Tall, Dark and Paranormal: 10 Thrilling Tales of Sexy Alpha Bad Boys

by Opal Carew

  Chapter Two

  The next morning, I emerged from a normally restorative trance—a semi-conscious state that was my only form of rest—agitated and strung out. My body craved more blood, my mind yearned for Samantha’s joy. Jesus, I was just hungry.

  One thing was for sure: I had to get out of my head.

  All night, the most punishing memories had assaulted me. I thought of Lena, my beautiful wife who crossed an ocean at my request, her body rounding with our second child, only to die at the hands of a monster who forced me to watch. I saw the tumble of my little Isabetta’s dark curls sprawled out over a blood-covered blanket. My conscience also pulled in Catherine, my best friend in this dark existence and also my lover for a time.

  I had loved all of them. Failed them. Lost them.

  I muttered my aggravation in my mother tongue as I stalked into the bathroom. Setting the shower water just shy of scalding, I stepped in.

  My skin was hotter than normal from feeding, so the heat was tolerable. When I fed infrequently, my skin paled and cooled, and hotter water became less comfortable. Minutes later, I twisted the nozzle to off and grabbed a thick towel.

  The steam from the shower distorted my reflection in the mirror—a fitting analogy for what my unnatural existence had done to the man, the husband and father, I’d once been. Cazzo. There was one way to stop all this pathetic self-flagellation. Samantha. Today she becomes mine.

  With renewed purpose, I dressed in my typical worn jeans, long-sleeved shirt, and work boots. I walked to the window and tugged the layers of heavy drapes aside. Cloudy. Good. Detroit’s frequent overcast weather was part of why I lived here. The city’s large criminal population and proximity to my adoptive coven in North Ithaca, whom I avoided because I felt such a burden to them, were other considerations.

  The city was just stirring. As the morning dawned, an occasional car sped down Woodward Avenue on the side of my house. At a human pace, I ghosted through the dark gray of the morning.

  When I reached Samantha’s neighborhood, I surveyed the block to determine where best to intercept her. From Brush Street, I turned right on Frederick. A park sat opposite on my left, empty in the early morning gloom.

  I followed the driveway into her development and then cut along the rear of the row that included Samantha’s unit. The large oak tree that served as my nocturnal post obscured most of her house and provided cover as I came close enough to assess with frustration she wasn’t home.

  I pushed forward with my reconnaissance, circling an abandoned brick house behind Samantha’s and fronting Frederick. Its boarded bay windows created an asymmetrical façade capped by a few randomly situated dormers and a conical tower. The deep-set covered entryway shielded the front door.

  It was another of the city’s endless inventory of late-nineteenth century houses. Unlike many such structures, however, this one looked relatively well maintained from the outside—cut grass, clean yard and, except for the first-floor bays, intact windows.

  I noticed Victorian-era houses like this all the time. Since I’d come to Detroit sixty years before, I’d honed the carpentry skills I’d learned in life to restore dozens of houses. This work was just one way I kept myself busy, distracted.

  These houses fulfilled another purpose as well: I’d promised Lena a home of her own when I’d convinced her to travel to America. To be sure, I hadn’t kept my most important promises to her, but I kept this one. Once, she’d given me everything. The least I could do was build her these small memorials to her life, and her death.

  My previous surveillance of Samantha suggested it would be hours until her shift ended and she returned home. I ducked into the arched entryway of the old house and, intent on a diversion to pass the time, fished my silver cell phone out of my pocket and hit a number on speed dial.

  On the fourth ring, the voice mail of James Bryant at LeClare Bryant LLP picked up.

  “Mr. Bryant, this is Lucien Demarco. Take down the following information and get back to me. I am interested in learning the status of”—I looked more closely at the front of the house—”448 Frederick Street. Find out who owns it and whether it can be purchased. If not, persuade the owner to consider a long-term lease. Make this happen as soon as possible.”

