"Prove it."
Shaking my head, I laugh a little. "Okay, well—you're brave, obviously."
"The zombies aren't really a threat to me. Maybe I'm not as brave as you think I am."
"Whatever. I know you'd fight them even if you were in danger. You like to protect people, and you want to do big, important deeds—stuff that matters . That's your thing. And you're also stupidly noble and absurdly sweet."
"Wow. I could do without the qualifying adverbs."
"Take it or leave it, man. It's the best I can do."
He chuckles, his fingers rubbing absently across the concrete. "I like you too, you know."
"I kind of figured you might, after you bought me all those things and took me to lunch."
"Don't brush it off, Finley. I'm serious."
My breath stops for a second as he takes my hand, curling his strong fingers around it. My insides thrill at the pressure, and I slowly lift my gaze to his eyes.
A sharp tug at the tote bag on my arm startles me. A ragged man has snagged the canvas and he's pulling, his yellow teeth bared. "Give it!" he growls.
I jerk the bag away. "Get lost. You'd be disappointed with what's in here anyway."
Atlan steps around me, into the man's field of vision, smiling so that his fangs show. "Hey there, friend. What's the trouble?"
The ragged man squeals in terror, trips over his own feet, and scrambles away, whimpering.
"We should probably go," says Atlan, picking up his coat. "This city has really gone downhill."
"The apocalypse will do that to a place."
We keep the conversation light on the way home—no more talk about liking each other, no more attempts to hold hands. When we pass through the first floor of Deathcastle, Atlan hails Khalil, who has apparently just come back from the killing fields. The older vampire is dripping with gore, headed for the first-floor shower room.
"I've got something good to share, my friend!" Atlan says, holding up the bottle of bourbon whiskey. "Don't tell the Captain."
Khalil's eyes light up. "Viana's room?"
"I'll ask her if she's game for a little party tonight." Atlan nods. "See you later."
"Viana's room?" I ask quietly as we mount the stairs.
"Yeah, it's the biggest, so we usually gather there. You're coming too, this time."
"Oh, I don't know—they might not want me crashing the party."
"Crashing the party?" He raises an eyebrow. "Trouble, you're one of us. The other suppliers will be there, and you should be, too. I want you there."
"Is that an order, master?" I smirk a little at the flare of reproach in his eyes.
Before I can breathe or blink, he has me up against the wall of the stairway, caging me with his arms. "I thought I ordered you not to call me that."
"Apparently I don't listen well," I breathe.
"I can see that." His face is so close—his mouth is nearly touching mine. I'm breathing his breath, captured in the blue blaze of his eyes, looking deep into the swirl of emotion behind them. The air between our bodies is superheated, electric.
I want to kiss him.
I will not kiss him first. Despite the way he's acting right now, he might not welcome that kind of affection. A kiss doesn't have to be sexual, but it's definitely breaking into romantic territory and what if that's not what he wants?
What if he kisses me, but it never goes any further, physically? Would I be okay with that?
The moment has stretched on too long. I turn my face aside, just slightly, and it's enough to make him back away. He continues up the steps without looking at me or speaking to me again, and he doesn't ask to feed once we return to our rooms. I put my things away quietly before going down to the mess.
At dinner, Sarah is all questions. She wants to know everything I bought, and everything we did and saw in the city. Her inquiries have an almost frantic undertone, like she's desperately trying to act normal.
She's still mourning Ben's death.
Even as I answer the questions and describe our outing, all I really want to do is give the girl a big hug. But if I do that, she might melt into sobs right in the middle of the mess, and that might be more embarrassing than helpful for her.
Jess and Harry are uncharacteristically quiet. Harry picks at the food on his tray, pushing it this way and that instead of eating. When Jess lifts her fork to her mouth, I glimpse a broad dark bruise on her wrist. Frowning, I examine the visible parts of her more carefully, and catch the edges of more bruises peeking from under her shirt collar and the other cuff of her shirt. She has pulled her hair into a side ponytail to cover part of her neck, but when she shifts in her seat, I see another dark splotch on her pale skin.
