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

by Veronica Sommers

  "Yes. Please stop."

  "I said, do you want me to stop?"

  Is he deaf? "Yes! Stop!"

  He shakes his head. "Wrong answer." And dives back in.

  This time I find strength for a louder scream, and he releases one of my wrists and clamps a hand over my mouth. He lifts his head again. "Shut up, or I'll bite through your neck."

  Panting, I freeze.

  "Do you want me to stop?"

  He's playing mind games now. All I can do is play along until someone comes, until Atlan gets back, or Charon loses interest in me—

  I force the words through clenched teeth. "Don't stop."

  "That's a good girl. For that, you get a nice long lick."

  He scoots down on the bed, shifting his weight off my legs and hooking his fingers into my shorts. His tongue sweeps my blood from his upper lip.

  With horrific clarity I realize where he plans to lick me, and suddenly, suddenly the fire comes—strength waking inside of me, and a flaming rage. My wrists are free now—with a dart of quick fingers, I rip the silver ring right out of his lip. Blood sprays, and he roars with pain, but I don't hesitate—I pull my legs free and leap from the bed, staggering through the doorway of my room, lunging for the weapons Atlan has mounted on his bedroom wall.

  I'm weakening already, struggling against the aftereffects of my illness and the loss of blood. My hands close around the hilt of a sword, but my arms feel so unbearably heavy, and the weight of the weapon drags them down. Screeching with frustration at myself, I manage to hoist it and point it at Charon, who advances toward me with his wicked fangs bared and bloody. Blood from his torn lip streams down his chin, dripping onto the floor.

  "You're making a mess," I tell him.

  He hisses, spitting blood. "You're going to pay for this, slave. I'm going to rip off parts of you that Atlan can't heal."

  I choke down a sob of terror and swing the sword at him, foolishly, childishly—and he laughs, a shrill cackle. "You think you can kill me?"

  "Maybe not," I answer faintly. "But I'm not submitting to you anymore."

  He opens his mouth to respond—and the bloody point of a sword slides neatly out of his mouth, between his jaws.

  For a second he's frozen—and I stare at the tip of the sword protruding from his mouth, and at the dark figure standing behind him.

  Then the sword is yanked out again, and Charon crumples, eyelids slipping down and mouth slackening. His body lands with a sickening thump.

  Harry stands in the doorway, his cheeks wet with tears and his jaw shaking. The sword falls from his fingers, clattering to the floor, and he sinks to his knees beside it. "Charon," he moans, a broken sound, and he bends forward, resting his forehead against the dead vampire's brow.

  I drop my own sword and sit down, pulling together the remnants of my shirt over my bleeding chest.

  "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," rambles Harry. "I'm so sorry."

  I'm not sure if he's apologizing to me or to Charon.

  "Thank you," I whisper.

  "He wasn't always like this. He wasn't. I tried to be enough for him. I tried to make sure he gave the pain to me, only to me." Harry looks up, his eyes red. "I could take it. And he could be gentle, sometimes. But the girl in the city—he tore her up, Finley. Then he hurt Jess, and now you—I had to stop him. I had to. No one else loved him enough to do it."

  When he crumples again, I feel myself wilting too. I can't stay upright anymore. My head is swimming, or maybe the world is—I'm not sure. I'm weak again, maybe in shock—the best thing to do is to lie down.

  I don't know how long I lie there, listening to Harry's sobs, staring at Charon's icy, elegant profile, and the black waves of his hair matted with blood.

  I keep thinking, over and over, that he had a gift. He had a purpose. He had love.

  He despised it all.

  If there's a worse disease than terminal cancer, it's the eternal, insatiable craving for everything that isn't yours.

  18

  Finley

  Jess is the first one to arrive on the scene. She throws a blanket over me, kicks the sword further away from Harry, and runs off to get help. Dimly I register her return with Robbins, the Captain, and Atlan—Atlan, who picks me up stone-faced and carries me into my room, where he folds back the blanket and my shirt to reveal my ravaged chest. For a second he turns his head away, a muscle in his face shifting tightly. Then he lowers his head to my breasts. His tongue slips along the sore flesh, painful at first, then soothing as the chemicals in his saliva begin to work on me. By tomorrow, the skin will have knit back together, and I'll be good as new.

