Love Bites UK (Mammoth Book Of Vampire Romance2)

by Telep, Trisha

  Much more personal than simply reading – or rather hearing – her thoughts, this allowed him to feel her emotions as she felt them. Experience her worries as she experienced them. Essentially it allowed him to be her for a moment – live her life – know who she was, who she felt herself to be.

  To share her soul.

  It was exquisite, yet painful. He’d been soulless for so long that even a brief encounter with the living force of another such as this was intoxicating.

  Some, he knew, lived for this moment. Some of his kind did this with each and every kill.

  Marcos found that perverted. You didn’t get to know a cow before you ate it. Humans were food. There was no need to know their names, or their loves, their losses, their triumphs.

  For some, it was the knowledge they took and carried with them that made their existence bearable. Marcos found that parasitical and vicarious. It was barely a step above common thievery. Rifling through the life of another and taking that which wasn’t yours.

  So then . . . why was he doing it now?

  Her blood.

  Dios, it reminded him of something he’d blissfully forgotten.

  Hunger left a taint in the blood. Suffering and strife and worry and upset – they all left a mark, not only upon the body. They marked the soul as well.

  Unwilling to take her life, Marcos lifted his mouth from her throat with a groan of effort. Looking down at her in his arms, Marcos felt something he hadn’t in centuries.

  Shame.

  Sick with guilt, Marcos gestured at the futon in the opposite room. It folded itself out neatly and he carried Marina’s – Mary’s – limp form to it and laid her down.

  He touched the wound on her neck reverently. Already it had sealed itself so that she bled no more. He straightened and looked down at her, studying her for a long moment. His eyes were again drawn to the pendant that lay defiantly against her breast. The six-winged seraph seemed to glare up at him, offended.

  Perhaps she was an angel herself, lying there so peacefully.

  No. She had blood – human blood – so he knew she wasn’t any kind of ethereal in human form. Besides, angels, when they deigned to take human form, were vain creatures. It was their nature to be beautiful, even in the most wretched of forms. They couldn’t hide their beauty any more than he could claim to have a soul.

  Though she was indeed beautiful, she was no angel. Nor demon.

  Simply a human. But . . . there was something.

  He knew who she was . . . but who was she?

  Whoever she was, she was not for him.

  Marcos shook his head, took a step back and vanished.

  * * *

  Marina woke up with her head pounding. Holy crap, what a nightmare. She sat up and looked around, blinking furiously in the dark.

  Dark didn’t mean much. Her curtains kept the light low in here anyway. The candles had all been extinguished, and she was lying in bed. Huh.

  She didn’t remember going to bed. She didn’t remember . . . much of anything at all. Seeing her last client out. Locking the door. Dreaming about Weirdo again.

  Her stomach growled, impressing its existence upon her. Wow, was she thirsty. Like, mega-uber-thirsty. Like she hadn’t had a drink in days.

  She struggled to her feet. Why was it so hard to move? She hadn’t worked out that hard at the gym, and hadn’t done any unusual moves on the stage at the club last night. Oh, hell! The club! Her shift!

  Every muscle in her body protested, and when she finally got to her feet, the room seemed to spin, and she sat down hard again.

  Whoa. Oh, please don’t let her be coming down with anything. She couldn’t afford to be sick now. Literally. She couldn’t afford to take time off for any reason. Not if she was going to have a place to shower next month. Food would be nice, too.

  Marina waited for a few minutes and, when the room stopped moving, slowly got to her feet.

  They stayed under her, and she breathed a sigh of relief. She took another step. The room remained where it was. Gingerly she made it to the small bathroom in the back and snapped on the light.

  Her eyes widened in horror at how pale her reflection in the mirror looked. She was white as a sheet. Except for . . .

  She turned her head slightly. There, in the harsh light of the bathroom’s bare bulb, glared a dark purple and yellow bruise along her neck. She touched it softly, then prodded it a little harder.

  No pain.

