By the time she’d walked from the train station to Gabriel’s apartment building, she was almost vibrating with excitement. Even the realization that Gabriel had been housed in a dump above a fish and chip shop didn’t dampen her enthusiasm. Twenty years ago Dava’s life had been perfect, and she wanted that life back.
Gabriel was wonderful. A strong leader with a clear vision for the world vampires should have—the world they deserved. He was a mesmerizing speaker, able to convince every vampire in a vast crowd that he talked just to them. Gabriel inspired avid loyalty and generously rewarded those who worked for him, but wasn’t afraid to deal harshly with those who disappointed. Dava had never breathed a word about the fifty who went missing just before the authorities arrived. Sometimes sacrifices had to be made.
Oh, and Gabriel fucked like an angel. Not that Dava had ever fucked an angel, but she could imagine.
She wasn’t stupid. Trotting up to Gabriel’s door and ringing the bell wasn’t sensible. Apart from the fact he might rip her head off, she had no idea of the level of VRB surveillance. He had to warrant more than her one visit a week, but even if that was all he got, she didn’t know when that visit was due to take place.
What Dava really wanted was to knock on Gabriel’s door and for his eyes to light up when he saw her. Maybe that would happen just before he ripped her head off. She winced. The other slight problem with surprising him was that when Dava had unearthed his address—30 Landseer Gardens—she hadn’t realized that referred to the whole building. She had no idea which flat was Gabriel’s.
She stared at the bank of numbers and buzzers. Work through systematically? But that would draw unwanted attention. Get inside and knock on doors? Face-to-face, she could use her thrall to ensure the occupant didn’t remember her visit. She waited for someone to emerge.
Dava ignored the pair who came out of the building together. No point making life difficult for herself. One elderly woman walking a dog was the perfect target, and Dava had a change of plan. She followed her to a local shop and watched as she tied the pooch outside. By the time she emerged with a carton of milk, Dava crouched in tears next to the slavering beast, trying to bring herself to pet it.
“Are you all right?” the woman asked.
I’m crying, you moron. “I’ve lost my dog. I thought yours… Mine slipped his lead and ran after a cat.”
“Oh dear. How long ago?”
“Only a few minutes. He must be around here somewhere.”
“Where’s your lead? If I rattle Winnie’s, he’s there like a shot.”
Shit. “My husband took it. He’s checking a few streets away.”
“What’s the dog called?” the woman asked.
“Er… Fluffy.” Dava summoned up a fresh flood of tears.
“I’ll help you look. What sort of dog is it?”
Bloody hell. “A fluffy one.”
Well, that obviously wasn’t the right thing to say, but it got them both down a quiet alley and gave Dava the opportunity to use her persuasive talents to ensure the keys to the building were handed over without argument. Dava even had an uncharacteristic moment of kindness in that she didn’t keep sucking after she’d had enough. Or might it have been that she was full of Pete? She propped the woman behind a large trash container and the dog sat next to his owner, wagging his stubby tail.
Dava almost danced back to the building. The stupid woman had been carrying two hundred and fifty pounds in cash in her purse. Enough for designer shoes. It was only when she reached the door that Dava saw the flaw in her plan. She still needed someone to invite her inside. Damn. She kept walking until she found a place to stand unseen—the doorway of a baker’s. She’d have to wait until someone else entered and then join them.
She didn’t have to wait long. The moment Dava was sure of the man’s destination, she rushed after him, keys in hand.
“Thanks so much,” she said, and insinuated herself between him and the door.
He pushed it open. “After you.”
When his eyes opened wide, Dava realized she’d made a mistake. Vampire.
Chapter Eight
Turner put the cube on the countertop and smiled. It had been a long while since he’d seen the sun. Fortunately.
“Wow, you smiled,” she said.
“Sorry, I won’t let it happen again.”
“Good, it scared me.”
He laughed.
“I’m glad you like it.” Matty moved the cake to sit next to his gift.
