by Kit Tunstall
Shaun returned to the bedroom while waiting for the tub to empty so she could wash, going to the closet. Foster’s words about their roommate having left garments stayed with her, and she opened the wardrobe doors, finding a nice selection of clothing.
With a yelp of delight, Shaun removed jogging pants and a sweatshirt from the closet, pleased to find her favorite brand and color hanging in the other woman’s closet. When she opened the purple pants to check the size, the tag brushed against her hand. Frowning with confusion, she read the paper, discovering the pants were brand new and her size. What were the odds?
With a shake of her head, she checked the gray and purple sweatshirt, finding the same scenario. She tossed the outfit on the bed and began sorting through the rest of the garments. A chill settled in her scalp when she found several items all in her size and style preference. Very few items seemed older, and they had been pushed to the back of the closet. When she pulled out a flowing blue dress that was contrary to the comfortable, casual clothes, the label revealed it was two sizes larger than the new clothes. It was also an older style, reminiscent of the 1940s, although she had little knowledge of the fashion of the time period.
Deep in thought, Shaun padded to the dresser, finding packages of new underwear, again in her size. Two sports bras were folded neatly beside them, and she found their presence reassuring, simply because they weren’t for a specific size; just marked Medium. The socks also encompassed a large size discrepancy, lending credence to the information Foster had given about Jacqueline’s clothing being available to her.
Still, the thought circulated in her brain that the clothes in the closet couldn’t have been more what she liked if she had selected them herself. In fact, she owned a good number of the same items, all stacked neatly in her drawers at home. Even stranger, the garments were in the bold colors she would have chosen herself, while the older clothes pushed to the back of the closet were pastels in feminine designs. Jacqueline must have vastly divergent tastes, depending on her mood for the day.
Suspicion remained with Shaun as she took underwear, a bra, and the jogging outfit into the bathroom. Leaving them folded on an empty shelf, she climbed into the bathtub, using the showerhead attachment to wash the evidence of passion from her body as quickly as possible. A sense of urgency had gripped her, and she was chomping at the bit to escape this strange house and the two men sleeping across the hall.
In lieu of a clean towel, and with no idea where to find one, Shaun used the towel from last night, scrubbing firmly in the hopes of removing the phantom imprints of Armand and Foster’s hands from her skin. She had to break free of whatever hold they had over her, and the first step was clearing her mind of the passionate haze still lingering in her brain.
She dressed quickly, finding the combat boots an interesting contrast to the jogging pants. They were her only option, unless Jacqueline just happened to wear her size in shoes as well. Curiosity compelled her to the wardrobe, but no shoes were in sight. She tested the drawer at the bottom, and pulling it out revealed just three pairs of shoes -- sneakers, ballet-style house shoes, and a pair of high heels that looked old, the leather cracking. As she had suspected, the sneakers and ballet shoes were both new and both in her size.
With efficient motions, Shaun slipped on the athletic shoes, double-knotted the ties to keep them from coming loose if she had to run, and left the room. She didn’t bother to take her vest or sword, knowing she didn’t have it in her to hurt Foster or Armand.
Silently, she crept down the stairs, although each step seemed to squeak when she stepped on it. If Foster or Armand had been awake, they would have had no trouble hearing her. Her pounding heart would have betrayed her presence.
When she reached the first floor, Shaun went directly to the front door. To her surprise, it swung open easily. Expecting one of them to come running after her, she stepped into the autumn afternoon, finding it a pleasantly sunny day, although cool.
The grass was still damp, and the earth smelled rich from yesterday’s rainfall. The flowers lining one side of the house seemed to have thrived on the moisture, their opened buds greeting her as she passed them. Shaun walked around the house, away from the cliff because there was no escape route there, short of flinging herself into the Pacific. No thanks.
The side of the house revealed more flowers and plants, including a small vegetable garden lying dormant. One of the necros clearly had a green thumb. Instinct provided an image of Foster, as he seemed the most likely candidate.
