Biting Me Softly: Biting Love, Book 3

by Mary Hughes

  My job was now officially ended. The only thing left was the paperwork. I checked the time. Eleven a.m. Oh, boy. Seven hours before I could leave. Seven hours to comb online want ads. Monster.com, Geekfinder. I set my PDA’s mood-timer for another five minutes and wallowed in my personal great depression. When it chirped I saw one of the super geeks handwaving holographic data around the room like Tom Cruise in Minority Report. I sighed and set the timer for another half-hour, wasted most of it looking at webcomics. This time when it went off I ignored it.

  Sometime before lunch, the super geeks finished and left.

  I’m not normally melancholic. Yeah, I have an electronics’ closet of issues, but even without the timer, my black clouds don’t last forever. And sure enough as I was popping my afternoon diet Dew a question occurred to me. Steel Software was good. But was it better than a small-town gal SysOp? Especially, was it was a half million dollars better?

  Curiosity drew me out of my dark mood. Hey, would it hurt to look? Yeah, okay. But it was a puzzle—you know, like chocolate ice cream but without the calories.

  The code was compiled and encrypted. I cracked my knuckles. I’d broken into a professor’s program for my college hazing and I still had the routine. I used it to hack open one of the smaller programs.

  Skimming the code, I realized the program controlled the external sensors and alarms. “Nice and tight,” I admitted grudgingly. “Maybe not five hundred thousand dollars worth of tight, but…hey, that’s kind of slick.”

  I found a couple nested if-thens that could run faster as case statements and changed them automatically. I also extracted a block of repeated code into a subroutine and massaged a few other sections. But otherwise I was impressed. Whoever had done this was good.

  Oh, and I sort of put in a tattler subroutine.

  Maybe I shouldn’t have. But the program notified the police if the alarm was tripped. As long as I still had my job I wanted to know too. Dirkson hired me to have someone onsite during daytime hours (he’d actually said daylight, but I’d translated that into eight to six). But what if I went out for lunch, or something? Not that I ever did go out to lunch but I might, right?

  So I added a subroutine to text my cell phone with the message Help. I stuck it into a dark corner of the code and named it temp1, a really lousy programming practice but great pretend-spy stuff.

  I was recompiling the code just for fun when the front door clicked open. I clapped my laptop closed and leaped to my feet. Broad daylight, but the last twenty-four hours had been weird enough for Kiefer Sutherland.

  A man strode in carrying a clipboard and wearing a Hemoglobin Society badge. “Johansson. I’ve got a thousand units from Michigan.”

  Only a delivery. I scanned the boxes in with my portable barcode reader and saw the blood safely refrigerated. As I signed for the shipment, Johansson said, “That bar coding’s cool. Did you get that donated locally, or are all the Hemoglobins getting one?”

  “I bought it. Why?”

  He took the pen and stowed it under the clip before tucking the board away. “You haven’t heard? Units have gone missing. Not from my truck, thank goodness. But from clinics, and even some distribution centers.”

  I tried not to look too interested. “Someone’s stealing blood?”

  “Most folks use the word ‘missing’. A few units here, a few there—except for Valparaiso and Lansing. Valparaiso’s an interesting situation.”

  “Oh?” Cool, nonchalant…and my ears were vibrating.

  “Couple months ago they were taken over by a group of businessmen. Next day most of the employees were fired. They started losing a case of blood a week. The workers that were left—” Johansson shrugged. “They stumble around muttering things that don’t make sense. It’s like they’ve been mesmerized or something. I get in and out as fast as I can. It’s…uncomfortable.”

  Svengali eyes. Rasputin voice. I swallowed hard. “Does this group of businessmen have a name?”

  “Dunno, but they’ve done it before, apparently. They look for smaller private blood centers. The ones in financial trouble, mostly. Vulnerable to takeover. Can I see that barcode thing?”

  I handed him the scanner. What he said scared me. Our Center was small and private. We were vulnerable.

  “Lansing’s even more interesting.” Johansson turned the barcode reader over in his hands. “They had a fancy-schmancy security system put in a week before a whole shipment was stolen. I don’t know about you, but I don’t trust technology. Give me real intelligence, not the artificial stuff.”

