Vampire Undone

by Shannon Curtis

  “Uh, I don’t mean to be rude, but you don’t really look old enough to be a professor,” he remarked tentatively. He kept his tone light, perhaps there was even a hint of flirtation, but there was also some doubt. She looked like she should be a student, not the lecturer.

  Her lips tightened briefly before curling into a smile. “I’m older than I look,” she said. “Used to be a problem when I was younger and trying to get into bars.”

  Her response was light, but he got the impression his remark hadn’t been received as a flattering compliment on her youthful looks.

  “You wanted to ask me something?” she reminded him as she turned a corner down a tree-lined street.

  “Uh, yeah. I hear you’re an expert on all things mystical and mythological?” He still couldn’t quite believe it. He’d thought, when Dave had mentioned this woman, that she’d be much older. He frowned. Hadn’t Dave said she’d been here for some years? How did that work?

  She nodded. “I’ve spent some time studying the old stories and legends,” she conceded. “What did you want to know?”

  He glanced around the street. He wasn’t exactly eager to discuss his mission in public, but he’d detected a wariness in this woman and sensed this might be the easiest way to get her attention—and her assistance. He didn’t have the time to leave it until some assistant managed to find an empty slot in the professor’s schedule.

  Fortunately the street was mostly clear of people. A woman walked her dog further along the block and a man carried two big bags of trash out to a bin on the curb.

  “I’m wondering if you are aware of any myths or legends that discuss survivors of lycan attacks,” he said casually.

  Her eyebrows rose. “Well, yes. There are any number of ancient legends that include a lycan survival story. Particularly before the time of The Troubles, when humans still viewed werewolves as creative fiction. For a time, there was a belief that if one did manage to survive a werewolf’s bite, one also turned into a werewolf.” She smiled briefly. “We know that’s not true now, though. We know that there has to be a bloodline, for example, for lycanism to develop.”

  “What did people do to survive the lycan’s bite? In those legends, I mean,” Lucien amended casually as she again led him around a corner. This street was quieter. Lights were on in some homes and the streetlamps gave a charming glow to the wide street. Shadows stretched between the lamps and colored leaves littered the sidewalk and gutters. He scuffed at a pile as he walked along, the movement almost instinctive. His lips curled briefly. Nina used to love the leaves. He glanced up and down the street. She’d love this neighborhood. He sighed. God, he hadn’t thought of Nina in years. That familiar ache was still there, though, edged with regret.

  “Oh, they didn’t. Not really,” the professor said. “Usually, the stories showed the victim dying a painful death, often shot with a silver bullet.”

  Lucien blanched. “At least they got that detail right,” he muttered. Silver was toxic to both shifters and vampires, and the humans had used it to good effect during The Troubles.

  She nodded. “It’s surprising that some of the beliefs manifested in these legends were obviously born from some aspect rooted in reality.”

  She halted at the gate of a modest Colonial-style house with white columns on a wide porch. An old-fashioned coach light spread a warm glow in front of the red front door. “Well, this is me. Thank you for walking me home.” She smiled, but the smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. She turned away from him and suddenly he didn’t want her to go, didn’t want their time to come to an end.

  “Let me walk you to your door,” he said, following her through the gate.

  Her eyebrows dipped. “Oh, no, you don’t need—”

  He met her gaze. “Please, let me walk you to your door,” he said smoothly, using a light compulsion. He almost felt guilty, but he quashed the emotion before it caught a foothold. He reminded himself he was there to save his sister, and he didn’t have time for polite pleasantries and stop-start conversations. But, deep down, he couldn’t shake his fascination with this woman. Was it just that she looked so like someone he’d once known? Someone he’d once...felt something for?

  Something flashed in her hazel-gray eyes—irritation?—then it was gone and a polite smile crossed her face.

  “I would love it if you walked me to my door,” she said in a low voice.

