Enslaved To The Vampire Zombie-Hunter (Pandemic Monsters Book 1)

by Veronica Sommers

  He looks nearly dead, but I can't see any wounds. Perhaps he wore himself down too far while fighting. But he has to be conscious to drink my blood, doesn't he? Why, oh why is he unconscious the first time we're doing this? I expected the first feeding to be much different—he'd be awake, he'd tell me what to do—

  Cautiously I hook one finger under his upper lip and pull it up. His gums are darker than they should be, almost purple. His long fangs arch from them, a double set on each side, white but nearly translucent. I can see the outline of the slim tube inside them, the tube that channels a human's blood directly into his own bloodstream.

  I could press my wrist against those sharp teeth and hope his instincts will kick in and do the rest. But what if they don't? I might cut too deeply into my wrist and bleed out on the floor.

  I should get help. Maybe one of the other suppliers can show me what to do.

  As I clamber to my feet, Atlan begins to convulse, his body jerking and his skull thudding against the floor. Vampires are tough, but that combination of bone and brain matter against hard flooring can't be good. Quickly I sit beside him, crossing my legs, and I haul his head into my lap, cushioning it as he continues to jerk and flail. I can't tell if he's breathing.

  "Don't you die, don't you die," I whisper, bracing his head between my hands.

  If he dies, I'll be given to someone else. Someone who might demand more from me than blood, someone who might be cruel. Atlan may not know it, but he's the perfect owner for me, and I'm not about to lose him, or the convenient setup I've got here.

  After a minute, the seizure ebbs, and a sound grates from his throat—an unearthly groan that makes my skin crawl—the sound of hunger, deep and primal. His head jerks to the right, his nose skimming the inside of my bare thigh. His lips curl back, fangs slipping a little further from their sheaths within his gums—and the next second he has latched onto my thigh, sinking in deep. The initial spike of pain subsides to a slow sucking sensation, the kind that raises goosebumps over my skin and sets my teeth on edge.

  His left hand twitches and moves, seizing my leg just above the knee and bracing it. His nails dent my flesh; his palm burns hot against my skin.

  He drinks, and drinks, and drinks.

  I don't like this. I don't like the sucking, or the shivers running along my nerves, or the terror pounding harder and harder in my heart.

  The band around my right wrist chimes, a signal that he's had half a pint of my blood.

  He takes one more long, slow gulp. And then he lifts his head a few inches, staring at my thigh, at the four holes and the rivulets of gleaming blood draining from them. With his long tongue he licks them, cleaning the blood away. I gasp without meaning to, because a flare of tingly heat just shot up my thigh and coiled between my legs. Atlan licks again, long and slow; and I know he's only doing it so his saliva will seal the wounds—but my arousal intensifies.

  He looks up at me, his eyes unearthly—brilliant blue ringed with black—the color of neon-blue bar lights, of blue stars burning in space.

  With shaking fingers, I reach out and brush back the long strands of black hair from his face.

  For one magic moment we are both paralyzed, eyes locked.

  And then he lurches to his feet and staggers away from me. He stands at the head of his bed, clutching the frame for support.

  Words grate from his throat. "How do you feel?"

  "I—I'm fine." I wasn't the one whose heart nearly stopped, or the one who had a seizure. "How are you?"

  "Alive."

  I get to my feet, slowly, and waver a second before finding my balance. He watches me with those glowing star-blue eyes. I can see his nostrils flexing, too—he's smelling me. Can he tell I'm aroused? Oh God. So embarrassing.

  I don't know what to do. I fold my arms over my chest to hide the other evidence of my current state of mind, and I inch toward the door to my room. "You could drink more, you know. You only had half a pint—is that enough?"

  "Yes." He barks the word, defensive and harsh.

  "Right. I'll just go back to bed then." But I hesitate in the doorway. "Is that supposed to happen? The seizure, the almost-dying? Like, is that normal for you?"

  He puckers his lips. "I cut it close sometimes. But no. That was—I waited too long. I didn't want to feed, because—um—"

  "You didn't want to feed from me. Your blood slave."

  Atlan winces as if I smacked him. "Don't call yourself that."