  The phone snapped shut in my palm. As my long-time and well-paid attorney, Bryant routinely performed a variety of seemingly odd requests for me. He was conversant with my interest in the city’s abandoned historic homes and wouldn’t think twice about it.

  I jumped down off the porch and gazed up at the dark red façade, impatient about the house. It would provide the perfect retreat once I captured Samantha. Then I could enjoy her at my leisure. I didn’t want to have to rush. If I was going to do this, I was going to savor it. I tugged my hair back and walked around the corner of the Victorian.

  Just then, a high-pitched laugh captured my attention. The tenor of the laugh, so joy-filled and innocent, called to me. I opened my senses and felt the warmth of sheer glee. It was mesmerizing.

  “Slow down, Ollie!” an old man’s voice shouted from down the street to my left.

  My gaze followed the sounds, and I was startled to see the little girl from the hospital gliding down the sidewalk on a scooter. The man was a fair distance behind the girl. Noticing, she stepped off the scooter, turned it around, and propelled herself back to him.

  “I can go fast, Grampa!” she called.

  “Yes, I see that. But I can’t. I’m barely awake, ya twerp.” He mussed her hair. “Just don’t go too far ahead, ’kay?”

  “Okay.” She turned her scooter around and headed in my direction again. Her eyes connected with mine before she looked back down to coordinate her foot with the pavement.

  I stood and stared, her childish enthusiasm warming my chest, providing such comfort. The part of me that wasn’t entranced by the girl was frustrated by my interest in her. How could any other girl interest me?

  I shook my head and felt awkward, exposed. She’d already seen me. Again. Now she would have to pass me. I wondered if she would speak to me like last time but thought not, hoped not. I felt oddly cemented in place as she neared.

  Stopping about ten feet away from me, she looked back over her shoulder for her grandfather, still a good sixty feet behind her. Then she turned to me and smiled. Her carefree disposition tasted refreshing, rejuvenating. I’d never been stared at so intently.

  Finally, she said, “You’re that…um, from the hospital—”

  The ringing of my cell phone interrupted her curious speech, but I’d become as interested in observing her as she seemed to be with me.

  Her eyes cut from my face to the silver rectangle in my hand and back. “Your phone’s ringing. Aren’t you going to answer?”

  “Yes.” It was the first word I’d uttered to any child since Isabetta.

  The girl’s intense curiosity felt warm and tingly in my gut. But most notable was what I didn’t feel. No fear. Again.

  “I suppose I should,” I added.

  She cocked her head and met my eyes. “Yeah. Somebody wants to talk to you.” Then she shrugged, hopped on her scooter and pushed herself past me. “See ya later.”

  Remarkable! My eyes followed her back until I stepped under the cover of the deep porch once again. I answered my phone, pleased to hear Bryant’s formal voice, and picked the lock to the door before the girl’s grandfather ambled by with a steaming mug in his hand. Because the house wasn’t currently inhabited by humans, there was no barrier to letting myself inside.

  As I looked around, Bryant detailed the information I’d been waiting for: “The house is owned by a development company that held the whole block at one time. They leveled most of it in the late eighties to build townhouses but left two historic homes standing, then still inhabited. Four forty-eight was one of those. I’ve worked with that company’s attorney before and just got off the phone with him. He recalled the property and feels certain his clients would be willing to lease.”

  “G
ood. Insist on my usual terms and offer whatever they require.”

  “Of course, Mr. Demarco.”

  “I’ll wait to hear about the paperwork. We can take care of it by fax.”

  “Certainly. I’ll be in touch.” We both hung up.

  Free of the phone, my mind doubled back to my most recent interaction with the girl. How extraordinary she is! Twice now she’d spoken to me and had neither shown nor felt fear. The conversations themselves were trivial, but it was the very fact of the interaction with her, with a human child…I shook the thoughts away. Fascinating as she was, the girl was not my focus.

  Samantha was my purpose; she was the one who’d drawn me to this place. I pondered whether to prepare the old house for her arrival. It wouldn’t take much to make it presentable, and the work would offer a distraction. I made a mental checklist of projects, materials, maybe even some furnishings. The property owners were apparently eager, as Bryant’s call came within the hour. I signed the contract early that afternoon.

