by Mara Leigh
Rock pulls his lips away and then presses his forehead against mine. We both pant, trying to regain the ability to breathe without being conjoined at the mouth.
The waitress from last night passes through my peripheral vision, glaring at me like I just drained and discarded someone she loves.
Rock’s grip on me loosens, but he still holds me aloft. “Hey, Chelle. You’re early.”
“No, boss,” she snaps. “I’m not.”
“Lost track of the time, I guess.” He smiles at me softly, then gently sets me down on my feet. As he releases me, his hands sweep over my torso and then he quickly turns to get the bucket and mop.
I sway, feeling like I did at age nine when Jordon, the boy next door, dared me to spin around fifty times with my forehead on his baseball bat. I only made it to twenty-three turns before falling to the side, and we laughed for what seemed like hours.
Laughed until my stepfather came out to see what the noise was. Instantly, it wasn’t funny anymore and Jordan never played with me again.
“Get Selina a whiskey, Chelle,” Rock says. “Or whatever she wants. Selina drinks on the house.” Rock adjusts himself as he walks through the bar, and I grin, knowing I caused his discomfort. My insides pulse, imagining what might have happened if Chelle hadn’t walked in.
He disappears into the back hall and I turn back toward the bar where Chelle’s aggressively tying back her thick, unnaturally black hair, like it attacked her and the elastic is handcuffs.
“What?” she snaps when she catches me looking.
Shaking my head, slightly, I smile. Seems we’ll never be friends but there’s no sense making an enemy of this woman. If she wants Rock a fraction of how badly I want him, I can understand her animosity. “You’ve got beautiful hair.”
Her chin lifts. “Thanks. You, too.” Her purse and coat stashed, she rounds the end of the bar and lifts barstools down from where they sat while Rock mopped the floor.
I step over to the bar and grab one.
She holds up her hand. “I’ve got it.”
“Okay.” I back up. Clearly exchanging hair compliments didn’t do much to thaw hostilities. And Rock still hasn’t returned. Is he doing something to get rid of that erection, like he did last night in the shower?
It’s tempting to follow him, but that would be like lobbing a grenade into this battle with Chelle, and besides, I want to continue with Rock when we have more time—lots and lots more time.
Chelle finishes setting up the stools then goes back behind the bar.
“Same as last night?” she asks.
“Same what?” I step toward her.
“Whiskey?” She holds up a bottle.
“Sure. Thank you.”
She pours a few shots of the rich amber liquid into a short glass and pushes it across the bar. It stops exactly at the edge.
“Good aim.” I raise the glass toward her and smile.
She rolls her eyes, then opens a lid and digs a metal scoop into a bin of ice, mixing and breaking it up.
A red heart peeks out from under the strap of her tank top.
“I like your tattoo.”
“What?” She turns toward me, scowling.
“The heart. Your tattoo.” I touch my shoulder.
“Oh. Yeah. It’s kind of lame. Got it when I was a kid.”
I wrap my fingers around my glass. “I don’t think it’s lame. I always wanted a tattoo. Never had the guts.”
“Bullshit. You’ve got purple hair.”
“That’s less permanent.” Or at least it would have been if I’d remained human. According to Rock, I’ll have lavender hair forever, unable to even dye it to back to its original blond for more than a day at a time.
She ties a black apron around her hips, hiding the front of faded black jeans that are a little too tight.
“If you want one so bad, get a tattoo,” she says. “What’s stopping you?”
“Maybe I will.” Although I know I won’t. Or rather that, if I did, it wouldn’t last more than a few hours. My body would heal and push out the pigments almost as quickly as the tattoo artist could inject them under my skin.
The door to the bar opens, and I spin toward it, bracing to defend myself.
The bartender walks through.
“Hey, Kev,” Chelle says.
“Hey, Chelle. Hey… girl who the boss scooped out of the alley last night.” An older First Nations guy, I’d guess at least forty, Kev has drooping earlobes, no doubt from spacers he wore in his youth, and they’re partially hidden by an old-fashioned hat above a long dark braid that reaches far down his back.