Startled, I glance at Viana, seated with the other vampires at the opposite end of the table. She doesn't seem the type to treat her blood-bag like this, not when she took such care not to traumatize Jess when she first arrived. After all, Jess said they were good friends now.
I'm sure the other suppliers have noticed Jess's injuries, but no one is discussing it. Maybe they already talked about it when I wasn't around. Or maybe it's one of those things you just don't talk about when you're a blood-bag.
Screw that.
"So what happened, Jess?" I ask boldly, looking her straight in the eyes.
"What do you mean?"
I point my fork at her wrist. "The bruises."
"Oh, I—I fell down the stairs. Yeah, it was so dumb—my foot just slipped right out from under me. I'm lucky I didn't break my neck." She gives me a tight-lipped smile.
She's lying obviously, and she knows that I know it. But what would be the point of pushing the matter any further? I don't want to lose the tentative acceptance I've gained among my fellow humans. For now, I'll keep my mouth shut and my eyes open.
The vampires here all seem fairly civilized, but I suppose they have the potential to go feral, to lose control of their strength. Maybe Viana hurt Jess without meaning to. Still not cool, but that would be better than intentional harm.
Or maybe it wasn't a vampire at all.
Sarah had a dalliance with a soldier. Who's to say Jess hasn't become involved with one of them, too? Any human who would beat up a vampire's blood-bag would have to be pretty stupid, but there are, unfortunately, plenty of stupid men still left in the world, even post-zombie-apocalypse.
I've also seen bruises like those any people who owed the Shardan Collective money and couldn't pay it. The first beating was a warning, a "get us that money or else" statement. Next would come the breaking of a limb or some fingers—which never made much sense to me because that incapacitates the person and renders them incapable of working and earning the money they owe.
Maybe Jess is involved with the Shardan Collective, or some other gang. She can't be doing drugs, though—Viana would notice it in her blood and put a stop to it.
The questions are still bouncing around in my head when Atlan and I and our bottle of bourbon enter Viana's rooms that evening. Atlan immediately removes his boots and sets them by the door, so I do the same.
"Whatever you do, don't spill anything on her rugs," he whispers to me, indicating the beautiful pattern carpets layered across the floor. Then he grins and waves the amber bottle at Viana, striding forward to the small table where she has set out glasses and a bottle of wine. Viana wears a loose emerald-green shirt that contrasts beautifully with her thick mass of tightly braided red hair. Her pants are loose and flowy, too—perfect for an evening of relaxation. She smiles at Atlan, the warm smile of a friend, or maybe a sister—and he kisses her cheek.
"Would you run down to the kitchen and get some ice?" Viana asks him.
"Sure." Atlan grabs a bowl and grins at me on the way out. "Go ahead, Trouble—settle in."
When he leaves, I inch further into the room. It's twice as large as Atlan's, with a big bed at one end, half-hidden by a folding screen. Two emerald-green couches laden with color-coordinated pillows face each other across a coffee table strewn wi
th cork coasters. The art on the walls has been carefully chosen to suit the room's palette, and each piece depicts nature with a side of pain—photos of plants with long poison-red thorns, a painting of a cheetah leaping for an gazelle's throat, prints of piranha skeletons and baboon skulls and python jaws. I wouldn't be surprised if Viana was an interior decorator in her former life, but her fascination with nature's violent side probably stems from her transformation into a vampire.
A smooth voice from the corner of the room. "If you're looking for a seat—"
I glance over. Charon relaxes in an armchair a little distance from the central seating area. He's so the stereotypical vampire—white skin, features more delicate than Atlan's, black-eyeliner, dark purple lipstick, and those piercings—
His tongue slides out, flicking the ring in his lip. "Come here." He pats his thigh.
I glance at Viana, but she has moved into the screened area of the room and is rummaging through a drawer of her dresser.
"I'm good, thanks," I tell Charon.
He leans forward, his dark eyes sparking. "I said, come here, slave."
I'm not his slave, not technically, but the last thing I want to do is cause trouble here. This was meant to be a fun gathering, and I'm not about to wreck it by defying one of the vampire warriors. Besides, what will it hurt if I perch on his leg for a minute? I won't like it, but it's not a big deal. Is it?