  "Why not? It's true." I drop my arms and take a step toward him. "I'm your slave. You're my master."

  He darts to me and grips my jaw with his calloused hand. The cold metal of his rings presses against my skin, and his blue eyes burn into mine. "Never. Call. Me. That. Again."

  "Yes, master," I breathe.

  His pupils dilate, and a muscle in his temple flexes. "What is wrong with you?"

  I have no idea. "Nothing."

  "I mean it. Don't call me your master. It's disgusting, and archaic, and you should have more damn pride than that."

  "Maybe. And maybe you like it when I say that, and you're just afraid to admit it to yourself."

  "Actually," he hisses in my face, "I do not like it. And you're not the first girl to try seducing me that way. Get over yourself, because it's not going to happen. I don't want you." He releases my chin and steps back. "I don't want anyone. I can't want anyone. And I need you to respect that, or we won't be able to get along, and you'll have to leave."

  "So you're threatening me now."

  He shrugs, unabashed. "Yeah."

  "Okay. Well, I doubt the Captain will let you get rid of me after I tell him how you almost died tonight."

  Atlan's eyes widen. "You can't tell him."

  "I can, and I will."

  "I forbid it."

  "You just told me not to call you 'master,' to have some pride. So if I'm not your slave, you can't forbid me to do things." I grin at him, triumphant. "You can't have it both ways."

  "Damn you," he grits out. "You're trouble, you know that?"

  And you're gorgeous. "So are you."

  There's the faintest twitch of something like a smile at the corner of his mouth. "Go to bed, Trouble."

  "You have to say 'please.' "

  "Please go to bed."

  I yawn exaggeratedly. "Oh my goodness, look at the time! I think I'll go back to bed."

  This time he really does smile—a quick flash that lights up his beautiful face and turns it so godlike I can barely breathe. He smothers the expression the next second, and I step back into my room. But before I close the door, I ask, "So how did I taste?"

  "I don't taste much of the blood, honestly. Most of it goes straight through the fangs—"

  "Oh." I purse my lips, disappointed. "But you can taste a little bit, right? So how was it?"

  "Tasted like sweaty socks and dirty underwear."

  My jaw drops. "Bastard."

  He smiles again. "Go to sleep."

  5

  Atlan

  I don't know what she expected me to say. That she tasted like heaven? Like flowers? Like all the things I want that I can't have?

  She tasted like blood always tastes—salty, metallic.

  Okay, not all blood tastes the same. Some has a tangy, acrid edge to it, a hint of bitterness, an aftertaste. Hers is pure, rich—I can feel it pumping through me, strong and clean. I'm alive again, and I almost wasn't.

  I didn't want a slave. I hated owning her so much that I put off drinking until it was almost too late—and I thought I was ready to die for my principles but at the last second I pushed that damn button because—

  Well, because like it or not, I have a job to do. I have human beings to protect.

  When I regained consciousness, the first thing I knew was her taste, and the second thing was her scent—oh damn, her scent. It slithered into my nostrils and infused my brain with honey and flowers, and something tingly and warm and tempting that isn't any fragrance I recognize. It's just—her. And with my head
still full of that scent, I have trouble thinking about anything else.

  I stalk the room a few times and try lying down, closing my eyes.

  Nope, I can still smell her. She's everywhere—on me, maybe, her fragrance mingling with the stench of rot and death that clings to me for hours after I've done a shift in the killing fields.

  I need to shower.

  The showers in the vampires' bathroom are empty at this hour, so I'm alone, as I prefer it. I wash her scent off my mouth, my face, my hands—but I can't wash it out of my memory. It's the kind of whispering female scent that would have driven me wild way back when, before the serum.

  Did my college girlfriend have a scent like that? I can't remember.

  Bracing my hands against the shower wall, I let the water pour over my bowed head and shoulders, remembering Finley's quiet words—I'm your slave. You're my master.

  She called me her master because she's desperate to stay here, to stay safe. When I told her not to call me that, she said it again, just to—to what? To get under my skin, to annoy me? Or to tease me?

