I was okay with my tuxedo jacket going bye-bye. I was okay with Damian’s green coat sliding to the floor, even if it did leave his upper body pale and naked, with the fine muscles gliding under skin the color of fresh, white sheets. Nathaniel was the problem, or rather my confusion about him. I ran my hands up the unbelievable warmth of his skin, but the look in his lavender eyes was too much. I did not love Nathaniel, not the way I needed to, but the look in his eyes left no doubt how he felt about me. This was wrong. I could not take this from him, if he were in love with me, and I was not in love with him. I could not do it.
I pulled my hands away, shaking my head. Damian was molded against my back, but the moment I pulled away from Nathaniel, his eager hands slowed. “Shit,” he whispered, and leaned his face against the top of my head.
Nathaniel’s eyes went from shining with love, to something darker, older. He put his hands on either side of my face, cradling me. “Don’t pull away,” he said.
“I have to.”
“If it’s not sex, it will be blood, Anita, can’t you feel it?” Damian asked.
I could feel something. It was as if this time it was I who put up the shields. But there was still something large and frightening on the other side. Something that I had put in process, but not on purpose, something that was hungry. It didn’t care what it fed on, but it would, eventually, feed on something.
Damian’s hands were still on my shoulders, but he’d leaned his body back enough so we no longer touched anywhere else. “Anita, please . . .”
I turned in Nathaniel’s hands, so that I could glimpse Damian’s face. “It’s wrong, Damian.”
“The sex, or who the sex is with?” he asked.
I took a breath to answer him, but Nathaniel’s hands closed round my face. He turned me back to look at him, and I was suddenly almost painfully aware of the strength in his hands. A strength that could have crushed my face rather than cradled it. He was so submissive that he rarely reminded me of how very strong he was, how dangerous he could have been, if he’d been a different person.
I started to say, Let go of me, Nathaniel, but only got as far as, “Let go,” before he kissed me. The feel of his lips on mine stopped my words, froze my mind. I couldn’t think, couldn’t think about anything but the velvet feel of his mouth on mine. Then something seemed to break inside of him, some barrier, and his tongue thrust into my mouth as deep and far as it could go. The sensation of him thrusting that much of himself that deeply into me tore my shields away, and since no one else was fighting, the ardeur roared back to life. It roared back to life on the edge of Nathaniel’s lips, his hands, his need.
There was a confusion of ripping cloth, buttons snapping and raining down on us. Hands, hands everywhere, and the sound of clothing ripping. My body jerked with the force of my clothes being ripped away, and my hands were ripping at their clothes. It was as if every inch of my skin craved every inch of their skin. I needed to feel their nakedness glide over mine. My skin felt like a starved thing, as if I hadn’t touched anyone in ages.
I knew whose skin hunger I was channeling. It wasn’t just sex that Damian had missed. There are needs of the body that can be mistaken for sex, or lead to sex, but it isn’t sex that they are about.
There was one leg left of my pants, pooled around my ankle. My vest flapped open, and the shirt was in shreds. It was Damian’s hand from behind that grabbed a handful of my panties and pulled, ripping them off my body, leaving me nude from the waist down. I might have turned around to see how much clothing he still had on, but Nathaniel was in front of me. His shorts had been shredded. By me I think. He knelt on the floor in front of me, naked. I almost never let Nathaniel be nude around me. It had been one of the reasons I’d been able to resist taking those last steps with him. Just keep your clothes on and nothing too bad will happen.
Now, he knelt in front of me, and all I could do was gaze up the line of his body. His face with those amazing eyes, that mouth, the line of his neck spilling into the wide, hard flesh of his shoulders, the chest that showed the weight lifting he’d been doing, the curve of his ribs under muscle leading my gaze to the flat plains of his stomach, the slight dimple of flesh that was his belly button, the rich swell of his hips, and finally the ripeness of him. I’d seen him totally nude and excited only once before. I didn’t remember him being this wide, not quite this long, of course he hadn’t been pressed this tight to his own stomach, as if the very ripeness of his flesh was almost too much to contain. He seemed thick and heavy with need, as if the lightest touch might make him spill that ripeness out and over me.