He grins. “Still here I see?”
I grin back at him. “Looks that way.”
“Overstayed her welcome,” Chelle whispers under her breath as she bends below the bar.
If I were human I wouldn’t have heard her snarky remark, so I decide not to take offense at her rudeness. She didn’t mean for me to hear.
“What’s your name?” Kev asks.
“Selina.” Was it stupid to reveal my real name? I hope not. If these two pose any danger, Rock wouldn’t have left me alone with them.
“Pretty name.” Kev unlocks the cash register, then grabs a bag of limes from below the counter and starts to slice them, dropping the cut pieces into a metal container.
“Have you both known Rock a long time?” I ask.
“Pretty long,” Kev says at the same time that Chelle says, “Forever.”
Kev grins. “I’ve worked here seventeen years. Rock’s a good guy. Glad to see him—”
“See me what?” Rock strides into the room, steps up beside me and grins.
Longing tugs inside me. Some deep primal need wants this man in ways I don’t quite understand. I need to have him sexually and emotionally and in every way he’ll let me possess him.
“See you…” Kev raises his eyebrows. “Dating?”
“That’s not what this is,” Rock blurts, his cheeks reddening. “I’m helping Selina out. That’s all.”
His words stab deep inside me, and I turn toward him, but he won’t look at me. Chelle, on the other hand, grins smugly.
I tell myself he didn’t mean it. Dating doesn’t sound like the right word, anyway, and after the kiss we just shared, I refuse to believe that he thinks there’s nothing between us.
“Helping her?” Chelle says with a fair bit of snark. “So, I guess when I walked in you were helping her breathe?”
“Yup.” Rock turns toward me and winks. “That’s exactly what I was doing.”
Chapter 10
Selina
Rock gets up to deal with a liquor vendor, leaving me in the back booth of his bar where I have a good view of the door. Rock and I have been chatting for the past few hours, getting to know each other better, and the more I know him the more I like him. At first glance, he might look like a tough guy—literally a Viking come out of time to rape and pillage…but that couldn’t be further from the reality of Rock.
I sense he has darkness in his past, but instead of turning toward it, he’s chosen to be kind, to care about other people, and now he’s asked his vampire friends to help me, too.
I love the way he asks questions gently, then listens to me with such deep intent. I’ve barely known him twenty-four hours and I’ve already shown him more of myself than I’ve shown anyone.
I’m tempted to head back to the alley where Rock went to meet with the vendor, or maybe they’re already carrying boxes downstairs. I could help.
But before I can move, the door opens, and Rock’s vampire friends are obvious to spot.
The male vampire, Malcolm, is average in height with an olive complexion and curly jet-black hair. His most striking feature is his mouth, his lips red and plump, almost like he’s wearing lipstick although his lips are bare. His mate, Astrid, is nearly as tall, with voluptuous curves and flowing red hair framing a pale complexion.
They’re well dressed but nothing too showy, and although they stand out to me,
they fit right in at Rock’s bar filled with a mixture of artsy types, hipsters and a few full-on alcoholics.
Nothing specific marks Rock’s friends as vampires, but to my eyes, it’s like they glow from the inside. Malcolm and his mate are beautiful to me in a way that I can’t quite describe, but I’ve noticed in all vampires—even Pike.
My hand trembles as I raise my glass of whiskey, hoping to take one last sip, but only a few drops ring the bottom of the glass. I wish I had more, if for no other reason than for something to do with my hands, but no way am I asking Chelle to get me another.
The waitress glares at me with a look she clearly wishes could kill as she heads to another table with a tray full of bottles and glasses. I rise, planning to ask Kev to pour me a drink, but Astrid turns around, spots me and smiles.
She looks even more beautiful when smiling, like rainbows are flowing from her eyes, and I can’t understand why everyone in the bar isn’t staring. She touches Malcolm’s shoulder. He nods, then turns back to Kev as the female walks toward me.
