Their fight had brought them closer to the living room. The glow of the table lamps cast a wash of light over the attacker’s face, at last giving her a good look at the man. Or, what she could see of him around the muzzle of the mini-cannon in his hand.
Shaggy dark hair, thick and straight and a bit too long. Dark eyes. Swarthy skin. Killer cheekbones. Young, maybe late twenties. Not classically handsome, but there was something heart-stopping in that face. Something wild. And he was big.
She’d seen him before. What was his name? Lorne? No, Lore. He lived somewhere on the sixth floor.
“Great,” Talia ground out through clenched teeth. Everything was catching up to her, emotions fighting their way through shock. She was starting to cry, tears sliding from beneath her lashes and trickling down her temples. Oh, Michelle, what happened? “Just great. I’m about to be blown to smithereens by the boy next door.”
He leaned forward, pressing the muzzle of the gun into her flesh. “Be silent.”
Talia hissed.
The corner of his mouth pulled down. “Did the smell of her get to be too much? You needed a taste?”
“Oh, God, no.” Talia caught her breath, feeling beads of cold, clammy sweat trickle between her breasts. Fear. Guilt. She’d been so afraid of hurting Michelle, been so careful. Accusing her now wasn’t fair. “How can you say that? She’s right there. Right over there.”
“Then tell the truth.”
Talia gulped, tasting death on her tongue. “I didn’t do this.”
“All the vampires say that.”
“Wasn’t this your doing?”
“I don’t hunt humans. I go for bigger game.”
The statement made her shiver. His hand was bloody where she’d cut him, but he didn’t smell like food. Not human, but nothing she recognized. The realization came like an extra jolt of electricity. What the hell is he?
“Then why are you here? Who are you?” She struggled to sit up, awkward because her arms were pinned behind her back. He pressed the Ruger hard against her skin, but she barely noticed.
“Who is your sire?” he demanded.
Talia clamped her mouth shut. His dark, angry gaze locked with hers. It wasn’t the cold stare of so many killers she’d known. His eyes were hot with emotion, a righteous, remorseless fury.
“Who made you?” His voice grated with anger.
Talia blinked hard, her heart giving another jerking thump of fright. “No, please, if you send me back to my sire, I’ll be lucky if he only kills me.”
“That’s what happens when a vampire goes rogue.”
Now she was starting to sob, ugly little gasps that caught in her throat. “You can’t send me back. I didn’t kill her. I loved Michelle.” She was begging, and put every ounce of her soul into it, holding his dark, burning stare.
A crease formed between his eyebrows. “Damn you.”
The wail of a police siren ripped the night. Were they coming for Michelle’s murder, or was there another tragedy tonight?
Lore pressed the muzzle of the gun like a cold kiss against her forehead. “I don’t trust you. I can’t tell if you’re the killer or not. But I believe you’re afraid of your sire.”
Her mouth had gone paper dry. “What are you going to do?”
His mouth thinned as if he didn’t like the question. He looked her up and down, all that anger turning to a smoldering frustration. Talia could almost feel it heating her skin.
“The human police will assume you’re guilty and look no further. I’ll give you a choice. Take your chances with them, or . . . ” He trailed off, clearly mulling over his next words.
“Or?” The single syllable came out in a croak.
“Or you’re my prisoner. Take your pick.”
Chapter 6
Tuesday, December 28, 11:00 p.m.
101.5 FM
“Hello, and welcome back to CSUP in the nighttime hours, with your host Errata Jones. Tonight we’re talking love amongst the monsters—especially between the monsters and everyone else.
“One of the best-known stories of unrequited love was found in that good old classic, Dracula. I have it on good authority what happened was nothing like the book, but then where’s the surprise in that? History is usually written by the winner. If Mina and Drac found true love—well, that’s not the story her wimpy human husband wanted to spread far and wide.
“But the truth isn’t hard to find. Think about it: Who was the crazy one in the story? The wealthy vampire making real estate investments, or the wacky Dutch doctor with his black bag of fetish objects and torture devices?