  He handed the small gun back to me. “Anyway, I think this is pretty neat. I can understand it, know what I mean? If you come across a spare couple hundred dollars, maybe you could send some to the other centers.”

  With a touch of paranoia, I personally locked the door after Johansson left. When I opened my laptop to enter the shipment’s details, the Steel Software program was still up, and some strange parameters (numbers to normal people) caught my eye. They were limits to tell the alarm program the difference between a burglar and a rabbit.

  Maximum weight was three hundred fifty pounds. Seemed heavy. Top height was eight feet. A clown on stilts?

  Top approach speed was forty miles an hour. Forty. And not like forty on a moped. The alarm was set to go off if someone was going forty m.p.h. on foot.

  Frowning, I paged down.

  Max heart rate was faster than a hummingbird having fits. But my brain did a double-clutch and puke when I saw a special alarm for no heart rate at all.

  These weren’t parameters for people. These were parameters for superhumans.

  Or monsters.

  Unnerved, I closed up the code. Then, for good measure, I deleted the hacked file. It wasn’t my Blood Center anymore. Not my problem. Strictly speaking, the monster parameters were Logan Steel’s headache, not mine.

  Which made me worry all the more.

  At four thirty a loud knock made me jump. “Is Mr. Steel in?” chirped a bright voice.

  Oh, jolly jingling joy. Not a monster, but all that pep was unnatural. I opened the door. “Hello, Zinnia.”

  Today she wore pinstriped hipster trousers and a matching jacket opened to reveal a frilly cotton blouse. Very corporate, except for the stud winking discreetly at her navel. “Is Mr. Steel here? He and I need to go over the interview results.”

  And naturally the first words out of her mouth were about Mr. Corporate Navel-raider. I dropped into my chair. “Logan’s in Chicago. Security upgrade.”

  “Oh. When do you expect him back?”

  “Tonight.” Now I should invite her to come back in a couple hours and shoo her out. But there was a reason they called it “morbid” curiosity. It was making me sick—was Zinnia his SO or not? “So, um, do you have a last name?”

  “Jones.” Before I could even think about spelling relief she added, “I hope to make it Steel, soon.”

  I just bet she did. Not his Mrs. then, or even ex. But To-be. “Logan’s quite a catch.”

  “Isn’t he, though?” She practically vibrated. “Such marvelous training.”

  Logan had trained to be a guru of sex? What, he had a Ph.D. in Positions, his dissertation on the Kama Sutra? And what university would that be from? The Massachusetts Institute of Titology? Nooky Dame? Studford?

  Fortunately Zinnia wasn’t expecting a response from me. “I have no doubts Mr. Steel will be marvelous. The Ancient One is very thorough.”

  “You mean Mr. Elias?” Old yes, but ancient? And how had he trained Logan to be marvelous? Kissing, licking, rubbing…ew. Just the thought of a wrinkled geezer tutoring gorgeous Logan Steel in any of the above was definitely barfy.

  “Mr.…oh, yes. I see.” Zinnia made a big show of looking around, then winked at me. “Yes, Mr. Elias has groomed Mr. Steel very carefully for his important business role.”

  Curiouser and curiouser. That was no more than the truth. Elias was a prime mover and shaker in the international business scene. Logan, besid
es being very successful on his own, was Elias’s right-hand man.

  So why was Zinnia doing the wink-wink nudge-nudge routine?

  She dug into her Godzilla-skin bag. “It isn’t that long until sunset. I might as well wait.” To my consternation she sat down in one of the guest chairs and pulled out her list.

  I pretended to work, but really I was playing solitaire while watching Ms. I-Hope-To-Make-It-Steel-Soon. Industrious Zinnia perused her list, made a little tick mark. Perused, ticked. Perused, ticked. I wondered what the ticks were for.

  I wondered, if my name were on the list, whether I’d get any ticks. Echoes of my gray mood returned. I hit the mood-timer, gave myself two minutes before sucking it up and getting back to work.

  I was going over my patch list when the front door opened and little Lilly trotted in, followed by big brother Bud. “May Lilly use the bathroom, Ms. Schmetterling?”

  “Still broken?” I approved a couple security updates. “Sure.” Several strains of “Itsy Bitsy Spider” later the golden children came out. As Bud headed for the door, Lilly headed for Mom. “I’m bored, Mommy.”

