And hopefully it would again tonight, although he had to admit, Death in the flesh could never be called an accident.
A vivid and all-too-clear image of Death in the flesh popped uninvited into Ven’s head. The very naked flesh. A dark tension coiled through the pit of his stomach and a twinge of unexpected hunger that had nothing to do with blood shot through his cock.
He growled. He most definitely didn’t have time for that. Besides, the bitch had taken his soul. What the bloody hell was he doing being turned on by her?
Forcing the way-too-enticing image of a naked Grim Reaper from his mind, he replaced it with an image of the filthy but hardly used alley behind the Pleasure Pussy Nightclub.
His cold skin began to tingle, his blood began to burn. He pictured the hospital car park and the alley coming together, like a piece of paper being folded in two. He drew the image into his mind and then he was moving, his hair rippling back from his temples and forehead, lashing behind him as he ripped through the black night sky.
The lights of Sydney blurred to a kaleidoscope of glowing lines below him, the scents of the city assaulting him as he passed through them. He increased his speed until, with an abrupt jolt, he stood in the alley.
Immediately, he was attacked by the stench of stale beer, vomit, old blood and even older semen. The alley, it seemed, was the perfect place to finish an act of carnal sin started within the nightclub, whether that act be murder or sex.
Raking his fingers through his windswept hair, he walked out of the filthy alley onto the infamous Darlinghurst Road, Kings Cross’s main drag and Australia’s premier home of sex, drugs, hookers, pimps and five-star restaurants.
Strip-club hawkers, curious tourists, harried locals, barely dressed whores and overly dressed businessmen moved past him, most of the women and quite a few of the men giving him decidedly interested glances. Even while human he’d been considered good looking, but since his transformation…suffice to say, he had no problems finding companionship whenever he wanted it.
Funnily enough, since meeting Amy Mathieson, he hadn’t needed or wanted to go looking for it. The petite photographer satisfied all his desires. That didn’t stop his allure to the living however, and tonight was no exception. More than one human sized him up as he pushed past them. One tall, willowy blonde in skintight black latex pants and a blood-red bustier disengaged herself from the arms of a man dressed in a U.S. naval officer’s uniform and sashayed her way up to him, her smoldering blue eyes promising all sorts of fun. She stopped directly in his path and, without hesitation, placed her palm completely on his groin. “I’m yours if you want me.”
“Hey!” the sailor barked behind her.
Ven gently closed his fingers around her slender wrist and lifted her hand from his dick. “Not tonight, love. I’m in a hurry.”
The woman pursed her lips. “Pity. Would’ve been a freebie, too.”
Chuckling to himself, Ven turned away from the hooker and walked the few steps to the Pleasure Pussy’s entryway. A short, stout hawker with wild, bloodshot eyes shouted from the sidewalk, regaling anyone who would listen with a censored-for-human-ears list of the delights they would find within. He flicked Ven a quick look, inclining his head in a slight nod of recognition. The Pleasure Pussy was one of a few undercover nightclubs catering to Sydney’s non-human population, a high-end strip joint serving a plethora of beings a range of delicacies while gorgeous dancers who may or may not be human entertained those in the dark, shadowy booths.
Ven didn’t frequent the joint that often. He didn’t need to anymore, but the hawker still recognized him for what he was.
A tight fist of disquiet squeezed Ven’s still heart. For some reason, he was always recognized by Sydney’s underground otherworld.
Squashing his unease, he pulled in a steadying breath. Now was not the time to—
A subtle, delicate scent filled his being, almost hidden by the overpowering odor of beer, sex and sin hovering in the air. A scent of mysterious spices and menacing secrets. Her scent. Death was here. In the Pleasure Pussy.
Not caring about who saw him move or how many gasps his inhuman speed caused, Ven shot past the hawker into the dim, smoky nightclub.
He came to a fluid halt just inside the entry foyer, scanning the smoke-filled club with eyes already adapted to the dark light. Humans and non-humans alike moved about the cramped floor space, all enjoying themselves in various stages of conversation, copulation and consummation. Vampires fed from willingly offered necks, demons of all rank and ethos mingled with various species of weres. The distinct musky odor of lycanthrope filtered into Ven’s breath, threaded through the almost gagging stench of brimstone and ancient blood. Somewhere in the shrouded mix of patrons, a molekh obviously enjoyed itself. Ribbons of sickly-sweet pheromones wafted through the heavy air like delicate bands of iridescent light.
In the centre of the club’s arena, a semi-naked couple—the female petite, gorgeous and human, the male tall, stunning and fae—danced on the extended stage, their lithe bodies gleaming in the single golden spotlight tracking them. They writhed and pressed against each other, removing the skimpy items of clothing they wore, piece by piece in time to the slow, somehow dirty music.
Ven watched them for a second, their carnal act sending a stab of wet heat into the pit of his stomach. It reminded him how hungry he was—on every level. He turned from the show, narrowing his senses on the subtle hint of spices drifting to him from somewhere toward the back of the building. She was in here, waiting for him. He could taste it in her almost-intoxicating scent.