  I close my eyes while he's working over me, the cool air of the room raising goose bumps on my skin in the wake of his wet tongue. My nipples stiffen, an embarrassing reaction I can't control.

  The strokes of that slippery tongue finally cease, and a blanket drops over me. I don't open my eyes for several minutes, and when I do, I half expect him to be gone. But he's still there, gazing at me with such pain in his eyes that my own fill with tears again.

  "I'm sorry," he says. "I shouldn't have left you alone tonight."

  "You couldn't have known what he'd do." The words rasp from my bruised throat.

  "Is there—anywhere else he hurt you?"

  "No."

  "What do you need right now? Anything you want."

  "Some water, maybe?"

  He disappears immediately and returns in a couple minutes with a full glass. I sip slowly before settling back down.

  Captain Markham enters my room, his face sober. "Miss Mars, how are you?"

  "I'm all right."

  "She's not," spits Atlan. "That animal nearly tore her apart."

  "I understand your anger," says the Captain. "But Charon is dead now. There's nothing more you can do to him."

  "What about Harry?" I whisper. "He did what he had to. Please don't punish him."

  Captain Markham shakes his head slowly. "That's not up to me. He'll go to trial for killing a vampire."

  "What do you mean that's not up to you?" I push myself up on my elbows. "What's the point of being a leader if you can't freaking do anything about important things like this? You have to protect him."

  "I'll do my best."

  "Why don't I believe you?"

  "Miss Mars, you need to rest. Your illness, and now this—you should get some sleep and recover so you can resume your duties. Sick or not, injured or not—we all have a role to play if we hope to maintain our place here at Deathcastle."

  My jaw drops at the subtle threat, the hint of "stay in your place and make yourself useful, or I'll kick you out."

  Atlan glares at the Captain's retreating back. "He'll never make you leave. I won't let him. You're mine."

  The old me, pre-Gorging feminist me, would have protested at that possessive term. But honestly, at this moment and in this savage world, his claim is more of a comfort than anything else. Belonging to Atlan doesn't mean slavery—it means safety, and the privilege of being myself in ways I haven't enjoyed for two years.

  Robbins enters briefly with a shot of Sanguadyne to restore my blood volume, and then everyone else leaves Atlan's quarters, taking with them Charon's body and a distraught Harry. I can't help Harry now, but at least I thanked him when I had the chance.

  Atlan watches them leave, then turns back to me. "What else can I do? What else do you need? Food?"

  "My throat is too sore to swallow anything right now. I should sleep."

  "Of course." He nods, rising, but I catch his hand.

  "No, please don't leave. Please." My fingers look pale and thin, clinging to his long, strong ones.

  Slowly I scoot over in the bed until my back is pressed to the wall, and I beg him with my eyes, smoothing the sheets beside me.

  After a moment's hesitation, he removes his boots. His shirt and pants both have traces of blood on them, so he strips those off as well and lies down beside me in his boxers. It's a single bed, so the tiniest scooch on my p
art brings my body to his. He's stiff, unsure, so I arrange myself as I want to be—on my right side, pressed against him, with my head on his chest and his left arm along my back, his hand draped over my waist. The physical contact hurts a little because of the wounds on my breasts, but the bites are already feeling better, so I ignore the twinge of pain. It's a small price to pay for the pleasure of physical comfort from him. A soft sigh of satisfaction escapes me, and I relax, my eyes drifting shut.

  Atlan is still rigid with tension, stress singing through every taut muscle of his shoulders and arms. With my left hand I stroke the planes of his chest, reveling in the thrill of being allowed to soothe him—and slowly, slowly, the strain eases from his body. I wonder how long it's been since he shared a bed with anyone—since anyone touched him like this. Touching isn't all about sex, after all. It can also be about trust, and relief, and safety, and quiet sensation.

  "Finley." The word ripples through his bones and flesh to my ear.

  "Hmm."

