Dating the Undead

by Juliet Lyons

  “We’ll wait outside,” Dad says, steering Sheila toward the door as the doctor begins prodding my arm.

  Once they’re gone and he’s finished poking at me, I ask, “Where are my clothes?”

  The doctor opens a cupboard by my bed and brings out a pile of plastic-wrapped, grubby-looking rags. “You might want to ask your family to bring you something from home,” he says, scribbling something onto a chart. He clicks his pen. “All done. I’m happy for you to leave when you’re ready.” He looks up through the little window out into the corridor. “I think you may have a police officer waiting to speak with you.”

  I let out a long, withering sigh. “Okay, send him in on your way out.”

  I stare at the door as the doctor leaves, expecting either the squat frame of Davies or lanky Burke to fill the gap in the frame. I jolt in surprise when a tall, handsome man in a gray suit enters. Instantly, I recognize him. Dark-blond hair swept off his forehead, storm-washed blue eyes, a jaw you could measure right angles by—it’s the vampire from the garden.

  I ball the sheet in my fists. “What happened? Where’s Logan?” If I were fully dressed, I would fling myself across the room at him.

  “Miss Harris.” He nods before giving an almost imperceptible half bow, like some long-forgotten gesture of a bygone era. “I’m not sure you remember me, but I’m Inspector Vincent Ferrer. I was there earlier when you collapsed. Sergeant Davies sent me to talk to you about Logan. May I sit?” He gestures to the chair at the foot of the bed and I nod. “Logan is upstairs in the intensive care unit.” He pulls the chair closer. Beneath the harsh, yellow strip light on the ceiling, I notice violet shadows under his eyes. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a vampire look tired before.

  “What’s wrong with him?” I ask, heart thudding beneath my ribs. “Why was Davies being so cagey?”

  His blue eyes search my face for a moment before he answers. “They are treating him for dehydration.”

  I screw my face up. “Dehydration? With what? Blood?”

  “No, water. I’m not sure what happened yet. You see, I wasn’t there when Anastasia was destroyed. Logan had made me promise to get you to safety.” His eyes seem to glaze over, a trace of sadness softening the brilliant blue of his eyes. “He loves you very much,” he murmurs.

  I think of the hazy memory from earlier. “Did he kiss me in the garden? Was that real?”

  “Yes, that was real.”

  I nod slowly. “Thanks for getting me out of there. I hope I didn’t cut your lip open like I did Darren the porter.”

  He laughs, his whole face brightening. “I rather think Darren took the brunt.”

  “Will you take me upstairs to Logan? I have to see him.”

  His eyes flick to the grubby pile of clothing on the bedside cabinet. “How soon can you be ready?”

  * * *

  Luckily, when we leave the room, Dad and the rest are nowhere to be seen. I trail after Vincent, my stomach in knots as he leads me through a maze of corridors and stairs. Finally, we reach a small, blue-and-white waiting area outside a pair of double doors with a sign reading ICU.

  “I’ll wait here,” Vincent says, hands thrust deep in his pockets.

  I nod, stomach churning, scowling down at the dirty clothes I had to put back on—grass-stained jeans and muddy sneakers, my beloved leather biker jacket with a large gash across the back. I take a deep breath and tear my gaze from the calm blue eyes of Inspector Ferrer, raking hands through my messy hair before opening the double doors.

  On the other side is a long hallway lined with closed doors. I trail up the corridor until it eventually widens out onto a spacious ward. There are rows of neatly made beds and curtained-off cubicles, the scent of disinfectant strong in the air. I’m wondering if I’m in the right place when a familiar Irish voice cuts through the air, reaching my ears like oxygen to a drowning man. My knees wobble, my heart skipping a beat.

  “Are you stalking me, Miss Harris? Can’t a fella even check into a hospital without being badgered by needy women?”

  I turn to a bed tucked away in a corner, and there, sitting up and grinning, shirtless, with his messy, dark hair all over the place, wearing the same cocky expression as ever, is Logan.