  Without looking up, Zinnia said, “Mommy’s working, honey. Bud will read to you.”

  “We read all my books, Mommy. I want to watch cartoons.”

  “There aren’t any cartoons here, Lilly. Now go with Bud.”

  I perked up. I could help Lilly. But I’d have to admit a deep, dark secret. A big black tick mark in my negative column—if I were ever lucky enough to make it to Zinnia’s list.

  Have I mentioned that I’m idiotically brave when it comes to other people? “I have cartoons.” I opened up my bottom right-hand drawer, where I kept forbidden items like games, magazines and cheesy curls. “Animaniacs was a favorite of mine as a kid. I have the DVDs. We can play them on my laptop.”

  Lilly clapped her little hands in delight. “Oh, thank you, Ms. Sme’lling. Cartoons!” She bounced in glee, so adorable I wanted to shoot myself.

  Zinnia held up a hand. “Now, Lilly, it’s very nice of Ms. Schmetterling, but we don’t want to interrupt her work.”

  “I’ll be leaving for the day soon, anyway.” I opened up Volume Two, picked a disk, and stuck it in.

  “Ms. Schmetterling?” Bud came over. “If you don’t mind, I’ll stay too. To, um, watch Lilly.” His eyes were not on Lilly. They were on the computer screen where the Warner Brothers and the Warner Sister had just appeared. Yakko, Wakko and Dot hovered near the list of selections. Bud grinned suddenly. “Hey—the Halloween show.”

  “You like that one? Me too.” I cued it. Scooting up my chair for Lilly, I pulled the remaining guest seat behind the desk for Bud.

  Both kids’ eyes were immediately glued to the antics of the Warners. It was the episode in Dracula’s castle, “Draculee, Draculaa”. I leaned against the wall behind them to watch.

  The count came on-screen. Pale green face, red eyes, yellow fangs. Very vampy. He poofed into a bat in best vampire fashion.

  Zinnia rustled her paper. She ticked, but her pen was less decisive.

  Wakko Warner joined Dracula in the air. “I’m a bat!” Wakko crowed. Zinnia gave up ticking and joined us.

  “You are not a bat,” Dracula said.

  “Oh, you’re right. But this is.” Pulling out a baseball bat, Wakko clocked Dracula.

  “I’m not well,” the slightly crinkled vampire said.

  Zinnia’s mouth dropped open. Her face suffused with color. “This…this is horrible!”

  I straightened from the wall. “It’s not Sesame Street but it’s clever and funny and—”

  “How can they torture that poor vampire so?”

  My surprise turned to astonishment. “You’re upset because they’re baiting an evil creature of the night?”

  Zinnia drew herself up. “Vampires avoid the sun so the narrow-minded see them as evil. But they are no more evil than you or I, Ms. Schmetterling. Surely you of all people understand that.”

  “I do?”

  “Of course you do. I recognized that right away. You’re a sister in the fight. Freedom from oppression!” She struck a pose, fist to breastbone. “Seven score years ago a great American, in whose symbolic shadow we stand today, signed the Emancipation Proclamation. It was a beacon of hope to millions—”

  “Um, Zinnia? Isn’t that Dr. Martin Luther King’s ‘I Have a Dream’?”

  “I may have heard it before. But it applies to vampires too.”

  “If vampires existed. Nice metaphor, though. Vampires, meaning displaced people.”

  Zinnia gave me a funny look. “What’s a meta for?”

  “Ha-ha,” I said, but she wasn’t joking.

  “Draculee, Draculaa” segued into an episode of Rita and Runt. Zinnia sat back down. “It’s not good to teach the children intolerance. I’m going to start a letter-writing campaign.” She made a note. “Of course, it’ll have to be after this moving thing is settled.”

  “Moving thing?”

  She smiled brilliantly at me. “Our move here, of course.” And she went back to her happy ticking.

  That night I left on time, partly because of the Supermom particle accelerator, partly because I was a little Over the Rainbow and hunting for my creepy umbrella.

  But mostly I left on time because my waxing was scheduled for tonight at six.

  The new AI-run system locked at six and armed automatically with the last person leaving the building. So after telling Bud how to shut down my computer, I headed out. A blast of cold air met me.