I started to reach for him, but Damian chose that moment to brush the head of his own ripeness against the back of my body. The movement made me writhe, and lower the front of my body, raising myself upward to him like an offering, like something in heat. The thought helped me swim back up into control, at least a little. I’d never even seen Damian nude, and now he was about to plunge that nudeness into my body. It seemed wrong. I should see him first, shouldn’t I? There was no logic to the argument. No logic left to anything, but it made me turn my head, made me look at him.
The blood red of his hair spilled over his shoulders so that it framed the unbelievable whiteness of his body. He was narrower of shoulder, of chest, and his waist seemed to go on forever, smooth and creamy, like something you should lick down, until you found the center of his belly button, and just under that, the length of him. He rode out from his body, so it was harder to judge length. He seemed carved of ivory and pearl, and where the blood ran close to the surface he blushed pink like the shine inside a seashell, delicate and shining. I realized in that moment that he had been paler in life than any vampire I’d ever seen nude, and his body was almost ghostlike in its coloring, as if somehow he wouldn’t be real.
Nathaniel’s face brushed mine, brought my attention back to him. He had knelt down so low that his face, like mine, was almost touching the floor. He pressed his cheek against mine and whispered, “Please, please, please,” over and over, and between each please, he kissed me, a light touch of lips; please, kiss, please, kiss. With his kisses and his voice warm against my face, he brought us both up to our knees again. I’d been so aware of his face, his mouth, his eyes, that I hadn’t thought what kneeling this close would do until his nude body pressed against the front of mine. Until the thick, solid length of him pressed between us, pinned against my stomach by the push of our bodies. He was so warm, so unbelievably warm, so warm, almost hot, and the push of him against my body was so solid, as if he were fighting not to push himself through the front of me. To make a new opening, anything, anything, just to be in the warm depths of my body. It took me a second to understand it was Nathaniel’s need I was feeling. That he did want that badly, but it was my wanting, too. My wanting and denying that want, that helped make this moment what it was. Over all that was Damian at my back, his body one huge piece of need. Nathanial and I were being drowned in Damian’s skin-hunger. So lonely, so terribly lonely. And under that was Damian’s fear. Fear that this would not happen, that he would be exiled back to his coffin, with all this undone. His loneliness was like a theme underneath his lust, and I had a glimpse of a room high in the castle. A room that overlooked the sea. Silver bars upon the windows, heavy with runes, and the sound of the surf always through the windows, so that even if he turned away, he could still hear it. She’d given him one of the best rooms in the castle as his prison, because she had a way of knowing what things meant to you. A way of knowing what would hurt the most. It was her gift.
Someone kissed me, hard and fast, forcing my mouth open, pushing his tongue so far in I almost choked, but it brought me back, brought us all back from that lonely room and the sound of the sea on the rocks below.
Nathanial drew back enough to say in a harsh whisper, “Happy thoughts, Anita, happy thoughts.” Then his mouth was on mine, tongue, lips, even teeth light against my own lips, so that it was more eating than kissing, but it brought a whimper fr
om my throat, a small helpless sound of pleasure.
My hands were on his body, following the flow of his shoulders, his back, and the smooth silken curve of his ass. The back of his body filled my hands, and the front of him was like heat wrapped in flesh, as if we’d burst into flame.
Damian’s hands were on the back of my bra; somehow it had survived that first rush. He snapped it open, and the front of it fell against Nathanial’s chest. Hands spilled over my breasts; one from behind, and one from the man pressed against the front of my body. Damian’s touch was delicate, stroking. Nathanial wrapped his hand around my breast and dug his nails into my flesh. It was Nathaniel’s hand that bowed my back, tore my mouth away from his, and forced a scream from my mouth.