  Whatever she’d done, it hadn’t hurt. Yet. Or maybe it had, and she just didn’t remember. Still, something that left that kind of mark was something she’d remember. Enough guys had tried to strangle her –

  Guys.

  Guy.

  Weirdo.

  She remembered now. He’d come in . . . when? Last night? What day was it? How long had she been lying there?

  What had he done to her?

  Marina ripped off her clothes and searched everywhere she could see for a pinprick or other bruise. Had he drugged her? Robbed her?

  She didn’t want to think about what else he might have done to her, but she didn’t feel like . . . he’d done anything else. Her clothes were all intact, and everything else seemed fine.

  Restoring order to her attire, the dripping faucet reminded her that she was desperately thirsty, and she gulped handfuls of water straight from the tap. She dried her mouth on the sleeve of her shirt and made her way to the cash register.

  She turned on the rarely used overhead light in the room – fluorescent and harsh, it illuminated the small space with an annoying buzzing accompaniment.

  Everything seemed in order. Nothing was disturbed or missing. She pushed the “no sale” button on the register. Everything was there. The money she’d made over the last few weeks was all there. Every penny. She closed the cash drawer and went into the other room.

  There, too. Not one item out of place.

  She wandered back into the main room and considered the futon. Then she went to the door and pulled aside the curtain. It was dark outside, and the lit bank sign across the street that flashed the day, time and temperature said it was 3.17 am. So much for making her shift at the club. It closed at 2 am.

  Nine hours. She’d been asleep for nine hours? Her last client had left just after six o’clock. Had she really just pulled out the futon and slept in her clothes? What about Weirdo? What about the phone? It should have awakened her, if Benny tried to call her when she didn’t show for her shift. It was too bad she’d pawned the answering machine, or he could have left her an angry message. Oh, well. She’d smooth things over tomorrow, somehow.

  Marina looked down at the door as she restored the curtain. It was locked, from the inside. So, if Weirdo had done anything to her, he was a bloody magician to let himself out then lock the door behind him. She’d already found her keys, and she had the only one to the place.

  No way Weirdo had a key. Besides, the door was locked from inside. Inside. Which meant, if Weirdo had been here, he should still be here. And he wasn’t, unless he was hiding in the U-bend of the toilet.

  There weren’t a whole lot of places to hide in here.

  Man, she was thirsty.

  Marina went back to the bathroom and gulped more water. Shaking her head at her reflection in the small mirror, she went into the back room, changed her clothes and went to the futon. Hopefully she would look better in the morning. If she didn’t, she’d have to borrow some of Lisa’s make-up to hide her pallor.

  Marcos scowled at the dark window of Marina’s shop. He hated himself, but he’d become something of an unwilling stalker. He told himself he was hunting in the area – as usual – but he knew better.

  Her shop window was never dark this early on a Friday night.

  Hating himself even more, Marcos ducked into an alley, out of human sight, and thought about where he wanted to be.

  Patchouli assaulted him. Would she never desist using that foul incense? She could at least choose another scent.

  Still, it was
comforting to him in a way. It was her. It was this place.

  He looked to the futon. Yes, the scent of her was still heavy there. She still slept here. Nightly. Perhaps she’d merely gone to obtain a meal. But she was never gone this early on a Friday night. It was one of her busiest.

  Perhaps she was contracted to read fortunes for a party. It was one of the things she advertised she was available for.

  Marcos wandered into the back room, where she kept her things. There was a bookcase he ran his fingers over the top of and smiled. She’d polished it. He could still feel the oil along the grain. He could see her in his mind, rubbing the surface with a cloth and the orange oil he could still smell faintly. She’d done it perhaps a week ago. She liked things clean.

  A hardcover book rested open to a page depicting a tarot card. Marcos reached for the cover and lifted it, wishing to see the title of what she was reading.

  An envelope slipped from the pages and fluttered to the floor at his feet.

  He curled his fingers in a beckoning gesture and the envelope came to his hand. His brow furrowed at the name scrawled on it.

  “Angel”.