“Hi.” She slides into the booth opposite me. “You must be Selina. I’m Astrid.”
Everything inside me freezes. I know she’s Rock’s friend and I know that Rock wouldn’t do anything to put me in danger, but somehow my brain can’t convince the adrenaline that’s coursing through me. My fight-or-flight instincts are on high.
“Don’t worry, Selina. I’m a friend. Rock’s friend. Your friend soon, too, I hope.” She smiles again and her radiance melts into my apprehension. Is she controlling my mind?
“No, Selina. Vampires can’t do that. Or, rather, if some can it’s extremely rare.”
“But you can read minds! You knew what I was thinking.”
Her laugh has musical tones. “What? No. Ha! You asked if I was controlling your mind.”
“I said that out loud?” I laugh in embarrassment.
“Did you really think I might be able to do that?” She shakes her head. “Rock said you were a baby, but I had no idea how little you know.”
Hurt constricts my chest. “Rock called me a baby?”
“A baby vamp.” She stretches her hand across the table toward me. “Newly turned. In vampire culture, baby isn’t an insult.”
Malcolm approaches and sets three drinks on the table. “Astrid, are you insulting our new friend so soon?” He pushes what looks like a triple whiskey toward me. “Slide down,” he says to his mate and then sits beside her.
“Hi, Selina,” he says. “I’m Malcolm. Rock told us a little about you. I hope we can help.”
“Hi.” I shake his hand as he wraps the other arm around his mate.
She snuggles in tight beside him and sips on her drink, some kind of sophisticated-looking cocktail, which suits her. I can smell orange and something bitter mixed in with the whiskey. Malcolm’s drink is clear and—I inhale—it’s gin with something even more herbal mixed in. I’m still discovering the bounds of my ability to sense things around me.
“Rock says someone’s hunting you?” he says.
Fear shoots through me again, but before I can fully process my emotion, or Malcolm’s question, Rock arrives, sliding into the booth beside me. His weight makes the wood dip and his warmth gives me strength.
“You can trust Malcolm and Astrid.” He drapes his arm around me. “I didn’t tell them much. It’s your story to tell.”
I nod, then take a sip of whiskey for courage. Alcohol doesn’t make me inebriated, but still takes the edge off. The whiskey relaxes me, even if the effect wears off within minutes.
“Have you heard of King Xavier?” I ask.
Astrid’s face blanches and Malcolm frowns. “We know of him,” he says darkly. “He formed some fake royal court, far before the true king died.”
“The true king?” I ask.
“Your Maker taught you nothing?” Malcolm asks with dismay.
I shake my head.
“Well then, we’d better start at the beginning. Tell me everything you remember about your transition.”
I recount the part of the story I told Rock, and when I describe my Maker, Malcolm and Astrid share a quick glance.
“Do you guys know her?” Rock asks them. “Selina’s Maker?”
Astrid shakes her head. “No. But based on your description, she could be a vampire the security team at FJS have questioned before.”
“FJS?”
“It’s where we work,” Malcolm says.
“A vampire syndicate,” Rock adds.
“I keep telling you.” Astrid wags her finger at Rock. “FJS is not a syndicate. We’re not like the syndicates, at all.”
Rock shrugs. “Walks like a duck…”
“We can get into FJS later,” Malcolm says. “Right now, just know that we can help keep you safe. Some vamp has been killing humans all over Toronto. It’s put the police on high alert. They’ve set up traps.”
My eyes open wide. “I nearly got caught in a police trap last night. If Rock hadn’t been there…” I lean against him and he bends to kiss the top of my head.
“We can get you a place to live in a corporate residence,” Malcolm says. “We’ll vouch for you.” He smiles at his spouse.
I shake my head. “No. That is—” I turn to Rock.
“You’re welcome to stay with me as long as you want.” He squeezes my shoulder.
“I want to stay with Rock. For now, at least.” The words fill me with happiness.
“Staying here is safer than a lot of places.” Astrid takes a sip of her drink. “But there are some logistics to work out. Like, when’s the last time you fed?”