“In other words, context is everything. Before you judge a villain or a hero and especially your lover, it’s a good idea to understand his or her motives.”
Tuesday, December 28, 11:00 p.m.
Talia’s condo
I can always get away.
Talia’s mind was still reeling with shock, with grief, but her father’s lessons came back to her with the cold, hard pragmatism of long training. Drill long enough, and anything could become reflex. Even the art of escape.
It was a desperate gamble, but she’d take her chances with a lone gunman—even this bruiser—over the human police. Humans weren’t strong, but there were too damned many of them. Besides, so far she’d kept out of their data banks. Once you were in their computers, Unlife got infinitely more complicated.
On the other hand, a single attacker couldn’t watch her every second. Until Lore got her to his den of thieves, or spy central, or resistance cell, or wherever the heck he operated from, she had a window of opportunity to break free.
Or so she hoped. He wasn’t letting her stray an inch, keeping a hard grip on her arm. Talia made the trip down the stairs with the Ruger pressed into her ribs and her hands wrenched behind her back, wrists cuffed. The position made her shoulders ache.
It was awkward going, step-by-step, Lore never letting her get more than half a pace ahead. Their feet shuffled and echoed as they passed from landing to landing, neither speaking a word—Talia because she refused to let her voice show her fear. That just turned some bastards on.
Lore was letting the Ruger do his talking for him. Man, she hated the strong, silent, carry-the-big-gun type. Worse, she was fairly sure he wasn’t short on brains. Silent didn’t mean stupid. In his case, she was willing to bet the opposite.
The fluorescent lights in the stairwell hummed and flickered, the harsh glare showing every gum wrapper, every bit of chipped paint. She was starting to get dizzy from staring down so many identical flights of stairs. By her count they were halfway to the parking garage, where she would no doubt be stuffed into the trunk of a car and driven off to whatever new outrage the universe had planned.
But isn’t that what you deserve? If Michelle hadn’t taken you in, she’d still be alive. Just by being there, didn’t you murder her as surely as if you’d swung that sword yourself? And she wasn’t the first casualty, the first loved one you destroyed.
A stab of despair suddenly robbed her knees of strength. She sagged a moment, stumbling. Lore grabbed her arm and heaved her toward the sixth-floor fire-exit door.
“Where are we going?” She should demand answers, proudly rage against him, but instead her voice sounded breathy and weak. She had to fight, but she was drowning in grief.
He paused a moment to make sure the hallway was empty before marching her from the stairwell into the hall. “I’m locking you up, remember?” he muttered.
For a second, incredulity trumped everything else. “In your condo?”
“What do you want? A crypt? Sorry, not available.”
A sick fear jolted through her. Keeping a prisoner took soundproofing, locks, privacy. It wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment project.
She swallowed hard. “Keeping girls locked up is your special hobby?”
“Shut up.” He shoved her against the wall, the gun between her shoulder blades while he unlocked his door. “Don’t even think about making a noise. Vampires are hard t
o kill, but they still break.”
Her cheek pressed against the wallpaper, Talia gazed longingly down the hallway, willing with all her might for a neighbor to wander into view.
But no one ever rescued her. She just wasn’t that kind of girl. You’re a monster. She could feel a tear leaking down her cheek, but she didn’t dare move. Save me, save me, save me. She could hear Lore breathing, rattling keys in his left hand.
She could hear that his heartbeat was slightly fast, as if taking a captive was the exercise equivalent of a brisk walk. Her window of escape opportunity was closing fast, but there wasn’t a damned thing she could do while the Ruger was still planted firmly against her spine.
She tried to care, but all she could see in her mind’s eye was Michelle’s dead body. Why did I let her try to help me? Why couldn’t I just leave her alone?
“Consider this your formal invite.” He grabbed her above the elbow and pushed her through the door. Talia stumbled. His fingers tightened, keeping her from spilling forward. “Sorry.”