  I erupt into a flurry of pent-up tears as I hurl myself across the squeaky floor and onto the bed, his arms closing around me as I drop into the familiar folds of his body, burying my face in the stubbly warmth of his neck and sobbing so hard my head feels like it’s about to crack open under the pressure.

  He tightens his arms around me, fingers tangled in my hair as he rains feverish kisses onto the top of my head. “Silver,” he whispers as the tears run off my face and drip onto the sheets. “I love you, Silver. Don’t cry. It’s more than okay now.”

  When the tears finally stop and my shoulders cease heaving, I lie cocooned by his warm, silky body for a few moments, reveling in the glory that he is unhurt, before propping myself up to look at him. “Your eyes look different.” Though still the same beautiful shade of sea green, they are less intense, the flecks of gold around the iris softened to brown.

  He smiles. “Do they?”

  My eye falls onto the tube running from his arm to an intravenous drip hooked up beside the bed, and I sit up straight, legs tucked beneath me. “What’s going on? What’s that for?”

  He grabs one of my hands and places it, palm down, over his heart.

  I flinch, feeling a pulse beneath the skin—steady, like the beat of a moth’s wings. “What was that? It feels like a heartbeat.”

  Pushing the hair away from my face, he smiles. “It is a heartbeat, Silver. I’m human.”

  I lean back. “That’s not funny, Logan. I—”

  But I don’t get to finish my sentence. He pulls me across the bed toward him, pressing his lips to mine, and I melt into the embrace, forgetting what I was about to say as my mouth opens to the heat of his and we devour each other in a tight tangle of limbs. Pressed up against his muscled chest, I feel the odd sensation of our two heartbeats pulsing as one.

  “What is that?” I gasp, breaking away and placing my palm back over his heart.

  He covers my hand with his, pressing it into his satiny skin, rubbing a callused thumb in circles across my fingertips. “When Anastasia tried to kill me, it backfired. My necklace saved me.”

  I glance at the hollow of his throat, where his gold medallion has always rested. The skin is bare. “Your necklace?”

  “My grandmother put some kind of spell on it all those years ago. She must have listened to Mary Beth’s prediction and realized that one day the same creature who turned me into a vampire would also destroy me. I didn’t even know magic like that was possible—but it worked. When Anastasia struck me with the machete, death bounced back at her. She exploded, and shortly after, my necklace crumbled to dust. All these years, I thought my family didn’t care about me when all along I had been given the greatest gift of all.”

  I shut my eyes, trying to keep my breathing even. I daren’t hope. Not yet. “I get how that might be possible, but human? If this is a joke, Logan, it isn’t funny.”

  “You remember how Ronin said he’d never known an ancient to die?” he continues, toying with a strand of my hair.

  “Yes.” I swallow heavily, my voice little more than a squeak in my throat.

  “Well, it seems that when an ancient dies, all those they turned revert back to their human selves.”

  “But you’re Ronin’s now. Like you said, an ancient’s blood overpowers its vessel.”

  He shakes his head. “She switched me back before she killed me. She said she wanted me to die hers. If she hadn’t, I would still be a vampire. It’s the only good thing she ever did for me.”

  I gaze at him, at the rosy pallor clinging to his pale cheeks, the green eyes twinkling amid their forest of dark lashes, and a lump rises almost painfully in
my throat. “Are you sure?” I mumble, tears streaking my cheeks, because how can it be true? That I get to keep him forever?

  Reaching up, he brushes tears from my face, dimples flashing. “I’m quite sure. The doctors have confirmed it. They’re treating me for cholera, just in case I still have it, as a precaution. I felt a little sick back in the garden, but that could have been the shock of it all. I feel fine now.”

  My tears stop midflow. “Cholera?” I say, gaping. “But that’s bad, right?”

  He laughs. “Silver. I’ll be fine. Even if I did have it, it’s easily treatable these days. I’m afraid you’re stuck with me for the foreseeable future.”

  “This is too much,” I say. “Am I dreaming? It feels like a dream.”

  “No, it’s real,” he says, rubbing the nape of my neck. “We can grow old together if you’ll have me. We’ll be two old duffers, frail and gray, hobbling along together—if you want it, that is?”