It hadn’t escaped his attention that she hadn’t eaten a mouthful. She puzzled him. Why did she keep trying? Why be kind to him when he didn’t deserve it? Just because she wanted to stay? Weren’t there other, more suitable attics? She must have friends, relatives. She couldn’t be alone in the world. Not someone as—
“Would you like a birthday kiss?” Matty whispered.
His desire erupted like a volcano, pleasant fizz switching to effervescent froth in the twinkle of her eye. Forget that it wasn’t really his birthday, Turner dragged her into his embrace, wrapped his arms around her and plastered his mouth against hers. Matty moaned and he seized the chance to slide his tongue deeper. One taste of her obliterated the memory of the revolting cake. Her sweet scent filled his head. He’d been vile to her, he’d not treated her with any respect—why did she still want him?
She likes me, scowl and all.
Get real.
She wants to continue to live here, bozo.
Turner was too consumed with lust to care. He wanted to ask Matty about herself, if that was her real name, if she was hiding from someone, but not now. After he’d made her come. After he’d come. After they’d come together.
He sat on a kitchen chair and lifted her onto his lap so her legs straddled his, and then he slipped his hands under her skirt and cupped her backside to drag her closer. Oh fuck. Good news and bad news.
The good news was no underwear.
The bad news was no underwear.
Turner tried not to think about it and failed. Why wasn’t she wearing panties? Did she worry he’d rip another pair?
“The other half of your birthday present,” she whispered.
Her hands tugged at his hair as she writhed against him.
“Please, please, please.” She kept repeating the word over and over, and it finally sank into Turner’s thick skull that she wanted this as much as him.
The table was empty and waiting.
Turner stood, laid her on her back and her ugly shoes fell off. He pushed her skirt to her waist, spread her legs and groaned at the sight of glistening pink folds opening to him like the petals of some exotic flower. One lick and his head swam. More, more, more. Except in the deep recesses of his melting brain, something niggled. He needed—what? He’d forgotten—what? The reason he came into the kitchen was to—what?
He lifted a leg and kissed his way from her toes to her knee and then along her smooth inner thighs. So warm and sweet. The throb of her pulse echoed in his head and his fangs dropped. Shit. He needed to feed. Would she notice if he bit her?
He was an idiot. But when he lowered his mouth to her thigh the urge to bite her receded. Not that his fangs noticed.
Turner kept his face down. “Don’t move. Shut your eyes.”
He glanced up to see her eyelids flutter shut. Good girl.
He leapt at the fridge, kept his back toward her and snagged a bag of Plasmix. Teeth in, he sucked hard.
“What are you doing?” Matty whispered.
“Ehing uning,” he mumbled as he sucked, and grabbed another bag.
“What?”
“Getting something.”
Second bag drained in record time, Turner stuffed both empty containers on top of the full ones and then looked in desperation for something he could use as an excuse. Milk, margarine, cheese and a tomato. Oh God. He couldn’t tease her with a sandwich and a glass of milk. Then he spotted three small tubes. Writing icing? Turner grabbed them and closed the fridge.
Matty still had her eyes shut, trusting him, and a jolt of lust almost disabled Turner. He neither wanted nor needed to squirt icing over her body to enjoy the taste of her. In fact, he worried it might spoil the experience. He unfastened her skirt and eased it from under her backside and down her legs.
“Can I open my eyes?” she asked.
“Not yet.”
“What did you get out of the fridge?”
“A surprise.”
“Hope it doesn’t have anything to do with a tomato.”
He smiled. He’d smiled more in the last couple of days than he had for weeks. Months. Twenty years.
Turner unfastened her shirt with shaking fingers. Her lovely breasts were encased in a bright pink bra. That had to go. When she lay there naked, he stood and stared. Her fingers were wrapped tight round the edge of the table and his vampire heart sensed her heart beating fast. Turner balled up her shirt and tucked it under her head.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
He smothered a groan and looked at the three tubes. Yellow, red and green. She’d used them to put stripes on the bed she’d made for the cake. He had a tentative suck on the green nozzle—not too bad—and looked up to see Matty staring at him.
