficiently that I didn’t quite catch the covers. Malcolm fairly beamed at me. “You tried to will me to sleep with you? And you’re admitting it?”

  “I tried to influence you to leave dangerous situations.”

  “Oh
.” I had only felt his influence after the explosion. That was a hell of an advantage, being able to disguise not only what he was, but when he was directing a person. No wonder Bronson had bound him for so long. The Master was collecting all sorts of unique people.

  “And obviously getting you to sleep with me wasn’t a challenge.” Malcolm gestured at the bed, his smirk completely out of place with my stark confusion and building fear. “I merely had to suffer serious injury while saving you and then lie about looking pathetic until you took pity on me. A small price to pay.”

  A small price to pay. He’d been hurt. He’d bled. He’d spent the day trapped by the sun, and he’d been lucky that was all that had happened to him.

  “You know what,” I cried, extracting myself from the blankets and robe, too freaked out to care about being naked, “you and your not-a-master can go to hell.” Vampires played deadly games, and if they were trying to blow me up the simple condition of being near me was dangerous. Malcolm couldn’t even choose to move to a safe distance, and he was laughing about it. Like his pain and his continued existence didn’t matter.

  I, however, could stay away from him, protecting him from whatever might be coming. The bomb must have been plan B, after I’d proven outside of Deglio’s office that I couldn’t be influenced. I’d always considered my immunity to vampiric suggestion an asset, a passive, freakish safeguard that made me a better runner. I&O could rely on me, and I didn’t have to worry about waking out of a walking dream, unable to remember whatever errand some unknown sucker had sent me on. I never thought it would get me killed, and never in my worst nightmares had I considered that someone else would be hurt because of it.

  I stumbled to the closet, aware that I was mapped with bruises, that my hair was doing its best goddamn impression of abstract and intensely vertical art and that I was walking away from a hot, naked male.

  “Come back to bed.” He sounded infuriatingly reasonable.

  “So that you can woo me with stories of people trying to kill me? No thanks.” I pulled on the first clothes I could find and, by the time I got to a dry pair of boots, Malcolm was sitting on the edge of the bed, wearing pants and glaring at me.