  The husky sound curled deep inside him and he tried to think of any excuse to stretch out this meeting, this discussion, just a little longer. He took a deep breath as he walked down the garden path with her. He didn’t need an excuse. His sister was lying in a coffin, slowly being consumed by a poison he desperately needed to find a cure for. This was not a first meeting. This was the meeting until he got what he needed.

  She opened her bag, retrieved her keys, unlocked and opened her front door and then turned to face him. “If that’s all, Mr. Marchetta—”

  “Lucien,” he prompted, and she dipped her head.

  Her glasses had slid down her nose and she now pushed them back into position. He wondered if she realized she used her middle finger to do it—although the gesture looked natural.

  “Lucien,” she repeated. “I really have to go in and mark some papers—” She gestured with her thumb over her shoulder, but his gaze remained on the woman in front of him. She really was quite stunning. There was no reason why perhaps this meeting couldn’t be an enjoyable one, for both of them.

  “I’d love to talk some more,” he said, his throat dry, his voice husky.

  She tilted her head as she looked up at him, her eyes that fascinating blend of warm golds and cool grays. “Perhaps you’d like to call me some time,” she said, her voice matching his in the husky stakes. She pulled a business card out of a pocket of her bag and offered it to him. He grasped the small rectangle of quality print stock and her fingers held it for just a little longer.

  He lifted his gaze to hers. There was curiosity there, for sure, and an awareness of him that matched his unexpected appreciation of her. Something warmer flashed in those eyes, something he knew shone deep within his own. His gaze drifted down over her slender, straight nose to the sweetly curved lips.

  “Perhaps we could continue this discussion inside?” he suggested softly. He placed his hand on the doorjamb and leaned closer. He could hear her soft intake of breath, the spark of surprise, the flare of heat that shifted her eye color to more golden than gray. Her lips parted.

  He could feel the muscles in his groin stir, tighten, as her scent drifted to him, something soft and sweet, and yet...familiar. He leaned closer still, saw the pulse flutter at the base of her throat.

  “I’m not in the habit of letting men I’ve just met inside my home,” she replied, her gaze dipping to stare at his mouth.

  His lips curled slowly and her teeth bit gently down on her bottom lip.

  God, he wanted to kiss her. He was surprised by the flash of need that tore through him. She leaned against the doorjamb, shifting slightly so that she was half inside the house, half out. He heard a soft thud. She’d dropped her bag on the hall floor behind her.

  “Invite me in,” he suggested, his gaze flicking between her mouth and her eyes, and then he got distracted as her hand rose to the scarf around her neck.

  “I can’t,” she whispered. She pulled the scarf away from her neck and he watched the fabric slowly drift over her skin. How the hell could removing a scarf look so damn sexy?

  He caught a glimpse of silver around her neck. It was tied in what looked like an intricate lariat knot. He couldn’t help but notice it would form a protective, painful barrier between her neck and a vampire’s teeth—if one was so inclined...

  The delicate chain dipped below her blouse and all he could think was how damn lucky it was. And sexy. Yep. Sexy.

  “Invite me in,” he whisper
ed back. He grinned as she stepped inside the house, her palm sliding up the doorjamb so that she mimicked his stance. Her seductive smile was enough to melt any common sense he may have claimed as his own.

  “I don’t think so,” she said as she parted the lapels of her coat. She wore a collared blouse that looked all-business but hinted at a body built for play, cutting in to reveal a slim waist. She shook her head, her blond hair sliding back over her shoulders as she gazed up at him with a flirty challenge in her eyes and a soft flush on her cheeks. She was magnificent.

  “Invite me in,” he coaxed, meeting her gaze and infusing his words with just the slightest hint of compulsion. He wanted in. In this house, in her arms. Inside her.

  She arched her back, just a little, and his gaze dropped to her chest. That darned shirt draped over her breasts, hiding her curves. She leaned forward, just until she was in line with the door. She smiled sweetly, seductively, up at him, like an enchanting siren.

  “No,” she said slowly, drawing the word out in such a manner that he was briefly distracted by the O shape of her lips before he realized what she was saying. Her smile tightened and the warmth of her gaze took on a chill.