“That’s not very hygienic,” she said.
Turner grinned and started to draw on her breasts.
Matty shrieked. “Ooh that tickles.”
He laughed and grabbed another color. His cock was rigid with fury. He had a snug pussy right in front of him and all Turner did was squirt icing over Matty to make her giggle because the sound made him happy. When the tubes were empty, he’d lick her all over. Turner started at her ankles and wrote up her leg. Started at her hip and wrote down the other leg. Matty never took her gaze away from him.
“What have you written?” she asked.
“Happy birthday to me.”
She chuckled and the sound brought a burst of pre-cum surging from the tip of his cock to wet his pants. Turner slowly dripped a trail of yellow icing down from her navel. He paused to draw a little heart on her mons, rolled his eyes at his sappiness and then drew a zigzag line over the folds of her pussy. Matty gulped and panted and moaned and he couldn’t wait any longer. Turner buried his face between her spread legs and licked and licked and licked.
The closest he’d get to heaven. So sweet. His mouth watered as he slurped.
“Turner,” Matty tugged at his hair. “Turner.”
His fingers fumbled at the waist of his pants even as he kept licking at her body. His cock was going to force its way out if he didn’t get his zipper undone.
“Turner. The door.”
He didn’t mind the icing as much as he’d thought he would. He could only taste Matty.
“Turner. There’s someone at the door.”
It was the hard yank on his hair that finally made him lift his head. Turner heard the doorbell, dismissed it, and dropped his mouth to her inner thigh.
“You need—”
He reached to hush her lips and a banging accompanied the bell. Whoever it was, they weren’t going to go away. His jaw ticking in fury, Turner pushed himself upright. “Don’t move.”
He tucked away a very angry cock and zipped up as he made his way to the front door. Turner flung it open ready to yell and found himself facing a group of strangers. It belatedly occurred to him that he’d hardly acted sensibly. Anyone could have been standing there. Turner stood looking at a vicar complete with dog collar and large silver cross. Shit. Turner’s gaze automatically dropped to the guy’s hands to look for a stake.
Oh. Another chocolate cake? Had Matty told them it was his birthday?
“Good evening, Mr. Turner. You hadn’t forgotten we were coming, had you? I’m the Reverend Lazonby. This is my wife Kitty.”
“Er…” Turner watched in horrified disbelief as a large woman with bright red cheeks marched past him, her arms laden with bags. “Hello. Can’t shake hands at the mo.”
A group of men and women trooped in behind her, greeted Turner and began to unbutton their coats.
“What are you doing here?” Turner asked.
“The meeting about Milford Winterval?” the vicar said. “Diana called and left a message on your answer machine.”
Turner’s gaze slipped to the phone. No flashing light.
“That’s me.” A busty blonde held out her hand.
Turner stared around in bewilderment. What the hell were all these people doing in his house?
“We’ll get set up in the kitchen,” Kitty shouted from the other side of the hall. “No need to show us where it is. We know it well. We’ve brought tea, coffee and cakes. Just need your kettle and electricity.”
Diana grabbed Turner’s frozen paw and shook it.
“Been baking?” Diana asked. She nodded at his shirt and then dabbed her fingers over his mouth and cheek, as if he had— Oh fuck.
“No!” Turner yelled, and raced toward the kitchen.
He was fast, but not fast enough. Turner burst in expecting screams from Matty at the very least, and saw an empty table. She crouched naked underneath, struggling into her clothes while they opened bags and boxes on top. Oh God. How can they not see her? Turner was torn with indecision. Should he rip off his shirt and throw it over her? Pretend he’d never seen her before? Could he be that rude to Matty again?
“Do you know these people?” he whispered to her.
“Of course,” Kitty said. “They won’t bite you. Oh good show. You’ve made a cake.” She tsked. “Naughty boy. You’ve already had a slice. Do go and get acquainted with the others and we’ll be there in a jiffy.”