  "I—"

  The pause that follows is so long I nearly drift off. But then he shifts, tilting my face toward him with his right hand and pressing a long, soft kiss to my forehead. That kiss is an antidote, washing away all the poison Charon left in my mind.

  We don't speak again, but slip away into sleep together.

  When I wake up, I can't remember, for a moment, where I am or what happened last night, but my heart is sore, burdened with a dark dread. I shift my position, and discover that I'm draped across something firm and smooth—Atlan's bare back. He's on his stomach, one arm hanging off the bed.

  It all rushes back in—what happened with Charon, what Harry did. Softening the nightmarish memory is the knowledge that I'm in the same bed as my vampire crush.

  Softly I relax against him, relishing his warmth. I feel sorry for girls in books who had to be with stone-cold vampires. Not nice at all.

  Indulging myself, I run my palm along his back, from his shoulder blade all the way down, over that perfectly curved backside of his. And I can't resist giving it the lightest squeeze.

  "See anything you like, Trouble?"

  Atlan's voice startles me so badly that I jump and snatch back my hand. "Sorry."

  He sighs. "It's fine. Feels nice, actually."

  Nice—in a pleasant platonic way. But for me, touching his butt is definitely titillating.

  Tentatively I repeat the sweep of my hand, shoulder to rump, with a gentle squeeze. Warmth flares inside me, and Atlan sniffs lightly.

  "You're getting excited, aren't you?" he says, a smile in his voice. "Good to know you're still your usual horny self, even after last night."

  "Shut up." I shrink away from him, toward the wall, but I can't help a tiny smile.

  He moves as if he's going to get up, and then his entire body freezes in place for a moment, paralyzed.

  "What is it? Are you okay?" I ask, reaching for his shoulder.

  "I'm fine," he snaps. "Don't touch me."

  I recoil, hurt, and he leaps out of the bed and disappears into his room, closing my bedroom door.

  19

  Atlan

  It's been decades since I've had morning wood.

  It's a miracle, a marvel—I just want to stare at it for a while, so I hurry into the bathroom and shut myself in a stall. I stand there, relishing the sensations I haven't felt in ages—the blood throbbing through the length of me, the heat and stiffness, the tension of desire in my gut.

  At first, I don't dare touch it, because I'm afraid everything will go limp and inert. What if I pleasure myself and then this never happens again? But if I don't work with what I've got, my body might slip back into its usual impotent state for good.

  In the end I can't resist. With Finley dancing through my mind, I gently urge myself further along the path to release. Slow and steady strokes, muscle memory from ages ago. It takes a long time, but eventually the heat builds, and my body tightens, thrills all over—I break into goosebumps and I have to bite my own wrist to keep from screaming at the intensity of the pleasure that crashes over me.

  My legs weaken, and I slump against the stall barrier, shaking. Almost crying because it happened, and I'm terrified that it will never happen again.

  Orgasms weren't ever this good when I was human. They couldn't have been, because that was—that was some serious damn bliss. How could I ever think I was okay living without that?

  But this miracle can't last, right? It's too good to be true.

  If it is true, I could give Finley more than my heart. I could give her everything.

  She has wanted me since the first time I drank from her. She'd be thrilled about this.

  But I can't tell her until I'm sure this is real, that it's not just a fluke—because what if I'm still broken? Or what if she only wants my body and not my love?

  Honestly I'll settle for anything she deigns to give me at this point. Sometimes I feel like collapsing at her feet, just begging her for mercy, worshiping her—she has reduced me to a kind of puddle of a man, and I don't even care.

  When I saw her lying on the floor in my room last night, so pale, so weak, I thought I might explode with fear and fury. And when I laid her on the bed and saw for myself what Charon had done—

  I wish to hell he were still alive so I could kill him personally.

  After she went through that, how can I even think about offering myself to her? She was nervous about my feedings from the beginning—she's bound to be even more skittish now. I won't set my teeth to her skin, not when that image of her is still fresh in my mind—her throat bruised, her beautiful breasts torn up by Charon's fangs.

  Best thing I can do for her is to give her time to recover. Time, and space. That way I can figure out my stuff, and she can work through the trauma in her own way.