Gritting my teeth, I walk toward Charon. When I'm an arm's length away, I stop; but he takes my wrist and yanks me closer, until I'm between his legs.
"You're filling out, aren't you?" He swirls a finger over my right breast, ending with a tight circle around my nipple, and I inhale sharply. I hate that it feels so damn good to be touched that way. I hate that I'm letting him do it.
Charon grins, purple gums and white fangs, drawing a line downward over my bellybutton and along the zipper of my shorts. Desire snakes through my core, mingled with shame.
"Stop," I whisper.
He snatches his hand away, but the next second he's caught my arms and whirled me into his lap. He grips my chin with his fingers, turning my face this way and that. "You look like you need to be kissed, little one. Kissed good and hard, by someone who knows how."
"No, I really don't." My stomach is turning sickish now. If Atlan doesn't come back soon, I might have to hit Charon; and that won't end well.
He clamps a hand at the back of my neck and drags my face toward his, despite the stiff resistance of my neck and shoulders. His other hand grips my thigh.
His lips brush mine, barely, a tingling touch of skin, and his tongue darts out, flicking gently, teasing my lips open. The taste of him is narcotic, illicit, and his scent whispers wickedly in my brain, sex and amber and sharp musk.
I haven't been kissed in almost two years.
I wanted Atlan to kiss me.
The door to Viana's rooms opens, and I try to jerk away from Charon, but his hands are like steel vice-grips. I can't move, can't break the contact between his mouth and mine. A chill breaks out over my skin.
A faint growl from behind me. "What the hell, Charon?"
Charon releases my neck then, grinning. "She practically begged for it, Your Holiness. Seems your little angel here craves a bit of darkness."
"That's not true," I say hoarsely, but I'm flushed with anger and shame, and I can't meet Atlan's eyes. My vision isn't quite right, anyway—dizziness and heat clouds my mind.
Instinctively I move to get off Charon's lap, but his grip on my thigh tightens. "Not so fast, slave."
"Charon." Viana's voice is tight with tension. "What did we just discuss?"
He rolls his dark eyes. "Being respectful of other vampires' blood-bags."
"Exactly. And not pushing people beyond what they're willing to take." Her eyes flit to a closed door—Jess's room, probably.
"Finley, come here," Atlan says.
"No, no." Charon wraps his other hand around my waist. "Finley likes being here. Can't you tell?"
"Finley." Atlan's voice pierces through the haze of shame and pain clouding my mind. I lift my eyes to his. He's frowning, anxious, desperate in a way I've never seen him.
"I'm fine," I say softly.
"She's fine," echoes Charon, his thumb inching up to stroke the underside of my breast.
Atlan looks as though he might explode—but at that moment, Khalil and Sarah enter, and the dynamic in the room shifts. Sarah walks straight to the table, pours herself some of the whiskey, and tosses it down her throat.
"Nice," Charon says approvingly. "I'll take some of that." He shifts me off his knee, and with a parting squeeze of my butt, he heads for the drinks.
I position myself near Atlan, who seems to have lost all his enthusiasm for the evening. It's odd that finding me in Charon's lap could alter his mood so completely. Is he really that possessive? What about our excursion today, when he treated me like a friend instead of a slave?
Unless he's jealous.
Which would mean he has feelings for me. Just because he's asexual by medical necessity doesn't mean he can't have romantic inclinations, right? I had a friend in college who was ace, and she had a romantic partner. They didn't do anything more than cuddling and the occasional chaste kiss, but she told me there's an entire spectrum of difference ace experiences. Atlan is different, though—his condition is medical, a side effect of the serum used to cure his cancer, and not a sexual orientation.
So what if he likes me romantically? Would that be enough? I'm a very sexual person, and I'm not sure I'd be all right with never connecting with him in that way. I'd have to find sexual satisfaction elsewhere, and apparently he's not okay with that, either.
Tentatively I stroke my fingers over his tightly clenched hand. "You want a drink?"