  Inside was a yellow scrap of square paper with a rough, unmistakably uneducated note scrawled on it: “Ain’t much, but good for your first week back. Pass these around and there’ll be more – Benny.”

  In the envelope were black cards emblazoned with stars and the logo of the “gentleman’s club” two streets over.

  “Featuring the return of Angel! Two shows on Fridays!” the cards proclaimed across the bottom in silver letters.

  He remembered their brief conversation about “entertainment”.

  And it was Friday.

  Surely not. Not her. She was his. His Angel. She should be here for him, not . . . not there . . . sharing any part of herself with . . . anyone else.

  Marcos scowled. He didn’t think about anything but his need and disappeared.

  The envelope wafted to the floor, scattering the cards beneath it.

  * * *

  One more show to go, Marina thought, staring wearily into the mirror that stood in what Benny laughably called the “dressing room”. She was just about to apply more mascara when she was jerked to her feet by strong hands.

  Her eyes widened as she realized it wasn’t Benny.

  Oh, God, Weirdo. How had he found her, and how had he gotten in here?

  She tried to speak, even scream, but no sound would come.

  Even so, Marcos brought up a hand and stilled any sound she would have made with a thought. It would not do to have her screams summon anyone.

  As though they would do so, in this place, even if they could be heard over that noise they call music, Marcos thought wryly.

  Marcos looked helplessly at the woman before him.

  He should simply take her memories of him and leave. Or kill her and be done with it. It would be for the best. Madre de Dios, he could not do it. Marcos brought a fist to his forehead with a groan.

  He shook his head and waved a hand at the woman before him, releasing her from the suspension he’d put on her.

  “What are you doing here?!” she demanded, taking a step back. She groped behind her for anything she might use as a weapon. “Get out!”

  “Stop,” Marcos ordered firmly, gesturing at her again. “I won’t harm you. I will answer all of your questions, I swear, if you will answer one for me.”

  Marina couldn’t move.

  “O-OK,” she stammered.

  “I will release my hold on you if you assure me you will not run or otherwise be a problem,” Marcos said, glaring at her pointedly.

  His hold? He wasn’t even touching her. But then . . . why couldn’t she move?

  “Sure,” she replied, barely able to get the word out past the fear choking her throat. “No problem.”

  “Not here,” he said, shaking his head. He reached out and touched her shoulder, and suddenly they were no longer in the noisy club, but in the back room of her shop.

  Marcos lowered his hand and recalled his power.

  “What the—” she began. “How did you—”

  “As I said, I will answer all of your questions, after you answer mine,” he reminded her. “Your pendant,” he said, his eyes deliberately trailing to her cleavage. “It means something. I know it does. What?”

  Was he serious? What was it about that thing that he was so fascinated with?

  “It’s been in the family for ever,” she said hesitantly. “One of my great-great-great grandmothers or something had it. Look, if you want it, just take it. There’s no need to hurt me. It’s yours, OK?”

  Marcos scowled at her. “I’m no thief,” he replied in disdain.

  “Then what do you want?” Marina asked, taking another step back. She snapped on the fluorescent light above them. “You . . . you kidnap me . . . somehow, break in here—”

  “I haven’t ‘broken in’,” Marcos interrupted. “But that makes no difference now. You’ve already given me ‘what I want’. All that remains now is what I wish to do with it.”

  “The pendant?” Marina ventured, confused.

  “Your answer,” he replied, shaking his head. “Would you mind turning off that overhead light? I find it particularly disturbing,” she heard him say.

  “Um . . . OK,” she found herself replying, but before she could move, the fluorescent light went out and every candle in the place illuminated.

  “Much better,” Marcos said, smiling again. He studied Marina carefully. Heard her thoughts, her rapid heartbeat, the pulse of the blood beneath her pale skin.

  “Calm yourself, Mary. I said, I won’t harm you. I do wish to be more comfortable, however, now that it is time for me to fulfil my end of our bargain.”

  He didn’t look so frightening in the candlelight.

  Their bargain?