He let her go as she leaned on the corner of the wall, steadying herself. Lore’s apology had been automatic. At some time in the past, manners had been drilled into him. That made her feel just a little bit better. Too bad that innate sense of etiquette didn’t extend to, say, not handcuffing a girl on first acquaintance.
Is it anything more than you deserve?
Now she could hear the police sirens again. Rack lights splashed on the thin drapes, showing the first squad cars had arrived. But who had called? Lore hadn’t had time. Perhaps another neighbor had found Michelle while investigating the sound of their scuffle? Or maybe the killer himself had called, anxious for his fifteen minutes of fame?
Lore had gotten her away from the crime scene just in time. She was safe from the law. But really, how safe was that? Talia looked around, sick with anxiety.
She saw at a glance the layout of Lore’s place was the exact image of Michelle’s. Corner suite, even the same color of paint—except these walls weren’t splattered with gore. Remembering what lay upstairs sent a hot, queasy wave through her. Lore took her arm again, pulling her to the left.
“Hey! Take it easy. You’re leaving a bruise,” she snapped, summoning some attitude, but her words were faint.
“Vampires heal.” But he let go, instead poking the gun in her ribs. “That way.”
Lore propelled Talia into a dark room and flipped on the overhead light. Oh, Lord, it’s his bedroom.
He wasn’t Mr. Tidy. The queen-sized bed was made, its navy comforter dark against a brass bed frame, but clothes, magazines, and other junk littered the floor in the basic single male decorating scheme. Her heel caught on a wadded-up sock.
“Onto the bed,” he ordered.
Onto the bed? Not bloody likely!
Forgetting the gun, Talia twisted away to face him. A furious tingling crept up her limbs, the shock of just too much emotion. She was either going to throw up or slug him the moment her hands were free. “What kind of male fantasy bullshit is this?”
“Fantasy?” His heavy-browed scowl fragmented, drifting into embarrassment.
Something inside her snapped. All of a sudden, Talia’s nerve was back. So what if she was in handcuffs? She’d give him the fight of his life. “You sick bastard.”
“Don’t flatter yourself.” He gave her a shove that made her sit with a bounce on the soft mattress. “I don’t do dead people.”
Her arms pinned behind her, Talia struggled to stay upright. The mattress was one of those poofy pillow-top things. “Then what are we doing here?”
“This is my private territory. No one comes here unless they’re invited.”
Anger stabbed through her. “Your personal den of iniquity, huh?”
“More like the one place I can get some peace and quiet. Or used to be. Now there’s a vampire in my bed.”
“I’m not in it yet, bud.”
His expression dripped irony. “I always forget the chocolates and flowers.” Lore holstered the gun and pulled a handcuff key from his jeans pocket.
“That’s more like it.” Talia turned so he could reach her wrists.
She felt his fingers working with deft efficiency. Her right wrist came free. She flexed her arm, making sure it still bent in all the right places. Then she felt him moving her left arm and heard a metallic snick.
“Hey!” she yelled, squirming around to see what he’d done. He’d fastened the empty half of the cuffs to the heavy brass post framing the headboard. Now she was chained to his bed. Oh, gag me!
He stepped back, his expression hard. “You may as well get comfortable.”
Her stomach plunged. “This is my prison cell?”
“As I said, the crypt was already booked.”
Oh, shit! She gave the cuffs a jerk because, well, it was mandatory in the shackled prisoner handbook. Metal grated on metal, the silver of the cuffs biting into the skin of her left wrist. She took in a breath that rattled with fear, but she forced her voice to steadiness. “You don’t have the fur-lined model, huh? Those would be a bit more comfy.”
His eyes narrowed. “Not my thing. Bondage is a bit too much like my day job.”
The words felt oddly like a joke she wasn’t getting. Maybe it was something cultural. He had an odd, halting way of speaking—no accent, but she was willing to bet that English wasn’t his first language.
