by Beth Dranoff
“Ya think?” I pushed myself up to sitting and the ground swayed beneath me. Waited until the tilt normalized to something on the non-Escher scale of skewed before I allowed Sam to pull me the rest of the way to standing. Whoa. Was it always this hard?
“C’mon,” he said, holding my hand and leading me back to the house. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
* * *
Showering was good. Climbing into Sam’s bed, wearing one of his t-shirts and wrapping myself in the scent of him as I pulled the sheet over my shoulders, was better. Sam was talking, about what I had no idea, and the sound of his voice lulled me to sleep.
* * *
“It’s 3:30,” said Sam, his hand hot against my shoulder. “Are you going to work?”
I groaned. “Five more minutes.” Famous last words. It was never just five minutes for anything involving me and bed. “Really.”
Sam put the chai latte with whipped almond milk foam and cinnamon sprinkles on the table doily beside me. I slitted open my eyes, tracking the smell of bliss. Sam had actually left the house to get me my second-favorite caffeinated beverage, after coffee, and without me even asking?
“Wow,” I said, pushing myself up to sitting and reaching for the cardboard cup with the name Sayme scrawled on the side. “Thanks.”
“No worries.” Sam had a cup of something sweet and hot himself balancing on the arm of the chair he’d settled into. The pile of jeans and shirts didn’t seem to bother him. “You sure you’re up to it?”
“I’d like to pay my rent and eat this month so yeah,” I said. The concept of full-time work with paid benefits and sick-day entitlements seemed very far away. Agency-employed kind of distance. “I’ll be fine.” Was I trying to convince Sam or myself?
“Sore?”
“Yeah,” I grunted. As though every muscle I didn’t realize I had was busy seizing the moment.
“How’s this?” His hands slid under the covers and up along my legs. Better than any deep-heat lotion. Kneading, rolling the muscles beneath his fingers, worrying at a knot until it released before edging higher. Even now my cat reached out to his; a lazy purr trilling in my throat before I could swallow it back. Sam chuckled. “Roll over,” he said. “And take that off.” Nudging the hem of the shirt up, in case I wasn’t sure what “that” referred to.
His thumbs worked their way over my ass, then in towards my tailbone. I wondered whether they would keep going or whether they’d be taking a dip first. Wanting more even as my muscles suggested otherwise. Sam hesitated, fluttering his fingertips against the fleshy rounds of my hips, before continuing his ministrations up and along my spine. Yeah, that worked too.
By the time his fingers had loosened my soreness into a puddle on the bed, I was halfway to snoring again. Instead I forced myself to roll onto my side, surprising Sam, and pulled him towards me with my palm flat against the back of his neck. His lips brushing against mine.
“Feeling better, I see.”
“Mmmm,” I replied. My limbs like Jell-O, and yet...that smile, the one that reminded me what else we could be doing right now.
Sam leaned over and hooked a curl that had fallen onto my cheek to tuck it back behind my ear. And then kept going, pulling goose bumps from my skin, nerves sparking to his touch as he trailed along my curves.
We kissed again, and this time it was filled with the promise of what could be with less clothing and more time. Or at least firmer intent and—oh—OK, the firm part was already there. Well then.
I hooked my leg over his hip and pulled him closer; he didn’t resist. Instead his arm snaked up along my spine to cradle the base of my skull as it rested against the pillow, pulling me in for a kiss that wandered. Higher, to my eyelids fluttering shut; lower to my neck, and then lower still. I gasped. Pulled him back up to me, but not right away. Track pants were a good thing, no buckles or zippers or buttons to block my path, and I slid my hand down around the curve of his ass.
Sam kicked off his pants, then reached up to pull his shirt off. Mine was next. Had I been wearing underwear before? I wasn’t now. His finger confirming that hypothesis.
I arched as his mouth found the breast closest to him, but not before my hand found his hardness and did a little theory testing of my own.
“Now?”