  I look into the eyes of the man who I believed would never be able to share a lifetime with me, who I daren’t even imagine as a long-term boyfriend, let alone a husband or a father, and smile. “Yes. I want it. I want it all with you.”

  “Even children?” he asks, green eyes teasing.

  “Yes, even those.” I beam. “Well, you know, one day.”

  We chuckle, and he hooks his arms around my back, drawing me into a deep, passionate kiss.

  “At the very least,” I murmur, running my hands over the smooth ridges of his stomach muscles, “I’m looking forward to making them.”

  “Oh, me too,” he agrees, sliding a warm hand up under my jacket. “I think we should start practicing as soon as possible.”

  “Yes,” I whisper, brushing my lips against his. “Shall I pull the curtain around?”

  We snicker as he takes my hands in his. “Does this mean you’ll hold my hand in the street now?” he asks, cocking a brow.

  “Maybe,” I tease. “But no pet names, agreed?”

  “Marriage, kids, carnal debauchery, but no pet names—that seems completely reasonable.” He cups my face in his hands. “I love you.”

  “I love you too,” I whisper.

  We kiss again, long and lingering, smiling into each other’s mouths.

  “I’ve just realized,” I say when we eventually break apart. “No more biting.”

  “Oh, there will always be biting, Miss Harris,” he says with a wicked grin. “And you needn’t worry—you’ll still be getting the ride of your life out of me.”

  He’s right about that, of course.

  I do get the ride of my life.

  Always.

  Epilogue

  Three years later

  Silver

  “I’m a whale,” I moan, staring into the full-length mirror at the bottom of the bed. “No, scrap that. I’m bigger than a whale. I’m the house the whale family lives in. I’m their country estate.”

  It’s a week until my due date with our first child, and I’m growing increasingly tired of feeling like a walking, talking blob.

  Logan appears in the reflection behind me, circling his arms around my waist and resting his hands on my huge pregnant belly. “You’re a beautiful whale,” he murmurs in my ear. “The sexiest one I’ve ever seen.”

  My jaw drops. “So you agree, then? That I’m fat?”

  His eyes widen as he realizes he’s dug himself into a hole. For the past few weeks, with my hormones wildly out of control, I’ve been trying unsuccessfully to pick a fight.

  He’s been quite clever up until now, stopping my rants midsentence with long, deep kisses, taking advantage of the other side effect of my pregnancy—the quadrupled sex drive. But there’s no getting out of this one.

  “I was playing along with the whole whale metaphor,” he says. “Of course you’re not fat!”

  I shove his arms away. “I can’t go to the party. I’ve got nothing to wear.” Tears replace anger. I slump down on the bed like a simpering brat.

  In an ideal world, I wouldn’t even have to get dressed today, let alone host a family party. But as it transpires, my husband turning two hundred years old is kind of a big deal. Drink will be taken, barbeque food consumed, and worst of all, every single member of my annoying family will be there.

  Logan sinks down beside me, draping an arm around my shoulders. “I thought you were going to wear that new dress you bought.”

  “Oh, you mean the one with more material than a six-man tent?” I snap.

  He attempts to stifle a snicker by pulling me close. “Well, I happen to think pregnancy suits you. There’s nothing sexier than seeing the woman I love carrying my baby.”

  This isn’t the first time he’s pulled this line, and in spite of myself, I smile. Somehow, it always does the trick. “Sexy enough to indulge in a little fun?” I ask, squeezing his denim-clad knee.

  He laughs. “Jeez, you never give up, do you?”

  “Oh, come on. It’s been almost a week,” I whine.

  “It’s been three days,” he exclaims. “You have back pain. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

  “Because I look like a heifer,” I snipe, taking the argument full circle.

  “You’re beautiful. It’s nothing to do with that.”

  I stand up and open the wardrobe. “Fine, I’ll wear my tent to your two-hundredth-birthday barbecue. But I warn you, Logan: I will get you into bed today.”

  He grins, picking out the stretchy, pale-yellow dress and handing it to me. “Oh really?”