  She may be all skin and bones and scared eyes, but there's still a strong spirit in there. Someone just needs to coax it out of her. Wouldn't take much, either.

  Her voice floats into my memory again—So if I'm not your slave, you can't forbid me to do things. You can't have it both ways.

  A smirk twists my mouth. Yeah, she's trouble for sure.

  6

  Finley

  The next day I rise early and slip out of Atlan's room while he's still asleep. He's half-naked, twisted up in the blankets, one hand tightened around a fistful of sheets. I pause for just a second, admiring the lines of his body, before I sneak out into the hallway and search for the Captain.

  Robbins tells me he's already out in the yard, preparing for the morning's activities. When I walk out the doors of the building, I immediately cringe inside, because there are rows of soldiers lined up in the yard, and the Captain is perusing a sheaf of papers on a clipboard and intermittently spitting orders at a man near him.

  Tentatively I approach, conscious of dozens of male and female eyes on me, the barefooted waif in ill-fitting borrowed clothing. "Captain Markham?"

  "Well, if it isn't Miss Finley Mars herself." His dark face creases in a smile. "How are you?"

  "I have something to report, sir."

  "Speak."

  I explain about Atlan's condition last night, and the Captain's smile disappears. He slaps the clipboard. "That fool vampire. He's going to kill himself."

  The door to Deathcastle squalls as it opens, and Atlan himself strides out, looking alarmed. His eyes flick from me to the Captain, and his apprehension changes to anger as he sees that I've already told on him. "Damn you, Trouble."

  "Don't make this her fault, Atlan," snaps the Captain. "You almost died."

  Atlan's lips tighten. He can't deny it.

  "This isn't the first time you've cut it close, waited too long after a mission before feeding—though from what Miss Mars told me, this was the worst incident so far. A seizure, Atlan? You're lucky you managed to come out of it enough to feed."

  Atlan glowers, scuffing the dirt with his boot.

  "This isn't just about you!" the Captain roars suddenly, startling me so badly that I jump. A muscle in Atlan's jaw flexes. "This is about your team. I need you to keep these people safe!" Captain Markham jabs a finger at the silent rows of soldiers. "I need you keep everyone in Blue City safe. This part of the wall is ours to hold, and we need you for that. Killing yourself dooms thousands of human beings. Do you get it?"

  "Yes, Captain," Atlan mutters.

  "I can't hear you." Spit flies from Markham's lips into Atlan's face.

  He looks up, nostrils flaring, eyes fire. "Yes, Captain!"

  "Good!" Captain Markham smacks the clipboard against his palm. "From now on, she goes to the wall with you."

  Atlan's jaw drops. "What?"

  "You heard me."

  "She could get hurt."

  "You can leave her in the parking zone, at the lookout post on top of the wall—wherever, as long as she's nearby to service you when you need it."

  Service him? That sounds vaguely dirty. Is it wrong that I like it? But I don't know where I stand with the whole "going with Atlan to the wall" thing. I'm pretty sure I hate the idea of being so close to that many zombies, even with a wall between me and them.

  Atlan isn't done protesting. "But, sir—"

  Captain Markham silences him with an upraised hand. "You lost your right to argue when you chose to be stupid. Now you're off duty today. I suggest you rest, maybe get to know Miss Mars a little better. Maybe some of her good sense will rub off on you."

  "I'll do that," snaps Atlan. He grips my arm and marches me away from the group; but instead of going inside, we skirt the corner of the building and head around to the rear. The early morning sun hasn't reached back here yet, and the ground is swathed in deep blue-gray shadow. Half-rusted equipment and battered military crates are piled against the building, and the hard-packed dirt is littered with scraps of rusted metal and broken bricks, stippled with clumps of rough, whiplike grass.

  Atlan shoves me against the chilly concrete wall, his palm against my breastbone. I feel the pressure of each searing finger in the very core of my being.

  "I asked you not to tell him," he says.

  "And I told you not to order me around. Unless you've changed your mind and you want a slave after all."

  "Damn you. Why do you have to be so difficult? Now you're going to be in more danger."

  "And it's your fault."

  "What?" He looks incredulous. "How?"