Stepping deeper into the nightclub, he relaxed his hold on his demon a little, the release amplifying his preternatural instincts tenfold. Death’s distinct scent slipped through his nose, past his lips and over his tongue like cool, sweet mist. It pulled at his very core and, with a sudden surge of dark excitement, he saw her sitting in a shadowy booth to the rear of the arena floor, a half-empty margarita glass in her right hand. She watched the couple’s performance, a nonchalant expression on her perfectly beautiful face. Her pale skin appeared almost luminescent in the booth’s muted light.
He destroyed the distance between them in half a blurring second, dropping onto the padded bench directly opposite her without word or warning.
“Hello, Steven.” She took a sip from her cocktail, her attention never wavering from the couple all but copulating on stage.
Ven glared at her, struggling to keep his demon—now both excited and agitated—in check. “Stay away from my brother.”
Death took another drink, her ice-blue stare riveted on the strippers. “Your brother is not what you think he is.”
He snorted. “You don’t think I know that?”
She raised one dark, exquisitely shaped eyebrow and gave a soft, unconvinced sound, her gaze following the movement of the strippers with attentive focus.
Ven couldn’t suppress his growl. “I know I’m only young for a vamp, and you’re what…older than God? But stay the fuck away from my kid brother. If you touch him again I’ll—”
“This is a very good show,” she cut him off, lifting her glass toward the writhing pair before her. “I like the use of the serpent. Nice symbolism, if a touch clichéd. Not sure I appreciate the comment about my age, mind you. It’s not nice to insult a lady like that.”
Hot anger tore through Ven. “Jesus, Woman! I’m threatening you with a considerable amount of pain here and you give me a live porn critique and lessons in etiquette?”
“Well, it’s a very good show. It makes me horny.” Eyes the color of an ancient glacier turned to him. “And I know it makes you horny too.”
Another wave of anger crashed through him, all the more scalding for the disgust her statement brought. She was correct; the strip show did make him horny. But that wasn’t why he was there.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded, suppressing the urge to squirm in his seat. Fuck, how did she make him feel like a bloody hormone-crazy teenager? “Don�
�t you have souls to take?”
Death turned back to the stage show and took another sip of her margarita. “I rarely get to take in live theater these days, and I had time to kill while waiting for you. What better way to pass the hours than to check out one of your favorite haunts.” She chuckled, the sound low and throaty and having an immediate effect on his dick. “Haunts. That term has so much more relevance when associated with someone as dead as you.”
“I’m not dead,” he growled through clenched teeth, his body still recovering from her far-too-sensual laugh. “I’m undead. There’s a difference.” He grabbed a bottle of beer from the tray of a passing waitress and took a mouthful before giving Death a narrow-eyed glare. “And how the fuck do you know where I like to ‘haunt’?”
She raised an eyebrow, a grin playing at the corners of her mouth. “Still insisting you can imbibe human food?”
Ven took another mouthful. “It’s beer, not food.”
“From what I understand, to you Australian men, it’s the same thing, isn’t it?”
“Great. Insult my gender and nationality.” He drained the bottle, placing it on the table between them with a little more force than he’d planned. She was getting to him. A lot. “So tell me, while you’re camped out here checking out the skin show, the world goes without death? No one dies while you’re getting your thrills?”
She laughed, that throaty chuckle again sending a jolt of wet heat straight into his balls. “God, no.” She favored him with an easy grin. “About one-hundred and fifty-three thousand, four-hundred and six people die every day, give or take a few. That’s roughly a little over one hundred a minute. I have a whole staff of underlings to take care of the simple stuff.”
Unable to stop himself, Ven frowned. “So what do you do, Death? I distinctly remember you strutting about over my body as I died. What? Today a religious holiday?”
“I do not strut, thank you very much, and please, call me Fred.” She finished off her margarita and gently placed the empty glass on the table, fixing Ven with a very pointed look. “I tend to the more complicated claimings. If someone is meant to die and something or someone is interfering with that, I step in. Example—the kiddy-rapist your brother saved at the beach was fated to die by the Order of Actuality. If I hadn’t intervened Patrick would have resurrected him and the Order would have weakened.” She leant back in her seat, stretching her arms along the edge of bench. Ven studied her, unable to miss the upward thrust of her breasts the casual position caused. They were a perfect size, her breasts. Not too big, not too small. Just the perfect handful. He swallowed, feeling an invisible pull on his gut he hadn’t experienced since becoming a vampire. Plain, simple, old-fashioned desire.
“Trust me,” she suddenly said, making him jump. He snapped his gaze to her face, relieved to discover she was watching the fornicating dancers on the stage once again. “Where Peabody is now, is a much more deserving place for a pedophile.”
She studied the performance in silence for a moment, allowing Ven to take in the exquisite beauty of her profile. Smooth, rounded forehead, turned-up nose, full, bee-stung lips, long, swan-like neck of the creamiest alabaster. His mouth filled with hot saliva and his cock grew thick in his jeans, pressing against the snug, restricting denim. He bit back a groan. Damn it, what the bloody hell was he thinking?
What was he doing being turned on by the Grim bloody Reaper?
He glared at her, wanting to get away from her as soon as possible, wanting to yank her against his body and fuck her senseless just as quickly.