  “Yes. Really. You’d better watch out, birthday boy.”

  * * *

  I take my time getting ready, applying extra makeup and curling the ends of my hair in my bid to seduce Logan. After a while, the doorbell starts to ring and I hear voices and chatter drifting up the stairs.

  It’s a sunny July afternoon, a perfect day for a barbecue. When I finally waddle out onto the patio, our guests are already milling around and admiring our new garden. We only moved in a couple of months ago, but I love it here already. With its large rooms and quiet location, it’s the perfect family home. I still pinch myself on a daily basis. Swollen feet and varicose veins aside, I feel like the luckiest girl on earth.

  Dad spots me as I step out onto the patio and rushes over to help me down the steps. I’m well used to being treated like an invalid these days and accept his hand graciously. “Hello, love,” he says, kissing me on the cheek. “Not long now.”

  Recently, that’s all anyone ever seems to say to me.

  I greet the rest of my family with a little wave. Sheila is parked at the buffet table, fussing over one of her famous strawberry pavlovas, and everyone else is standing or sitting, making small talk. Logan has Debra’s son, Luca, my little nephew, held in the crook of his arm, chatting as he pokes at the barbecue with a pair of tongs. My heart melts as I watch them. I just know he’s going to make an excellent father.

  I glance around at the rest of the guests. A few of Logan’s homeopathic doctor colleagues are gathered around the drink table, talking shop, and Jess is all over her latest boyfriend on the sun lounger. Then my eye snags on a tall, good-looking man chatting to my stepbrother, Chris.

  Surely my eyes are deceiving me.

  I cross the garden as quickly as I can to the barbecue. “Logan,” I hiss, jabbing a thumb over my shoulder at the handsome guy. “Is that who I think it is?”

  Logan grins. “Vincent. I invited him.”

  “Vincent, as in the vampire?”

  “The very one. Oh look, he’s coming over to say hi. Be nice.”

  I cut him a look. “I’m always nice.”

  I turn around as Vincent strolls across the grass toward us. I haven’t seen him since the night of the big showdown, when the ancient was destroyed and Logan got his mortality back, and I’d forgotten how dashing he is.

  “I
bet Vincent wouldn’t have an issue with third-trimester sex,” I mutter, watching his approach.

  Logan shakes his head, chuckling as he flips a burger.

  “Silver,” Vincent says, leaning in to give me a kiss on the cheek. “You look—”

  “Fat?” I cut in.

  He laughs, blue eyes crinkling. “I was going to say radiant.”

  “Kind of the same thing at this stage in the game,” I tease.

  “Not at all. You look very happy.”

  “I am,” I concur. “So, what’s new with you? How are Burke and Davies? Still running the operation?”

  He shakes his head. “No, that’s all over. After what happened, we shut the division down. Back to good old-fashioned homicide these days.”

  “Oh,” I say. “Well, at least you’re keeping it simple.”

  He grins. “Exactly.”

  As the three of us stand chatting, I’m struck by just how much has changed the past few years. The idea that what we have now so easily might not have happened terrifies me. Sometimes, I dream I’m back in Chelsea in my old flat, and when I wake up, there’s a few horrifying seconds where I think I’m still there, that Logan and my life since has been nothing more than a perfect dream. But then I feel the warmth of strong arms around me, the steady beat of Logan’s heart against mine, and I know that everything is as it should be. That despite the odds stacked against us, life worked out.

  I take Logan’s hand, giving it a squeeze as he gazes down at me, his green eyes filled with love.

  Vincent glances between us, an odd look of confusion and sadness lurking behind his brilliant-blue eyes. “I think I’m going to see if there’s any more of that excellent pavlova on offer,” he murmurs, leaving us alone.

  Logan doesn’t seem to notice him leave. He reaches up, tucking a stray tendril of hair behind my ear. “Are you hungry?” he asks, placing a palm on my swollen belly.

  I raise a brow. “I wouldn’t mind a sausage.”

  He laughs, wrapping an arm around my waist. “I’ve been thinking,” he says, his tone husky. “It is my birthday, and you do look very sexy in that dress…”