  "You were sulking about having a blood slave, so you refused to drink until you almost died. Just like a spoiled kid going on a hunger strike. Trust me, I've seen it. This one student of mine—"

  "Stop, please. Just stop. There's nothing I hate more than stories of people's lives before."

  "Why?"

  "It doesn't matter who we were before the Gorging. Those people, that life—it's all dead. This reality is what matters—what we do now, the souls we can save."

  He's so beautiful, so earnest—and his shoulders are so broad under that T-shirt of his—and the hand pinning me to the wall is so warm and strong—I think my insides might be liquefying on the spot. I can't stop staring at him.

  His nostrils flicker again, like they did last night, and his eyes snap to mine. "You're impossible."

  "What do you mean?" I try to look innocent.

  He winces. "I can smell you."

  "I could probably use a shower, I guess—"

  "No, not that. The other thing. Your reaction—to me."

  Heat rushes into my face. I want to melt into the wall behind me and disappear, become one with the cold concrete, unfeeling, unresponsive.

  "I can't help it," I whisper, avoiding his eyes. "You're so damn gorgeous. Maybe if you'd quit grabbing my face and shoving me against walls—"

  He laughs, short and rough, and removes his hand from my chest. "That's what does it for you?"

  "Not just that, but—well, sort of. Sometimes. Oh hell." I cover my face with both hands. "Look, it's been forever since I was with a guy. I've been in too much danger to think about—certain needs, and now that I'm safe, it's like my body is demanding some attention. And I know you don't—can't—feel that sort of thing anymore, so I'm sorry, okay? I can make it stop—I'll get it on with Charon. That should take care of the problem for a while."

  "Charon?" Atlan's face hardens.

  "Yeah, I met him and Harry last night."

  "Charon already has a couple of bedmates."

  "Well, he made it clear he wouldn't mind adding another."

  "Did he?" Atlan rolls his eyes. "Why am I not surprised?"

  I don't answer. My mind travels unbidden to the memory of last night—Charon's fingers writhing under my waistband—

  "Holy hell. You're thinking about him right now, aren't you?" Atlan fixes me with a dis
approving frown.

  "Don't tell me you can smell my thoughts too."

  "No, that was just a guess." He shifts a step closer, inhaling, and his eyes turn glassy. "But you do smell—delicious."

  A faint memory of pain prickles over my thigh, where he bit it last night. "Do you need more blood?"

  His lips writhe back, his fangs slipping further from his gums. "Maybe."

  "Same place?"

  He nods. Slowly I unfasten the button of my jeans and slide the zipper apart. I ease the pants down over my hips until my thighs are exposed. Atlan growls faintly, like he did last night, and a trickle of anticipation travels through my abdomen. He sinks to his knees and grasps my hips with those broad hands. Then his head whips aside and he's fangs-deep in my flesh again, sucking, drinking. I still don't like the suction of it, but that sensation is buried under the other delightful ones flooding my body from the soft pressure of his lips, the tickle of his hair against my thigh, and the warmth of his fingers. I can smell him too—soap and salt and a whisper of something spicy and tempting, something deliciously male.

  He moves one of his hands from my hip, spreading it over my lower stomach, and I think I might die from lust. I tilt my head back against the rough concrete and force myself to breathe, and breathe.

  When my bracelet chimes once, Atlan stops drinking immediately, slides his fangs out of me, and softly licks the bleeding spots on my thigh. Without meaning to, I whimper a little, and he rises, looking anxiously into my face. "Are you all right?"

  I'm swollen, heated, tortured—a second away from begging him to pleasure me with his fingers, his tongue, anything. I can't answer him, and I turn my head away, my soul scorched with shame. I can feel the heat of his body all along mine. Surely he must feel something—something—

  His mouth at my ear. "Pull up your pants, Trouble. And pull yourself together."

  "Bastard," I whisper. "This is your fault."

  "How, exactly?"

  "It's not fair that you look like that." I shove him away and tug my jeans back into place. "It should be illegal for vampires to be pretty, or to have pheromones. Honestly what's the use of having pheromones when you don't have a sex drive?"