Talia clenched her fist to hide the fact her fingers were shaking. “What exactly is your day job? Village executioner?”
“I am the Alpha of the hellhounds.”
Lore folded his arms. Even through the storm of emotion, Talia couldn’t avoid noticing how the gesture showed off his arms and chest. All he needed were buckskin and a rifle and he could have been a brawny version of Daniel Day-Lewis in The Last of the Mohicans.
Then what he said soaked in. “Hellhound?”
“We are half demons.”
“Isn’t that like being a little bit pregnant?”
Lore gave a sudden, evil grin. He leaned against the brass rail of the footboard, looming over Talia. No one got to be Alpha just because he was a nice guy. If Lore really was the top dog, there was a savage streak to match the wild-man looks. “It means that if you do break out of here, there is nowhere you can hide. I can track the ghost of a ghost, and the whole pack will be hunting you right along with me.”
Talia set her jaw, refusing to give in to a sudden wave of terror. “Why?”
Lore’s grin faded as he took a step away from the bed. “I told you. I’m not certain whether you’re innocent or guilty. I’m the acting sheriff in Fairview. Right now you’re my responsibility.”
“So you’re the self-appointed detective on my case, is that it?”
“Be happy that I care whether or not you’re guilty.”
The handcuffs interfered with her sense of gratitude. “I didn’t kill Michelle.” Her voice cracked, and she gulped down a rising tide of grief. She was in danger. She had to keep her head straight. Don’t you deserve to die?
“Were they trying to kill you?”
“Maybe.”
“Who?”
“I honestly don’t know.” She looked away, hiding the tears that spilled out from under her eyelashes. Oh, God, Michelle.
“No possibilities?”
There were, but none that she’d admit to. Talia shrugged as much as the handcuffs would allow. “No names come to mind.”
“That’s the difference between you and me.”
“What?” She tried to glare, but her eyes were too wet to make it convincing.
“Hellhounds can’t lie.”
“Huh?”
“We’re incapable of telling an untruth. You are not.”
“Are you saying I’m a liar?”
Lore looked unimpressed. “You’re on the run. I found you with a bloody corpse. You use a knife with considerable skill. You’re something more than you’re saying.”
He turned and opened a drawer in a tall dresser. From where s
he was chained, Talia couldn’t see what was in the drawer, but heard the scrape of metal on wood. When Lore turned back, he had another set of silver handcuffs in his hand.
Talia scrambled backward, squeezing herself into the corner where the bed met the wall. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Extra insurance.”
She jerked at the chain with frustration. “Damn you, leave me alone!”
“It was your choice, me or the police.”
Lore reached over her, his big body stretching easily over the wide mattress. Talia shrank against the pillows as his face came too close to hers. She could smell that burnt chemical scent on his clothes again. Beneath it was the musky scent of man—except it wasn’t. It was richer. Darker. Hellhound. The hair on her neck ruffled. Must be the demon blood, because Mrs. McCready’s cockapoo never smelled that good.
But there was no way she was letting him chain her other hand. His face drew close to hers, a mixture of caution and determination in his dark eyes. She flexed her fingers, calculating the angle between Lore’s nose and the heel of her hand. With enough force, the right blow could knock him out. The squishy mattress would cost her momentum, but she was willing to give it—him—a shot.
Damn! He anticipated her move, his hand rising to block her, so at the last second she changed angles and went for his holster. Lore solved the problem by dropping on top of her, pinning her under his weight. Suddenly her nose was buried in his hair, her breasts crushed under his broad, strong chest.
“Get off me!” she hissed into his ear. His neck was right there, pulse pounding like forbidden candy. She’d heard some vamps liked demon blood.
Talia felt the strength in his body, the stretch and pull of muscle under cloth. She tensed, wanting the freedom to fight but only meeting a solid wall of hellhound wherever she moved. Lore grabbed her right wrist. Nuts! She cried out, the sound plaintive.
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