  “Hey, dollface.” Cold air—and Race Gillette, hands in his pants pockets.

  “Hi, Race. What are you doing here?”

  “I’m gonna walk you home. Since you been hungry for me, like all the honeys.”

  “I’m not going home.”

  “Sure you are. Where else can you can have a big bite of my delicious hotdog with the works, if you know what I mean.” He pushed his pocketed hands forward, making his pants bulge.

  Oh, sheesh. And I thought the Big Red Button was tasteless. “That’s nice of you, Race, but I have an appointment.” I jerked a thumb at Dolly’s.

  His grin faded, confusion taking its place. “You don’t wanna go home with me?”

  Not even if Norman Bates was stalking me and Race had the last locked bathroom on Earth. But I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, so I pasted on a disappointed look. “Can’t. I already missed one appointment.”

  “But I need to talk to you. Now’s as good a time as any.” He grabbed my upper arm. “So, did you do Steel?”

  “Do him?” Like kissing and rubbing and licking, and climbing Mount Zipper? My cheeks flushed hot. “Not exactly.”

  “What d’ya mean? Did you ax Steel, or didn’t you?”

  “Oh! Ax him. Do him, as in, er, do him.” I thought of the dungeon picture. “Yes.” Unfortunately.

  “How?” Race’s hand tightened. “Come on, tell me everything. We’re co-constipators, you and me.”

  Conspirators, my mind supplied. “Race, I can’t. We’re in public. Anyone might overhear, like—” The street was eerily empty. I improvised. “Electronic surveillance. Or, um, someone with really good hearing.”

  To my surprise, he released me with a nod. “Good point. Steel’s got supernaturally good hearing, another reason he’s gotta be taken out. Bein’ that he’s a vampire.”

  “Uh huh. A vampire. Logan Steel, a bloodsucking monster.” Never mind that I’d thought the same thing myself. How could I doubt it, hearing it from such reliable people as the Energizinnia and Bertie the Brain-dead Baboon?

  “He is.” Race looked offended. “You ever seen him during the day?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yeah, but outside? And has he ever gone kinky on you? Had a real neck fetish?”

  That stopped me.

  Pop! Bad Liese appeared on my shoulder. “Told you so,” she crowed. “Logan Steel is a wicked, mythical being from legends.”

  “Look who’s talking,” I muttered.

&nb
sp; Bad Liese pouted. “I’m just saying.”

  “Dollface? Who you talkin’ to?”

  “Nobody.” I brushed my shoulder. Bad Liese danced around my fingers before giving me a raspberry and popping out of existence. “So you think Logan Steel is a vampire. Literally.”

  “I dunno about throwin’ trash on the streets.”

  Throwing trash…oh. Literally, littering.

  “But he’s a vampire, sure as I am…sure as I am Race Gillette! And you need to be real careful, or he’ll suck you dry. He’s evil incarnal.”

  “Incarnal.” That was one too many. I couldn’t help myself, my day had just gone past surreal to comic. “I do not think that word means what you think it means.” I waited, but he didn’t get the Princess Bride reference. “Race, the man heads a multi-billion dollar company. He wouldn’t jeopardize that by biting random people.”

  “He can make them believe they weren’t bit. Using his Vampire Compulsion.” Race wagged his eyebrows at me like a mad—Rasputin.

  OMG. The Rasputin voice. That hollow ringing tone Logan used in the sewer when he was trying to make me believe I hadn’t seen him. It hadn’t worked because I was a perversely willful creature.

  Logan Steel, one of the undead—although with his sex appeal, he’d be one of the Grateful Undead…yeah. But if Logan was a vampire, what was his true interest in me? Business, sex, or food?

  Pop! “Told you so, told you so!”

  “Shut up.”

  “Told you so, told you—ack.”

  I popped Bad Liese with a two-finger serve that could have pinged a steelie into space. She went flying face-first into a street post. Her arms and legs stuck straight out like one of those Halloween witch decorations. All she needed was a little broomstick up her ass.

  “Look, Race. Whatever Logan Steel is, corporate bloodsucker or just plain bloodsucker, I took care of him, okay? Now I have to go or I’ll be late.” Two steps took me to Dolly Barton’s Curl Up and Dye. The door’s bell tinkled, announcing my arrival.