Damian hesitated, pulled back from that scream, though he had to feel that it was pleasure and not pain. He didn’t like to hear women scream. And just like that we were back in his memory. There was a room underneath the castle, torches, darkness, and women, any woman that she thought was prettier than she. No one was allowed hair more yellow than hers, eyes more blue, or breasts larger. These were all sins, and sins were punished. A rush of images; piles of yellow hair, wide blue eyes like cornflowers, and the spear that put them out, a chest as pale and fair as any he’d seen, and the sword . . .
Nathaniel screamed, “Noooo!” He reached past me, and grabbed a handful of red hair. He jerked Damian so hard against me, that just feeling the hard length of him made me writhe between them. “Happy thoughts, Damian, happy thoughts.”
“I don’t have any happy thoughts,” and on the heels of that statement were other dark rooms, and the smell of burning flesh.
I was the one who screamed this time, “God, Damian, no more. Keep your nightmares to yourself.” The memory that had gone with that smell had dampened the ardeur. I could think again, even pressed between both their bodies.
“Tell him to fuck you,” Nathaniel said.
I stared at him. “What?”
“Order him to do it; then he won’t be conflicted.”
It seemed almost ridiculous to be huffy, kneeling pretty much nude between two nude men, but it was still how I felt. “Maybe I’m conflicted.”
“Almost always,” he said, and smiled to soften the words.
Damian’s voice came, low and heavy with something like sorrow. “She doesn’t want to do this. She wants me to help her stop the ardeur, not to feed it. That’s what she really wants, I can feel it, and that’s what I have to do.”
“Anita, please, tell him.”
But Damian was right. He was the only port in a storm of sexual temptation. I valued his ability to make me not feel the ardeur. I valued that more than anything his body could do for me. And because I truly was his master, and that was my true wish, he had to help me do it. The coolness of the grave rose between us, and it wasn’t frightening this time. It was soothing, comforting.
“Anita, no,” Nathaniel said, “no.” He put his face against my shoulder. The movement put his body further away from mine, and that helped me think, too.
I turned to look at Damian, though I didn’t need to see his face to feel the overwhelming sadness. The sense of aching loss that seemed to fill him, like some bitter medicine. But the look on his face drove the sorrow home like a blade thrust through my heart. It hurt to see anyone’s eyes full of such pain.
I turned to face him still held lightly in both their arms. Nathaniel put the top of his head against my naked back, shaking his head. “Anita, can’t you feel how sad he is? Can’t you feel it?”
I looked into Damian’s cat-green eyes and said, “Yes.”
He turned his face away, as if he’d shown me more than he was comfortable with. I touched his chin and brought his face back to me. “You don’t want me,” and there was a world of loss in those words. A loss that tightened my throat, made my chest hurt. I wanted to deny it, but he could feel what I was feeling. He was right, I didn’t want him, not the way I wanted Nathaniel, let alone the way I wanted Jean-Claude or Micah. What do you say when someone can read your emotions, so that you can’t hide behind polite lies? What do you say when the truth is awful, and you can’t lie?
Nothing. No words would heal this. But I’d learned there were other ways to say you’re sorry. Other ways to say, I’d change it, if I could. Of course, even that was a lie. I wouldn’t lose the cool reserve that Damian could give me, not for anything.
I kissed him, and meant for it to be light, gentle, an apology that words could not make, but Damian thought he’d never get this close to me again. I felt a fierceness rise up through him, a desperation, that made him tighten his grip on my arms, made him thrust his tongue into my mouth, and kiss me hard and eager, and angry.