Sam nodded, reaching over to the side table to grab a condom from the pile before opening the wrapper with his teeth. I stroked the thin sheath of rubber along the length of him. And then I was on my back, my hands over my head and my fingers interlaced with his, and he was inside me and there was no more thinking for a while.
Chapter Nine
The banging of hammers and whirring of electric saws weren’t too nails-on-chalkboard annoying. Really.
I kept my self-directed drink order simple—vodka (the human, Polish potato-based kind, not the demon one I’d used earlier to set fire to the frost tribbles) with orange juice. Yeah. It was one of those nights. Apparently Sandor was in a similar need-for-alcohol mood—he’d asked for a Steaming Gorzak Screamer. Blue Curaçao, two squirts of Libertina umbilical juice, a pinch of paprika, cherry schnapps, Tabasco sauce, three cubes of ice along with a handful of undead Zorgot eyeballs served in a bowl-shaped glass goblet. Sandor had assured me that the Zorgots were dead before their eyeballs were harvested. My choice to believe him.
I brought over the two drinks, his steaming as though filled with dry ice. The eyeballs were already starting to mutter amongst themselves; when I put the glasses down on the table, the sound intensified. Couldn’t make out actual words, thankfully, but I found myself starting to feel guilty being the purveyor. Because maybe Sandor wasn’t telling me the truth.
Right. No trust issues between us whatsoever.
“They’re like raw oysters,” Sandor said, taking his first sip as the contents of the glass started screaming. “Or cooking a lobster by dropping it in a pot of boiling water while it’s still alive to feel it.”
“I don’t do seafood.” Those shrieks and moans would haunt my dreams tonight. “Seriously, Sandor, can we not do Steaming Screamers anymore?”
“Fine,” he said, pushing the drink away with two smooth-sanded clawed orange nails. The cries receded to a murmured babble. “What did that giant octopus want?”
“Gus,” I said. “Again.” All three of Sandor’s eyes did a long blink. “Frank—that’s giant octopus guy’s name—said he was going to hire me to find your brother, but then we went and hacked off one of his limbs. So now I owe him, and I’m supposed to help for free.”
“Or else? Where’s the stick?”
“My kneecaps, apparently,” I said. “I help find Gus, or we find out whether regenerative limbs is one of my spiffy new superpowers.”
“Charming.” Sandor, King of the Understatement. “Still no hint about who hired these guys? Why they were hired?” He was right. If we could figure that part out, maybe I could get out of this indentured-servant deal before I had to hand over anybody big, blue and demony.
“Nope,” I replied. “Your brother doesn’t have a lot of good karma going for him though.” I punctuated my words with a gulp of citrus vodka bitterness. “What’re you thinking? Dissatisfied customer? Or did he do a cephalopod hit himself maybe?”
“Hard to say.” Sandor scratched the side of his left nostril, absent in thought. “So many possibilities.” He took a sip from his Steaming Screamer again without thinking. “Sorry,” he muttered, pushing the goblet further from easy reach than it had been before.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Do I want you to hunt down my only brother and turn him over to some group of should-be-water-dwelling creatures because they asked you politely? What do you think?”
“So that’s a no then.” Couldn’t blame a girl for asking. Especially since said only brother had tried to kill me. The part where he la
ter helped out the Pack didn’t change his attempts to end me.
Sandor didn’t bother answering. He’d started toying with his phone, twirling the unit between fingers so large I was surprised he could hold it. It was so disproportionate that I felt like I was watching sushi maki roll acrobatics in motion. Did demons do Freudian? If so, I suspected Sandor’s phone held the information needed to reach Gustav, a.k.a. Demon Blue.
I pretended not to notice what was right beside me by checking my own phone for messages. Because if I officially saw it, I might have to do something with the information.
“I’ll be back.” Sandor’s subject change was abrupt. I had a pretty good idea what he was planning to do. “Keep my drink...” He faltered, as his thoughts of Gus collided with his recent recall of my distaste for the Screaming Steamer. “Keep an eye on my drink, would ya?”