You are in trouble, Steven. Big trouble.
The dark thought shot through his head just as Death turned her gaze away from the stage show to fix him with an unreadable stare.
“Tell me, Steven Watkins, why do you need to protect your brother? Who do you need to protect him from?”
The sudden reminder of his brother sent an icy shard of guilt into Ven’s gut. He scowled at Death, letting his demon rear closer to the surface. “You.”
Death shook her head, her piercing blue gaze refusing to let his go. “I don’t want to claim Patrick.” She tilted her head, a tiny grin curling her mouth. “Well, not in that way. His ass is gorgeous. And his chest.” She made a low, whimpering groan in her throat. “Oh.”
Ven pulled a face, an unexpected jolt of something ominous twisting through him. “God. Do you have to?”
Death cocked an eyebrow, her unreadable eyes growing even more ambiguous. “Jealous?”
Ven blinked, that same dark jolt twisting deeper into his gut, turning into a heavy churning sensation he now recognized. Death was correct—again. He was jealous of her response to Patrick. A feral growl worked its way up his throat and his demon stirred in angry disgust. He’d never been jealous of Patrick. Ever. Even when Pat had won the Bondi Beach Charity Triathlon, an event he himself had competed in for more than ten years, the idea of being jealous never entered his mind. Patrick was his brother and he loved him unconditionally. There had never been a need for jealousy.
And yet here he was, green with envy over Death’s lustful interest in Pat when he should be dealing with her deadly interest in him instead.
He scowled, forcing the unwanted, traitorous emotion away with a sharp breath.
The scent of secret spices and subtle, feminine arousal filled his nose and a ravenous surge of hunger—both blood and sexual—immediately roared through him, making his cock pulse and his fangs extend.
Death’s blue eyes shimmered to pale ice. “I can feel the hunger in your veins, Steven.”
He curled his fists and glared at her, refusing to acknowledge the desire gnawing at his control. “What do you want with my brother, Death, if not to take his life?”
She chuckled a silent laugh, obviously humored by his tenuous resolve. “That’s not the question that needs to be answered, fang face.”
“What is, then? Will he go to the prom with you?”
Death leant forward in her seat, her gaze locking on his with fierce curiosity. “How can he see me? If he is just a mere human—albeit a fucking sexy-assed one—how can he see me? No one sees me unless I chose for them to do so, no demon, no demi-god, no entity beyond the Powers. No one. And yet, Patrick did. How?”
The enormity of her statement made Ven’s already ice-cold blood run colder.
A smile played over Death’s lips. “Told you he isn’t what you think he is.”
“So what is he, then?”
She gave the slightest shake of her head, her midnight-ink hair tumbling around her shoulders, her eyes unreadable again. “I don’t know. But I’m going to find out. One way or the other.”
Hot, red anger flooded through him. He leant forward, staring her hard in the face, his nose almost touching hers, his fangs extending to lethal points. “Stay. Away. From my. Brother,” he whispered, letting his demon turn each word into a guttural promise of pain.
Death’s lips parted, enough for the tip of her tongue to touch her bottom lip. “Or what?” she whispered back.
Ven moved without thought. His mouth crushed hers. Hard. Brutal. She froze for a split second before kissing him back with a savagery that equaled his. Her tongue plunged into his mouth, flicked at the insides of his lips, the daggers of his fangs. The wholly erotic caress was electric. His pulse tripled immediately, an explosive detonation of mortal response he’d not experienced for eighteen years.
He jolted to his feet, his body thrumming with blistering energy, his cock throbbing with rapacious need.
Death stared back at him, her eyes wide. Shocked.
Ven ground his teeth, the sweet elixir of her saliva still on his fangs. “Stay away from my brother,” he growled, his confused mind incapable of commanding his mouth to say anything else. He turned and stormed through the club, struggling to sheath his fangs and his demon.
The hunger surged through him, devouring him, made the battle to keep his human façade almost impossible. He pushed through the crowd at the club’s entry foyer, his every
breath filled with the tauntingly delicious stench of human blood and sweat leeching from those around him.
Bursting out onto the street, he clenched his fists, fighting for control.
Focus on your anger, Steven. Think about how hideously you’ve just betrayed your only brother. That should cure your depraved hunger.
The thought brought no relief. Instead of guilt and rage dousing his lust, his demon grew closer to the surface, powerful and insatiable. Craving blood and sex with such voracious, predatory force, he almost locked his arms around a nearby hooker there and then, his fangs growing longer, readying for her sweet coppery blood to gush from her jugular and flood his throat with vital life.
He barged through the busy sidewalk, rigid cock pulsing, ragged breath shallow. If he inhaled the human-tainted air too deeply, he would lose control and be lost to his demonic needs.
With a growl, he shoved his hand into his back pocket and ripped out his cell phone, flipping it open and punching in Amy’s number in feverish haste. He needed to feed. He needed to fuck. Now. At the same time. He needed to sate his hunger before he did something foolish. Something—
A hand closed over his fingers, snapping his phone shut with a soft click. A cool, pale hand with long, slender fingers tipped with blunt, blood-red nails.
Death, The Vamp and His Brother Page 6