Without answering, he walks away from me and pours himself a generous portion of the whiskey. I help myself to some of Viana's wine, but it's been so long since I drank that it turns my head fuzzy almost immediately. At least, I think it's the wine. I've been feeling dizzy off and on since we got back from the city, and it's definitely getting worse.
Harry shows up a few minutes later, and Charon's attention switches to him. By the time the whiskey bottle is empty, the two of them are in a debauched twist on the couch, shirts long ago tossed to the floor. Charon alternately sips whiskey from his glass and blood from Harry's throat. They're both so beautiful I can barely take my eyes off them, despite how much I dislike Charon. Maybe it's the wine, but I find myself drifting toward the two men, a faint smile on my lips. A step away, my balance fails, and I waver, but Charon's arm snakes out to catch me, and he tugs me into the nest of their intertwined bodies.
Their heat and the haze of the wine flood my senses—I'm being overwhelmed, drowned in smooth skin and male warmth. Harry kisses the corner of my jaw, and Charon cups my breast, claiming my mouth.
I'm barely conscious of Atlan glowering from a chair in the corner, or Viana, Khalil, and Sarah talking quietly as they play cards. Jess never made an appearance. Maybe if she had, I wouldn't be the one sandwiched between the sexy vampire and his hot slave.
As delicious as it feels, something isn't right. This dizziness isn't normal for me, not after just one glass of wine.
"Your skin is so hot," whispers Charon against my shoulder.
It is. I am hot, blazing hot—and then suddenly cold, so cold—chills bursting over my skin. Weakness floods my body, seeping like ice through my veins.
I'm no doctor, and it's been ages since I took my own temperature—but I think I might have a fever. It makes sense, I guess. Blue City is full of germs, and that filthy pub Atlan took me to was probably a cesspool of contagion.
When did I take my shirt off?
Weakly I push at the beautifully muscled male arms confining me to the couch.
"Atlan," I murmur, but he's gone from the chair in the corner. His back is turned; he's disappearing out the door—he's leaving me here. The door clicks shut behind him.
"Atlan!" I say, lo
uder, but Charon muffles the word with his mouth.
"Atlan doesn't have what you need, little slave," he whispers.
"No." I push his face away. "No. I have to go."
Harry shifts his position, helping me stand. "You okay?" he asks.
Charon snarls at him, catching Harry's throat in his hand. "Spoilsport." His head whips back, and then he sinks his fangs into Harry's shoulder.
"Can you make it back to your room?" Sarah calls to me from the card game.
"Yes," I tell her, although I'm honestly not sure. I manage to drag myself through the door and close it, and then I stagger along the hallway toward Atlan's room.
When I reach the door, it's locked.
"Atlan," I say faintly; but the creeping weakness in my body takes over and I collapse, my fingernails scraping along the door. It's dark here, at the end of the hallway—dark and cold, so icy cold. I lie in the shadows, my legs curled up to my chest, shaking so hard I think my bones might rattle apart. Sweat collects under my arms and along my spine, coating my forehead and the back of my neck. I'm sick. Very sick. Can't move, can't—
I float into a horrible hellscape of ice and fire, chilled skin and burning bones. My blood pounds in my ears, a thundering rhythm that won't let me sleep—and I want to sleep. I want my bed. My lips part to call for my vampire, but they're dry, and so is my tongue, and somehow I can't form his name. Pain coils in my stomach, tightening, tightening.
Time becomes a fluid, formless thing. At some point, doors close far, far away down the hall, but no one sees me here, curled in the deep shadows.
Time oozes into darkness.
A darkness that finally breaks with the sharp click of a door opening—a sound loud as thunder, so loud I would cover my ears if I had the strength.
"Finley!" Atlan's voice.
He looks strange—blurry, foggy. His hands are so cold that I flinch and whimper.
"You're burning up," he says. "Oh god, Trouble. Were you—were you out here all night? No—oh no. I thought you were with Charon—oh, damn it."
Strong arms collect me, pulling me free of gravity. The world spins around me, sickening my stomach, until I land on something soft—my bed.
Enslaved To The Vampire Zombie-Hunter (Pandemic Monsters Book 1) Page 11