I nodded but wasn’t happy about it. I’d swear those eyeballs were watching me now, dead or undead or whatever state they were actually in. A few more sips of my vodka orange didn’t help. Were those de-socketed orbs following the path of liquid from my glass to my lips?
Enough of this. I just wanted to enjoy my drink in peace, and without being watched by eyeballs that were seriously creeping me out.
I scooped up Sandor’s drink and carried it to the bar counter across the room, sipping at mine on the way.
Turned back as a shadow crossed the entrance.
“We’re not open yet,” I called over to whoever was there. No reply but the trick of light wavered and I wondered whether I’d seen anything at all.
Danyankeleh.
My father’s voice in my ear; my shoulders clenching as I scanned the room for someone who shouldn’t—couldn’t—be there.
Chapter Ten
The shadow solidified as it stepped forward into the light, and my heart dropped to somewhere around my knees. In that moment I forgot how to breathe.
Not my father.
Years. It had been years since I’d seen Owain McCready. Fought beside him. Felt his touch on my skin, lips that brushed softness against the insides of my wrists before trailing higher until his breath blew hot in my ear. Whispering words like love and forever that tangled my heart and made me believe.
I’d thought it was real.
“Dana,” Owain said, settling into the chair across from me. He’d traded in the t-shirt and jeans I was used to for a custom-fitted navy blue suit with deep purple pinstripes, highlighted by the shimmering indigo of his dress shirt. Helped emphasize his eyes, so blue they bordered on purple, above the crease of his tie.
Guess Owain had moved up in the Agency since our split.
“What?” I tried not to snap out my response. He’d broken my heart before he walked away, hardening it to glass and then grinding the fragments under his boot heel.
Irish bastard.
Owain watched me as I glared. I tried not to remember the coolness of my fingers winding through the carrot-red curls of his hair, now cropped short, or the prickly curry-ginger-cardamom scent of his skin behind his ear when I inhaled deeply.
“Seriously, Owain.” I dropped into the chair opposite him. “What do you want?”
He reached into his suit pocket and pulled out a thin, palm-sized electronic tablet. Grey edged, grey screen, powered down. Nothing to highlight my surprise, nothing to reflect back my thoughts. Theoretically.
“The Agency could use your help. Freelance. I’ve been instructed to make you an offer.” Owain slid the device across the table to me.
“I see,” I said without touching it. Four years of freedom, now this. Wasn’t sure which trigger was responsible for the sudden ice pick of pain stabbing at my temples—the message or the messenger. Maybe both.
“It’s all there,” Owain said, pushing the tablet closer to me with the tips of his manicured fingers. He amped up the Irish brogue with a smile designed to charm. “Don’t worry,” he said. “It won’t bite.”
“Right,” I replied, not entirely sure about the tablet’s lack of teeth—figurative or otherwise.
“I’m told it’s keyed to your old coordinates,” he said. “Your service numbers, and whatever your last password was. You’ll be wanting to change that, by the way.”
“Mmm.” Non-committal. Didn’t want to find myself accidentally (at least on my part) bound to the terms of a contract I hadn’t read purely because I touched the case that housed it and accidentally clicked OK.
“I’m still not feeling the trust,” Owain said with an exaggerated sigh. “You pain me.”
“You’ll get over it. So if there’s nothing else—? I’m at work here.” Ignoring the part where we didn’t actually open for another twenty minutes. “I know it’s not important to you, but it means something to me. Food. Rent. You remember what that’s like, right?”
“Come on, Dana,” he said. “You don’t really take this gig seriously, do you?”
I raised an eyebrow.
“I don’t?”
Owain reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card. White, heavy-threaded linen card stock; navy, square lettering in as non-descript a serif font as possible. I half expected it to say “Mr. O” or maybe just “O” like in a Men in Black movie. Except that he still had his fingerprints—I could see the lines smudged on the table’s surface where the pad of his fingertips had overlapped with the edge of the card. Sloppy. Not like him.