“Last night,” I answer.
“But she was starved for over a year before that,” Rock adds. “She was weak when I found her, even though she’d just fed.”
“We’ll take you to FJS,” she says. “You can feed safely there.”
“From blood slaves?” I know how the syndicates feed, how the vampires in Xavier’s court did. I shudder and I’m sure my disdain is clear.
“Slaves?” Astrid looks offended. “All FJS employees—vampire and human—are paid for their services. And yes, some of the humans provide blood for vampires, but they do so willingly and they’re very well compensated.”
I frown. “But the venom keeps them from remembering. That doesn’t sound consensual to me.”
“How is it consensual when you feed on the street?” Malcolm asks.
It seems different, but I can’t explain why. My concept of a blood slave is likely colored by the human media, but I find it extremely distasteful. Immoral.
Astrid holds up her hand. “Fine. You don’t like the idea of using our staff, but you can’t feed off some random human in an alley. It’s dangerous, and you never know what quality you’re going to get.”
I raise my chin. “I did just fine on my own. At least until…” I look down. In spite of my claim, I was a mess on my own. Nearly sunburned or caught by the police so many times. And then I made the mistake of going with Santos. I want to be someone who can take care of herself but have to face facts.
Astrid reaches over the table toward me. “When’s the last time you fed from a vampire?”
I shake my head.
I’ve never fed from a vampire, although I suppose I can’t quite be sure that all the sips of blood I had in the dungeon came from humans. Tasted human to me.
“The club?” Astrid shoots a look toward her mate, and he raises a shoulder in what looks like agreement. She turns back to me. “We’ll take you somewhere you can feed safely.”
“Can you come, too?” I whisper to Rock. The idea of leaving his side seems unthinkable.
He looks across to his friends. “I don’t think so, Acushla.”
“Where we’re taking you,” Astrid says. “It’s vampires only.”
“But…if it’s vampires only, how will I feed?” My nose wrinkles. Blood slaves in a club are no better than blood slaves in an office.
“From a vampire,” she answers like it’s obvious.
“If you were still weak after feeding last night, I suspect that’s what you need.”
“Really? Without being their mate?” Xavier and his guards fed on me, but I assumed that was part of my torture, not for their nourishment. I’ve only seen vampires feeding off each other as part of marriage ceremonies, and as part of the description of sex between mates that Xavier described in lurid detail when he was trying to woo me.
“Are you claiming you’ve never fed from a vampire?” Astrid asks.
I nod. “Never.”
The shock on Astrid’s face is obvious. “Not since your Maker?”
“I didn’t feed from my Maker, either.”
“But you must have,” Astrid says. “Or you wouldn’t have transitioned. It’s not possible.”
“So I’ve heard.” I shrug. “I don’t know what to tell you, but I didn’t feed from the vampire the night I turned. I remember everything about that night so clearly. Too clearly.” I shudder.
“Then you’d better finish telling the story,” Malcolm says.
I draw a deep breath. I’ve been holding in my story for so long it’s formed a hard, painful lump in my chest. Perhaps it is time to share it—especially with vampires who might be able to make sense of what happened.
The other three sit patiently, waiting for me to begin, and I take another long sip of whiskey for courage.
“She punctured my neck, and I felt the powerful suction of her thirst.” The memory shivers through me. “She drained me, completely, then she dropped me to the asphalt. I was barely conscious but knew I was going to die. Maybe I did die.” I shake my head. “I don’t understand what happened, but I remember every moment of it.”
Rock squeezes my shoulders, pulling me against him.
“It was eleven forty one when she left me to die.”
“How are you so sure of the time?” Astrid’s eyes narrow. “You shouldn’t remember any of this.”
“Always the investigator.” Malcolm nudges her.
“I know the time,” I reply, “because I could see the reflection of a clock in a puddle.” I can still see the image, the red and yellow logo for Citywide Donuts, and below that a blue digital display with the time and temperature.