  A thunderstorm darkened the late afternoon, and I ducked into the downpour with hopes of claiming Samantha. When I found her already protected within the confines of her home, I resolved to fix the new house up a bit and collected some supplies from another property. With the image of Samantha standing in the middle of my living room in mind, I labored, painting, sanding, and staining for hours on end. Working with my hands was one of the few productive outlets besides playing my violin that allowed me to pass time and redirect my thoughts away from the past.

  A little before seven the next morning, I stepped outside to meet a delivery truck arriving with additional materials. I was gazing up at a sky promising to be problematically sunny when a horn blared.

  I jumped down off the porch in time to see the blonde girl standing in the middle of the street. The truck wasn’t going to stop in time. The girl froze in the face of her oncoming demise. I spat out a curse and bolted into the street. The truck’s brakes screeched, and its tires squealed as they locked against the pavement.

  I grabbed the girl around the waist and curled my arms, chest, and shoulders around her so when we tumbled to the ground on the far side of the street, my body absorbed all the punishing impact.

  The driver jumped down from the cab, frantic with concern and apologies. His colleague ran around from the other side, pale despite his black skin. I waved my hand. They fell unnaturally silent and still, the darkly appealing smell of their fear dissipating from my charm.

  I unfolded myself from around the girl and sat up. She remained on my lap and blinked up at me, huge tears waiting to spill down her face. Her bottom lip quivered. Her body trembled. I inhaled and was relieved the only blood I smelled was my own. My shoulder and side screamed from the road burn but were already trying to heal.

  “Are you all right? Were you hurt anywhere?” I asked as gently as I could manage.

  In answer, the large tears fell and her lip shook harder, but she still said nothing.

  Her closeness and the smell of her tears set my throat to burning. “I’m going to take you over to sit on my porch right there, okay?”

  She nodded as I cradled her in my arms and rose easily. Her eyes never left mine, and her shock from the near accident began to fade. I still didn’t smell fear, which meant my proximity, incredibly, didn’t faze her.

  As I passed the men, I allowed them to reanimate. “Do you have anything to drink in your truck?” I asked as I remembered something I’d seen Langston do years ago for human witnesses of a shooting.

  “Yeah, man.” One ran to the truck and returned with a warm can of soda.

  I sat the girl down on the front step of the house and opened the can, which I held out to her. “Here. Drink.” Her shaking hand reached out for the soda and told me to moderate my tone.

  I glared at the anxious men, surprisingly furious with them. “Take the materials inside, and place everything on the tarp in the front room.”

  The driver nodded, and they both moved to the rear of the truck, clearly relieved to walk away from me. I sat down on the other end of the stoop from the girl, thankful the large porch cast the steps in shade.

  She continued to stare at me, then her eyes flickered to the can. “My mom doesn’t let me have pop.”

  “Drink, please. It’ll help you feel better.”

  Finally, she put the can to her mouth and tilted it. Her nose twitched as the fizz sprayed, and her hand shook still. While she drank and calmed down, I had my first opportunity to observe her in an unhurried manner. She had long straight strawberry blonde hair and bright aquamarine eyes. She was small and beautiful. Her innate goodness was calming, comforting.

  “Where are your parents?” I asked quietly, the idea of conversing with her like this strangely…nice.

  “Still sleeping.”

  I shifted further away on the step. The purity of her scent—like the smell of hyacinths on a spring breeze—was mouthwatering. I appreciated the intrusion of the delivery men’s more corrupted scents as they passed between us with my supplies.

  “Does anyone know where you are?”

  The abrupt smell of fear surprised me. Given the context, it could only mean she was out without permission.

  I changed tack. “What were you doing?” I pointed to the street.

  “I was going to go over to the playground for a few minutes until Mom woke up.” She became very interested in the soda can’s design.

  “What’s your name?” She looked up at me. Her surprise tingled in my gut. I remembered that guilty-child look. She had expected me to reprimand her.