  He blinked. “No?” What? But he’d—

  “You should be ashamed of yourself,” she told him, tsking as a frown marred her brow. “Fancy using compulsion to get into a woman’s home—a woman you’ve only just met, too!”

  He gaped at her. He’d used compulsion, true—but how the hell did she know? How the hell could she resist? She wasn’t a vampire; he could still sense warmth and life within her. “What are you?” he asked in a low voice.

  Her smile was brittle. “I’m the woman not inviting you in,” she said sweetly as she reached for the door.

  He held up a hand and encountered the impenetrable barrier to a home into which he wasn’t invited. “Wait—I really do need to talk to you,” he said as the door started to swing closed.

  “Well, I really don’t want to talk to you,” she responded tartly. She shook her head, her disappointment stamped on her features. “Really, Lucien. When a woman says no, accept it.”

  The red door snapped closed in his face and the light on the porch winked out. He gaped at the door.

  What the hell had just happened?

  Chapter 2

  Natalie groaned as she hid her head under her pillow. She wished she had a gun. If she couldn’t shoot Lucien, she’d shoot herself to put her out of this misery. Maybe she should just use her chain? Lash him with silver. She needed to do something. He was outside her bedroom window, singing.

  Badly. Which surprised her, because he had such a deep, sexy voice when he spoke... What happened in his larynx that he could sound like a brawling tomcat when he sang?

  “Four hundred and sixteen bottles of beer on the wall...”

  He’d started at one thousand bottles of beer on the wall.

  She sat up in her bed and glared at the curtains shielding her window. She’d take one of those darn bottles and—Her hands fisted. She couldn’t stand it. All evening, he’d tapped at the windows, the doors. He’d cajoled, he’d teased. Now he was trying torture.

  She rolled out of bed, stomped over to the window and whipped aside the curtain. He sat in the crook of the maple tree outside her window, looking way too comfortable for her liking. He stopped singing when she slid up the sash.

  Lucien grinned. “Well, hello, minx.”

  The nickname stopped her cold. He used to call her that, all those years ago. It had been used in exasperation, affection, but never in that slightly flirty tone.

  “Don’t call me that,” she snapped.

  “What should I call you? Nina?”

  She lifted her chin. Okay, so he knew. Didn’t matter. It didn’t change anything. “Don’t call me that, either.”

  “Why not? It’s your name.”

  “No. Nina died a long time ago. My name is Natalie.”

  He shrugged. “If that’s what you’d prefer to call yourself—”

  “It is. Now, please go away.” How she didn’t have the neighbors lining up to complain was a mystery. He must have compelled them, damn it.

  He folded his arms, eyeing her figure.

  She was wearing pajamas from her neck to her ankle. She hadn’t felt comfortable wearing anything less, not with a vampire stalking her home.

  “I need to talk with you.”

  “I’m not interested.”

  “I’m not leaving until you hear me out.”

  She glanced at her watch. “That’s fine. Sunrise is in three hours. Nothing like smoked vampire with a side of bacon to go with my morning coffee.” She raised her arms to close the window.

  “Four hundred and fifteen bottles of beer on the wall,” he began to warble.

  She took a deep breath. She was tired, she was cranky, and if this meant she’d snatch some much needed sleep, she’d let him say his piece and get it over with. “Fine, talk. You have five minutes—and then I’m going to sleep and you can sizzle, for all I care.”

  His eyebrows drew together and the downward turn of his mouth reminded her of Terry in one of his snits. “What happened to you? You used to be so nice...”

  She snorted as she folded her arms and leaned her hip against the windowsill. “That was a lifetime ago, Lucien.” Literally. She glanced pointedly at her watch. “Four minutes.”

  “I need your help.”

  She stared at him for a moment but his expression was enigmatic as he stared back at her. He, Lucien Marchetta, scion of the Marchetta vampire colony, needed her help. She burst out laughing.