Turner gave Matty a despairing look as he was bundled out of the kitchen and propelled on Diana’s arm toward the drawing room. Everyone introduced themselves, but Turner took nothing in. He looked down at his shirt at the smudges of icing and guessed what his face must look like. He didn’t care. He wanted all of them gone. Now.
“I’d like to welcome you to the village,” said the vicar. “We’re delighted you’ve joined our little community. Is there a Mrs. Turner?”
“I’m not married,” Turner snapped, and Diana gave a happy sigh at his side.
The vicar’s wife came into the room followed by three women all carrying trays loaded with drinks and slices of cake. Matty slipped in behind them. Dressed. How the hell had she managed to avoid being seen getting her clothes on? Why hadn’t the vicar acknowledged her? Turner accepted the cup of tea, took in Matty’s frown and remembered he’d told her he didn’t drink it. Well, he didn’t, but he could hold it.
Diana pulled him down next to her on the couch. Turner slid to the far end and she slid after him.
“Delicious chocolate cake, Turner. May I call you Turner?” the vicar’s wife asked.
“Turner’s fine. I didn’t make the cake. Better thank Ma—”
Matty swept the side of her hand across her throat.
“Your mother?” Kitty asked.
“You must let me have the recipe,” said Diana. “So rare to find a man who likes to cook. And I love the fact you have icing everywhere.” She ran her finger over his cheek and licked up a yellow smudge as she stared straight at him.
For the first time in his life, Turner suspected he might be blushing.
“Right. I’m calling the meeting to order,” said the vicar, and launched into a description of what was arranged for Winterval, what still needed to be done and who had to do it.
It slowly sank into Turner’s head that not only was this festival big, it was due to take place this weekend, on his property, and he was expected to be involved. He had things to look for, research to do. He did not want hundreds of people traipsing over his land.
“How long has this been going on?” he asked.
“I told you. Ages and ages,” Matty said.
The vicar smiled. “Before the time of Christ.”
“Though they didn’t have cotton candy then,” Matty said.
Turner snorted and turned it into a cough. How
come the vicar glared at him and not Matty?
“It used to be a very dark festival. We think local people were embracing the winter, praying for their survival. We see it as welcoming the festive season,” the vicar said.
Neurons fired in Turner’s brain, synapses snapping. “I’d love to talk to you about the history of Winterval,” Turner said. “I’m very interested in everything to do with this house and land.”
“I can tell you want you want to know.” Diana dug her elbow in his ribs.
“No she can’t,” Matty muttered, and moved to stand behind the couch. “Don’t sign up for the bouncy castle.”
“Turner? Can I put you down for an hour in charge of the bouncy castle?” Kitty asked.
“Say no,” Matty whispered. “It’s hell controlling drunken adolescents let alone kids stuffed with junk food.”
Turner shook his head. “Sorry, watching children jumping up and down makes me ill.”
“You must judge the cake competition,” said the vicar. “This chocolate cake is the best I’ve ever tasted. Moist and—”
His wife cleared her throat.
“Almost as good as my dear wife’s,” he added.
“That’s the easiest option you’ll get,” Matty said.
“Fine. I’ll judge the cakes.” Turner plastered a smile on his face. He could do that. Insist on privacy, no need to taste, he could pick a winner at random.
“Next year you’ll be able to take a more active role on the committee,” said Kitty. “There’s not much left to do. We’ve been meeting for months. Since you’ve only just moved in, we hope you’ll treat this as a learning experience.”
Yes, he’d learn to go on vacation this time next year.
“I’ll be your personal tutor,” murmured Diana. “Stick with me and I’ll show you the ropes.” She lowered her voice and moved closer. “You like ropes?”
Matty huffed in his other ear, and Turner suppressed a smile.
“Car parking,” droned the vicar. “Fred? What have you arranged in case the weather is inclement?”
“If she touches you, I’m going to slap her.” Matty popped her head between his and Diana’s. “Her fingers are twitching. Your knee is in peril. Look.”
TheSmallPrint Page 8