Her survey led her through the garden to the back of the house, where she found a winding drive, and even a black SUV parked facing east, as if waiting for her to climb in and drive away.
A shop at the back of the house diverted her attention from the vehicle, and she detoured toward it to peek into a window. Shaun’s breath caught in her throat when she saw the delicate works of art lined on a shelf. Someone had shaped glass into sculptures, figures, glasses, and vases with a delicate, artistic touch. The figures must be worth serious money. Was this how they supported themselves?
Shaun’s brow wrinkled as she tried to decide which one was the artist. Armand didn’t seem to have the sensitive nature usually required of an artist, but Foster lacked the patience to form these exquisite works, or so it seemed to her. It was a puzzle, and she wouldn’t know the answer until she asked them.
Blinking at the thought, she turned from the shed and hurried to the SUV, reminding herself there would be no friendly chats with them in the future. She had to get out of there and contact the Agency. They would be worried about her, and they would be frantic to find two master vampires.
Her stomach rolled with nausea at the idea of betraying Foster and Armand’s location to the NCA. She wasn’t really going to tell her boss where to find the two men who had made love to her so deliciously last night, was she? With a shake of her head, she decided she couldn’t, especially knowing what fate would await them. The Agency would send a large detail to eliminate the threat posed by two such powerful necros. She couldn’t have that on her conscience.
The SUV was locked, as she expected. Shaun looked around, finding a rock nearby. When she lifted it, she estimated it weighed three or four pounds and should be heavy enough to break the passenger window. With the rock in hand, she walked around to the other side, bringing back the stone with every intention of crashing it through the window. Once she was in the SUV, she was confident in her ability to hotwire it.
Something held her back. Her hand trembled in mid-air, until she finally dropped the rock, sagging forward. Shaun’s stomach clenched as a voice whispered in her head, like skittering spiders crawling across her brain, drawing her toward the house. Shudders racked her body when she tried to resist, but her feet disobeyed her mind’s orders and took her back to the residence, one treacherous step at a time.
Reluctantly, she trudged up the porch and reentered the dwelling, finding the icy spiders dissipated with each step she took, until her mind was clear again when she closed the front door behind herself.
Sounds from the kitchen drew her attention, and she walked over to investigate. A laugh escaped her before she could call it back. She paused in the doorway to stare at Foster, clad in a white apron and nothing else. He was whistling a nameless tune as he whisked eggs in a metal bowl. With a jaunty wave of his hand, he beckoned her forward, saying, “How are you with bacon?”
“What?”
“Bacon ... you know, pig carcass? Can you cook it?”
Discombobulated, Shaun shrugged. “It’s not that difficult.”
A wide smile spread across his face, and he nodded toward a package on the wooden counter, near the stove that had to be thirty years old. “Excellent. Armand always complains about the way I do it. Says it’s too crispy.” He made a sound of disgust. “Personally, I think it should be crisp. Who wants it soft and mushy?”
“I ...” Shaun trailed off, her mouth hanging open, at a loss for words.
“Careful the fli
es don’t gather,” he said over his shoulder as he turned to the stove, preparing to drop the egg mixture into an omelet pan. “Your mouth is too tempting to remain empty for long.”
A startled giggle escaped Shaun, and she walked into the kitchen, eyeing the homey charm, which was a contrast to the Mediterranean style of the exterior. The sunny yellow and white décor put her instantly at ease, and the large wooden chairs at the wood block table beckoned her bottom to sink into the thick checked cushions. Idly, she picked up the package of bacon, eyeing Foster from the corner of her eye. “You don’t have to go to all this trouble for me.”
He turned to her with a frown of confusion. “Huh?”
“I don’t usually eat a big breakfast.” A glance at the clock revealed it was nearly one-thirty. “Especially for lunch.”
Foster grinned. “You worked up an appetite last night, chérie, as did we.”
“You eat?”