  He arched an eyebrow and her laughter trailed off. She blinked. “Good grief, you’re serious.”

  His mouth quirked. “As a heart attack.”

  “How could I possibly assist the great Lucien Marchetta?” she asked, curious despite herself. The man moved in circles far removed from her own and, up until a few hours ago, he’d been completely unaware of her existence. From what she’d heard—and there were plenty of stories circulating about the man—he’d been living mainly on the west coast, establishing the family business...which was code for spreading the Marchetta influence to straddle the whole country.

  And she...well, she was a professor of mythology and folklore studies, which was code for using teaching students as an opportunity to indulge her keen interest in stories set in bygone eras—and to find answers for her own problems. She couldn’t help him with the Marchetta empire—the idea was so ludicrous, she almost giggled. Almost. She hadn’t giggled in years.

  “I was told you’re the best in the field when it comes to everything arcane and mystical,” he said quietly.

  She arched her eyebrow. “Don’t think you can flatter me,” she said brusquely, ignoring the warm pride that bloomed in her chest that suggested he could, indeed, flatter her.

  “I need to find something.”

  She kept her expression impassive but her mind started to race. What was he looking for? Something arcane and mystical, apparently. Something that drew him to a quiet little professor in a quiet little town. What mystical thing could a vampire want or need? A resistance to silver? No, there were any number of witches who could do some sort of protective spell for that.

  An object that protected the wearer from sunlight? She knew of some stories that hinted at the existence of such artifacts. A book? Something that could reveal the clues to a lost pre-Troubles treasure? There were so many possibilities and her imagination was going wild.

  “What?” She kept her tone cool, casual. She wasn’t interested. Not really. Nope, not—

  “Anything that would neutralize a toxin in a vampire’s system.”

  Interested. She tilted her head and tried to look nonchalant. “What kind of toxin?”

  “The lycanthrope kind.”<
br />
  She frowned as she digested the remark. Did he just say—? “A werewolf bite?”

  He nodded. She lowered her arms as she straightened.

  “A werewolf bite,” she repeated slowly to make sure he wasn’t misunderstanding her and she wasn’t misunderstanding him.

  He said nothing, just met her gaze grimly.

  “A werewolf bite,” she said, this time rolling her finger in a circle. “You want to find a vampiric cure for a werewolf bite? You are hearing me, right? A werewolf bite?”

  His lips tightened. “Yes, I hear you. And, yes, you’ve got it right. I want to find something that will cure a vampire of a werewolf bite.”

  Oh, dear. Time had not been kind to Lucien. It was the only explanation she could think of, for him to have such a mental lapse. Strange, she hadn’t heard of a human condition like dementia striking a vampire before. Still, there was always a first time for everything...

  Her arms rose to grasp the window, but he moved swiftly, his body a blur as he shifted to the end of the branch. “I’m serious, Nin—Natalie.”

  She shook her head. “No, you’re bat-crap crazy, Lucien. Goodbye.” She began to draw the window down to close, but he slammed his hand on the pane of glass, effectively halting her movement. She flinched at the anger in his blue eyes, the set of his jaw.

  “Vivianne’s been bitten and I don’t have much time to find a cure. You’re my last resort, Natalie. Help me.”

  His sister. She remembered how close they’d been, how he’d often spoken of her as his partner in all sorts of childish pranks, and how they’d supported each other when it came to his controlling, Reform-senator father. Family. It had always been so important to Lucien.

  Yeah, well, family had been important to her, too, once upon a time. Anger warred with sympathy. Anger won. Her eyes narrowed at his words. “Me? Help you? Where were you when I needed you, Lucien?” she snapped. “You don’t get it, do you? You broke your promise to me and as a result I lost everything. Help you? I hate you.”

  She slammed the window closed, pulled the curtains across with a snap of fabric and stomped over to her en suite bathroom. She pulled cotton balls from the jar on her bathroom sink, stuffed them in her ears and stomped back to her bed.