  “I said I would answer your questions if you answered mine,” he reminded her.

  “Who are you?” Marina blurted.

  Marcos gestured to the futon behind her. “Do you wish to sit? A glass of water, perhaps? Tea?”

  Marina crossed her arms over her chest. “No, I want you to answer me,” she said, unyielding. “I’ve asked you who you are several times now and you keep dodging the question. Who are you? And why is my angel pendant so important to you?”

  “My name is Marcos Aquino de los Santos,” he replied quietly. “And that pendant . . . the symbol you display on your window. Do you know what kind of angel it is?”

  Marina shrugged. “It bears a sword. It’s likely Michael or possibly Uriel.”

  Marcos shook his head. “Michael and Uriel are Archangels. Your angel has six wings. It is a seraph.”

  “Seraph?” Marina echoed.

  “Surely you’re aware of the difference in the choirs of the Host,” he said, disbelieving.

  Marina shrugged again. “Angels are angels.”

  “I doubt very much they would agree with you,” Marcos replied wryly. He nodded to her pendant. “That particular depiction is not only a seraph, it is the device of the Destrati.”

  “And that means what to me?” Marina asked, rapidly losing her patience with his condescension.

  “It is the symbol used by a vampire clan,” Marcos said.

  Marina just looked at him and took another slow step back away from him. “OK, well, that’s nice to know. Now, why don’t you leave and not come back,” she said.

  Marcos heard her disparaging thoughts and scowled at her again.

  “I’m not crazy, or delusional,” he said, unimpressed. “You’re perfectly happy to assist people in contacting their supposed spirit guides and dead relatives, but you’re unwilling to acknowledge the existence of other immortal creatures? Even those standing right before you?”

  “So you think you’re a vampire?” Marina asked with a contemptuous snort.

  “Just because you can’t fathom the fact that I am indeed centuries old doesn’t make me the liar in the room.”

  “Hey! No one�
��s calling you a liar,” Marina protested. “So you carry the vampire fantasy a little far with your black coat and fangs and the idea that you’re some really old Spanish guy. What, did one of your history books fall on your head or something while you were in school? Whatever happened, it’s OK. You don’t need me to believe you in order to leave.”

  “Nor do I claim to be that which I am not for my own gain,” Marcos replied with a smirk. His eyes swept over her meaningfully. “I wouldn’t say anything about carrying a fantasy too far, madam.”

  Marina opened her mouth to say something, then blushed and shook her head, lowering her eyes in shame. He crossed to her and brought a finger under her chin, and raised it slowly.

  “Look at me,” he ordered.

  She did so.

  He flashed a wicked smile at her.

  Marina gasped at the sight of his pointed incisors. He should seriously see a dentist about those.

  “Truth does not require belief,” he said quietly, laughing inwardly at himself for quoting an oft-used ethereal adage. It was one of the things he’d first learned, as a fledgling. From Clan Destrati. The clan who’d found and fostered him. Who’d helped him live again, instead of merely survive.

  The Clan – the family – he’d all but forgotten until he found the angel. His Angel.

  Dios. How could he have forgotten? How could he have not understood? His endless hunger would be sated by an angel. That was the curse laid on him ages ago by one of the Host he’d inadvertently fed upon. One that had been masquerading as human, performing a task or other such thing it had been set to on the mortal plane.

  His all-consuming hunger had driven everything else from his mind, including the fact that such ravenousness was part of the blight set upon him by an angel. The Messenger did not find his inadvertent attack amusing, and decided to teach Marcos a lesson in being more selective in his hunting.

  He continued. “Something about you was familiar. The pendant. The angel on the window. Your blood. Nothing made sense.”

  “You bit me!” Marina cried suddenly, her hand going to her neck as she remembered the bruise that had only recently faded enough not to need to be concealed with make-up. Bruises were bad for business, according to Benny.

  “Yes,” Marcos said, nonchalant and unrepentant. “But I did not kill you. I stopped feeding from you once the familiarity overwhelmed me, and now I know why.”