  Until she has really, fully recovered, I can get blood elsewhere. I've done it before. I'm used to it.

  20

  Finley

  I don't see Atlan again until I go downstairs for breakfast—a quiet, subdued meal during which the others keep giving me pitying looks until I snap at them to "act normal, for heaven's sake." Later I go with Atlan to the wall and watch him work. He doesn't ask for a feeding afterward, and we return to Deathcastle with little or no conversation. He urges me to rest, brings me dinner, and leaves me alone for the night. I don't protest, even though I would have loved to have him snuggle with me again.

  The next day proceeds the same way—with barely any communication from him, just a silent, desperate attentiveness to my needs. Oddly, rather than helping me feel safe or happy, his heightened consideration makes me anxious. He doesn't ask to feed, and I miss the intimacy of those moments, his hands on my skin, his mouth against my flesh.

  Something has changed in him, and I'm not sure I like it.

  On the third morning, I slip out of my room before he wakes and sit on the edge of his bed. When he's asleep, he's not the vivid, compelling kind of beautiful he is during his waking hours—it's a softer, more sensual kind of pretty. I love the curves of the dark lashes sweeping his cheekbones, and the untidy tumble of black hair above his forehead. Yielding to an impulse, I smooth his mussed eyebrow with a fingertip.

  He's awake immediately, blue eyes shining into mine. "Are you all right?"

  He has asked me that so often in the past few days, and it's getting old. "I'm fine," I say tersely; and then, more gently, "I thought you might need some blood." I lay my palm over his heart, expecting the beat of it to be slow and irregular, as it usually is when the supply of my blood in his veins is running low.

  But the thrum of his heart under my hand is strong and steady. I frown, confused. "How can you be doing so well? You haven't had blood in a long while."

  He looks away from me, passing a hand across his forehead with a sigh. "Finley—"

  I stand abruptly, my fists tightening. "You're still drinking from someone else."

  "Finley, you need time—"

  "I'm fine. Look." I pull down the neck
of my shirt to show him my breasts, and when he refuses to look I catch his jaw and force his head to turn my way. "You fixed me. I'm healed. I'm over it."

  "You're over it?" He sounds unconvinced. "But Finley, what happened to you—"

  "This isn't life before the Gorging. I don't get the luxury of collapsing internally because a crazed vampire took a nonconsensual drink from me, okay? I've been through worse. I hacked off my boyfriend's head with a bread knife, Atlan. I watched zombies massacre my team, my found family, after months of living with them. When I was on the streets, I ate—" I nearly gag at the bare memory of it— "I ate rotting meat. With grubs in it. Okay? I may have been weak the other night, and at various times throughout my life, but I bounce back. I get up again. I don't stay down."

  He sits up, reaching for my hands, but I recoil a few steps. "I don't need you to baby me. I'm not some fragile flower, and I don't appreciate being treated like one. You, needing me—it's part of who I am now. It makes me happy, knowing that I'm helping you fight the hordes, save lives. It's—it's what I can do, to make a difference. You can't take that away from me. Don't take it away."

  "I won't," he says, rising. "Finley, I won't."

  "Good." I bite off the word, glaring at him.

  "Thank you for telling me that. I may have a few extra decades behind me, but believe it or not, I'm still not very intuitive." He moves toward me, uncertain, clearly wanting something and unsure of how I'll react. After a second, he opens his arms, eyebrows raised for permission.

  I step into the hug, into the heat and the strength of him, into safety and the one thing I prize more than anything else in this apocalyptic world. My arms slip around his waist, tightening over the soft jersey material of his T-shirt and the hard muscle underneath. With my head against his chest, I can hear his heart, pumping someone else's blood through his body. I wonder who it was, who he drank from. Was it a woman? Did she admire him, want him?

  Now I'm just being ridiculous, and foolishly jealous. I'm really not this person—the kind of person who wants someone else so badly, with such raw need, that the thought of anyone else getting him is unbearable as hellfire. I tighten the hug, pressing myself tighter to him, claiming him in my thoughts. Mine. He is mine.