A hearty chuckle escaped him. “Of course. Think how dull life would be if we subsisted solely on blood.”
“And sex,” she said in a thick voice, wondering why in the world she contributed that to the conversation.
With a wink, he poured the eggs into the skillet. “That depends. If it comes from you, I’d live quite happily ... until I starved to death.” He turned to her, looking confused. “Did you think I was speaking in code when mentioning Armand’s bacon preferences?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. I thought maybe you were talking about before you became a vampire.”
Nodding, he turned his attention back to the eggs. “Could be, except he was a vampire when I met him.”
“He’s your sire?” As she asked, Shaun found herself opening the package and laying the strips of bacon into a skillet Foster had brought out for the task.
“Yes. Armand’s an old man compared to me.” He winked again. “I’m only ninety-five, you know. He’s almost three hundred. Maybe that’s why he hates crispy bacon -- his fangs are too weak to chew it properly.”
She swallowed, thinking how much she was dreading her thirtieth birthday, approaching in less than eighteen months. They were ancient to her. It was difficult to comprehend their ages in any terms she was familiar with. Although they weren’t old in the bedroom, she had to concede. Their stamina definitely matched, and exceeded, the ages they must have been when they were both changed.
Before she could formulate a reply, Armand entered the kitchen. Unlike his immodest companion, he wore jeans sinking sinfully low on his hips, seeming on the verge of dropping to reveal his tempting package. Unlike the rest of the house, the dark shutters here were rolled up, and his bare chest gleamed amber in the light spilling through the curtains, with each crisp, dark hair accentuated.
Inexplicably shy, she dropped her gaze to the bacon as Armand and Foster exchanged morning greetings. Although hypersensitive to his presence, she still jumped with surprise when he touched her shoulder as he leaned over her to look into the skillet, sniffing appreciatively. Without saying a word, he patted her fanny and took a seat at the table.
Shaun shot a look at Foster, finding him engrossed in flipping the omelet. “Do you always cook for his Highness?” she asked in a teasing tone.
“Nope. Armand knows his way around the kitchen better than I do. It was simply my turn.”
As they finished cooking, Shaun grew more nervous about sitting down with them for breakfast. It seemed like too normal an activity, especially after last night’s events. Too cozy and domestic by far. It was strange to be eating with the men who would eventually eat her ... well, drain her blood.
She picked at her food, watching both Armand and Foster eating large quantities, as if they were starving. The omelet was light and fluffy, but she had no appetite. Awed by the amount they devoured, she said, “I had no idea you could consume food. Considering the amount you’re packing away, it’s amazing the world doesn’t know necros consume regular food in addition to their ... liquid diets.”
Foster laughed, but Armand’s expression turned wintry. “The world knows only what your Agency wants it to know about necros.” He emphasized the last word, infusing it with a depth of rage and disgust that was frightening.
“Armand, after everything we’ve gone through to find her, it isn’t worth --”
“No, Foster, it’s time she lost some of her illusions.” Armand practically snarled when he turned back to Shaun. “What do you care about the truth though? All you and your kind care about is exterminating us.”
The verbal attack shocked her into responding with the rhetoric drilled into her over the years. “We exterminate necros because they’re dangerous. You kill humans, and you’d overrun our race if given the chance.”
A hard laugh left Armand, and he pushed away his plate. “You’re a fool, Shaun. Before the world learned of our existence and created the NCA, it was an offense punishable by death for a vampire to kill a human. The way you track us down and kill us has forced us into coveys for protection, and when we have prey, we’re forced to use every last resource. Who knows when we’ll have the opportunity to feed again?”
She shook her head, refusing to believe him. What he said couldn’t be true. The NCA couldn’t have driven vampires to murder. It was impossible. “I can’t believe you’re trying to blame your merciless nature on the Agency. We do what must be done to protect our people. It’s as simple as that.” Even as she issued the words to defend the cause to which she had dedicated her life, Shaun’s stomach clenched as she remembered the inconsistencies between what she had been told of necros and what she had observed in the company of these two.