“Run them,” he said, picking up the offer tablet and tucking it into the breast pocket of his jacket. “I’m still me. And if you’re about knowing more, I’ll be reachable.”
“That would be a first.” Nope, I wasn’t bitter. Not me.
“See you soon.” Owain stood up, confident that he’d hooked my interest whether I liked the taste of fresh worms or not, and leaned in to give me a kiss on the cheek.
I froze. By the flash of surprise widening Owain’s eyes, he seemed affected too. But the moment passed and then the mask came down, smoothing his features to unreadable once more.
He tried, again, taking it slower this time. Casual.
“Think about the offer, Dana,” he said. “I promise—you won’t be locked into anything just from the reading of it.”
I pulled back and looked into his eyes, trying to gauge for emotion that wasn’t there.
“For real? No back-door clauses or magical spring locks?”
“I can’t promise that.” He smiled, and I found myself remembering his black satin sheets and how I’d never slept on anything like them before. Worried every time I rolled over that I’d slide off the bed in my sleep. “Don’t sign anything without reading it first. You know how that goes. And call me—from a secure line please—if you have any questions at all. Good seeing you again, Dana, my girl.” Owain turned to leave.
“I wish I could say the same.” Not sure if he heard that last part as he passed through the door and into the brutally moist night.
* * *
You’d think, after all these years, my ex wouldn’t affect me. Of course, if that’s what you were thinking, apparently you’d be wrong.
My mind jumped from idea to memory to my latest To Do list and back again; an infinity loop that solved nothing. My phone vibrated its calendar notification, reminding me that the Pack meet was starting in a few hours. The moon had only begun its arc, though; I still had time to go home. Maybe shower.
As if water could cleanse me of what time had not.
* * *
Instead I found myself on Jon’s doorstep. The gallery was open, but it was between showings so patrons were sparse. His eyes flicked over as I entered, and he murmured some kind of pleasantries to the well-groomed couple he was chatting with even as he tracked my path through the room. Hunting me with his gaze. Jon still had a business to run, and he was doing it, but a canary had entered the room and suddenl
y birdseed—whether in a three-piece suit or a sleek red dress paired with precariously high heels—wasn’t enough to satisfy his craving.
I wasn’t much for diets myself.
It was only a handful of minutes before Jon was ushering his potential business out the door with postcard invitations for the next show opening and a wink coupled with a casual hand on the woman’s back. Even with me in the room, watching, Jon could get his flirt on with someone else.
Or maybe that was part of his game.
* * *
“Dana.” Jon’s whisper bounced off the exposed brick walls as his front door clicked shut, the deadbolt turning into place. My vampire lover, my Mr. Right Now who was also Mr. Still Here Even Though. I could have told him about his role in my new debt—my original plan in coming here—or about the return of my ex, or asked questions about his not-so-ex Claude, or about where he’d been before he was here now.
Instead I went to him, dropping my bags and shedding layers of damp until my flesh pressed against his exposed coolness. One of the bonuses of being with a vampire during the summer that nobody tells you. The contrast of his chill against my heat; goose bumps rising to touch ice while still burning.
It wasn’t long before Jon was fully naked, his outline glowing in the reflective light of the half moon pouring in through the curtainless window. I wasn’t, not yet, still wearing my sheer purple boy short-style underwear and matching purple sateen plunge bra with spaghetti straps. What can I say—heat brings out the color drama in me.
I flashed back to Sam’s whispered confession. My chest ached and I inhaled a shaky breath; it would never be just us between Jon and me. Not as long as there was Claude, or someone like him—or Sam. So instead I stood there, silent, and kissed away the words Jon would never think to say.
He broke away first, lips trailing from the side of my mouth, down, along my jaw; down again along the side of my neck to that sensitive spot where my neck sloped down to meet my shoulder. I shivered and traced my hands up along the back of his neck and into his hair.