  “Ollie.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, Ollie. I’m Lucien.”

  “Hi,” she whispered. She stared at me a beat longer. “I’ve never seen gray eyes like yours before.”

  I blanched. No one had ever commented on the color of my eyes, though they were unique. All vampires began their lives with red, blood-filled eyes. But our bodies had means of shielding our identity from humans. It took time to learn, but it was possible to drain the blood from our eyes, leaving them a markedly paler shade of their human color. Brown in life, mine were now a pearly gray.

  Just then, a panicked woman’s voice called in the distance. “Ollie? Ollie, where are you?”

  The color drained from Ollie’s face. She set the can down and rose. She looked me square in the eyes for several seconds in a way that was completely disarming. “I have to go.” Then she turned and ran around the side of my house, her long blonde hair streaming behind her.

  At that moment, the deliverymen stepped up to me with a clipboard. One began going over the invoice, but I cut him off by grabbing the clipboard and signing.

  “We got a first aid kit in the truck if you wanna use it, man,” the driver offered.

  I knew they had seen my blood-soaked and torn shirt as they walked in and out of the house. The rawness burned, but it would heal. I handed the clipboard back and waved him away, needing them out of my presence. Seconds later, the truck rumbled down the street.

  Never had I interacted like that with a child— that is, not in this lifetime, not since Isabetta.

  Two reactions coursed through me: the grief and sadness for Isa I expected. But I also felt something I didn’t expect: I felt…good. Holding and talking to her, even for those few minutes and under such distressing circumstances, felt almost…hopeful, in an unexplainable way.

  And the way she looked at me, really looked at me. That’s why I’d saved her. It made no sense for me to do so, really. As a general rule, I didn’t get involved with humans.

  But if she died, the one human who saw me, who made me feel like I existed in the world, would be gone. My gut tightened. I couldn’t fathom the meaning of my reaction, nor did I fully understand the protective feelings I was developing for the unusual child.

  I just knew, if I could help it, I wouldn’t allow anything or anyone to hurt the beautiful little girl with the seeing eyes.

  Chapter Three

  Appare
ntly, even the damn sun was on the woman’s side. Days and days of brilliant weather had trapped me indoors, kept me from my prize. Daywalking I could do, but not in direct sunlight without some immediate third-degree pain. It hadn’t been my intention to do a full renovation given my purpose, but it provided something to do while forced to cool my heels.

  During the nighttime, I camped out near Samantha’s townhouse, unable to claim her within the confines of her dwelling but relieved to find her continued joy. I’d been right: the anticipation of her blood coursing through my veins was nearly intoxicating.

  I imagined how I would lure her to my new home, what she would look like standing in my living room, how her curves would feel in my arms, and how the column of her slender throat would taste against my lips. I found myself building a wall around my bloodlust for her—one that needed reinforcement daily.

  As the sun set on Friday night, I gathered my tools and moved everything out to the front porch to make room for a select few pieces of furniture arriving the next morning. Once the sun was sufficiently low in the sky, I carried my things out to my black Silverado pickup parked at the curb.

  I was almost done loading everything into the bed when I tasted intense sweetness. My eyes threatened to roll up into my head from the sheer pleasure of it. I knew instantaneously she must be close. I inhaled deeply, catching her scent. Footsteps echoed some distance behind me.

  Samantha and an older man walked up the sidewalk on the other side of the street. I feared under the cover of darkness I wouldn’t be able to restrain myself from taking her and I’d end up attacking him, too, so I flung the last of my gear into the back. Salivating hard, I rushed around to the driver’s side and reached for the door handle.

  Someone ran up behind me. I turned defensively, nearly dropping into a crouch, and was floored to find Ollie darting across the empty street while Samantha gaped.

  “Lucien!” Ollie cried as she flung herself around my legs.

  I froze. My mind was everywhere at once. The girl. Her heat. Her touch. Her scent—the spring hyacinths again. I held my breath, a last-ditch effort at restraint.