“And we do what we must to protect our race, but many hundreds are still annihilated each day. Their only crime is being different from you. You give no thought to those you kill, to the families you destroy. At least we kill for a good reason. You kill because they tell you to.” He broke off, his voice softening. “Why bother? You will never understand.” With a sudden motion, he shoved away from the table so hard his chair crashed against the parquet flooring. He ignored it, turning his back as he stormed from the room.
In stunned silence, Shaun looked at Foster, finding him unruffled, although a trace of concern shadowed his gaze. “What was that about?” she asked.
He raised a shoulder. “Armand has reasons to feel the way he does.”
Reasons to verbally attack her after a teasing remark? She shook her head, unable to fathom any rationale for his overreaction. “Like what?”
“Why not ask him?” He stabbed a piece of omelet with his fork, clearly intent on finishing his breakfast. “If he wants you to know, he’ll tell you.”
“It’s not your place?” she asked with a hint of annoyance.
“Nope.” Foster put the fork in his mouth to take the bite before saying, “He’s in his workshop.”
“The studio out back, with all the glass?”
With a nod, he chewed enthusiastically, seeming to have lost interest in further communication. With a small sigh, she pushed away from the table, abandoning her plate, intent on going after Armand.
“You going to eat that?” Foster asked with a full mouth.
“No. Have it.” Shaun left the kitchen, moving through the house in search of a back door, which she found in the laundry room. An ornate paver-brick path led to the workshop, and she could see Armand’s silhouette in the hazy afternoon sunlight spilling through the glass window. The set of his shoulders suggested despair, and her heart stuttered with apprehension as she made her way to the small building. She opened the door without knocking, assuming he wasn’t going to politely invite her in.
He looked up, his expression impassive. Immediately, he straightened his spine, removing any trace of dejection. “I don’t like to be disturbed while I’m working.”
Shaun closed the door with a click, bracing her back against it for support. “You aren’t working right now.”
“I will be.” He looked away from her, his eyes settling on a pair of Kevlar gloves.
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With a slight stutter, she struggled to say something to ease the tension. “I’m sorry.”
Armand swung his head back in her direction, and he took a step toward her. “For what? Participating in the mass murder of my race?”
Her mouth firmed. “How can you expect me to apologize for devoting my life to a cause to save my race?”
He snarled in his anger, his teeth skinning back to reveal his descending fangs. “You aren’t saving your race. You’ve been blinded to the truth, co-opted into destroying us for no good reason, other than fear.”
She shook her head. “That’s crazy. There is proof, data ... you’re a threat.”
“Really?” His voice lowered an octave, and he walked toward her. “How much of a threat am I, Shaun? You aren’t dead, are you?”
Her gaze clashed with his as she tipped back her head to meet his gaze. “Yet. Once I’m out of blood, and you’ve taken every bit of pleasure you can from me, you’ll discard me.”
A long sigh escaped him, and he stopped approaching. “When I realized what you were, I told Foster it was impossible.” Shaking his head, he turned away from her, going to his workbench.
At the mention of Foster’s name, she remembered her purpose for seeking out Armand. It wasn’t to continue their argument, but to ... what? What did she need from him? What did she want to give?
As he sat down on a stool in front of the workbench, picking up a tube used to shape hot glass, his troubled aura twisted her heart. Instinct propelled her forward, and she placed a hand on his shoulder, finding she wanted to give him solace. He didn’t look up, so she bent closer, turning his chin so he faced her. “Foster said you have good reasons for feeling the way you do. I know you’ve seen necros --” At his darkening expression, she hastily amended her words. “Vampires murdered, but I’ve seen humans killed too.” A shudder racked her body when she remembered the gruesome scene from the mansion, with the lake of blood squishing under her feet. “We’re in the middle of a war, Armand.”