I tasted blood, and assumed he’d nicked me with his fangs. I swallowed the sweetish taste of the blood without thinking. Then I could smell the ocean, smell it like salt on my tongue. We drew back enough to look into each other’s faces, and I saw the trickle of blood trailing over his lower lip. Nathaniel had time to say, “I smell seawater.” Then the power flooded up and up, and smashed us against each other. It ground us against the floor like a wave cracking a boat against the rocks. We screamed, and writhed, and I could not control it. If I’d been a true master, then I could have ridden it, helped us all, but I’d never meant to mark anyone. Never meant to be anyone’s master. We were being swept away and I didn’t know what to do. The inside of my head exploded in white star bursts and gray miasma. Darkness ate at the inside of my head. If I’d been sure we’d wake up again, I’d have welcomed passing out, but I wasn’t sure. I didn’t know. But it didn’t matter; darkness filled up the inside of my head, and we all fell into it. No more screaming, no more pain, no more panic, no more anything.
My last clear thought was the realization that I’d accidentally drunk the blood of a vampire I was tied to by three marks. His blood had been the fourth mark. The one step Jean-Claude, Richard, and I had denied ourselves—now I’d done it by accident, God help us all.
DEAD GIRLS DON’T DANCE
MaryJanice Davidson
For my children, Christina and William, who share me without complaint.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks to Cindy Hwang and Ethan Ellenberg, who help make my dreams come true. Thanks also to all the Betsy fans out there who have written me, wondering what the queen has been up to . . . this one’s for you.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
This novella takes place just after the events of Undead and Unwed (Berkley, March 2004), and just before the events of Undead and Unemployed (Berkely, August 2004).
Also, there’s no such thing as vampires. Or so the United Shoe Cooperative would have you believe.
Death cannot stop true love. It can only delay it for a while.
Westley, The Princess Bride
Nor bird nor beast
Could make me wish for anything this day, Being old, but that the old alone might die, And that would be against God’s Providence. Let the young wish.
W. B. Yeats
Prologue
SHE stood on the shore of Lake Michigan and looked out at the black water. At her back, Chicago rocked and reeled; it was Saturday night, and all the colleges were back in session.
It wasn’t the first shore she’d stood on, nor the first body of water she’d stared at. It certainly wasn’t the first evening she’d spent pacing the beach after a meal, nor the first big city she’d visited. Always a visitor, never a resident.
One thing remained the same, of course: it was dark. Dawn was coming—she could feel the sun, her enemy, slipping up over the horizon. She would have to leave soon.
She hadn’t felt anything but artificial light on her face in a long, long time. And now, of course, if she ever did feel the sun, it would be the last thing she felt.
Like that was a bad thing.
There were nights when it was tempting to stay on the beach, watch the sun come up, die in fire and light and blazing agony, be done, be over, be still.
/> Be dead . . . for real.
At her feet, her supper gasped and thrashed and finally passed out. He was big and dark and strong—had been strong—but she’d had no trouble taking him. His kind went easy. They never thought the rabbit would turn into a fox; certainly not before their very eyes. And even a fox didn’t have teeth as long and as sharp as hers.
She preferred to take men. She especially preferred men who bullied women. Cut him from the herd, take him, and quiet that thirst inside her, that constant, never-ending, hellish, unbeatable thirst.
Still, it was time to go. Her supper would recover and go home and not remember a thing. She would find another meal tomorrow. At least she wasn’t such a mindless, insatiable newborn anymore. At least she could remember something beyond the thirst.
Yes, time to go.
But still she lingered, and wept dry tears, and stared out at the water, and wished she were dead. For real, this time.
Chapter 1
ANDREA sat up and coughed out a lungful of sand. The man crouched beside her scrambled up and away, as if she had—imagine it!—come to life.
“Holy shit!” he cried. “I thought you were a corpse!”
She coughed out more sand, cursing herself. She’d been so moody last night, instead of finding a decent alley to skulk in or a flophouse to cower in, she’d just burrowed into the beach sand like a big old worm, and waited for sunset.
Except this idiot found her before she could rise.
“Did—” Cough, hack. “—you call—” Hack-hack. “—anybody?”
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