Dead Sexy

by Amanda Ashley

  “Then why do you keep some in your refrigerator?”

  He shrugged. “For emergencies. For an occasional guest.” He glanced out the window. The sky was turning light in the east. “Are you about through?”

  Regan followed his gaze. “Yes, let’s go.”

  Santiago paid the bill and darted across the street to their motel room. Grabbing her handbag, Regan hurried after him.

  It was pretty much like every other motel room she had ever seen—a queen-sized bed flanked by matching nightstands, a dresser, and a portable Satellite Screen bolted to the wall. The carpet was an unremarkable shade of brown. The bathroom had a combination tub and shower. The countertop was puke green.

  Regan glanced around, dismayed when she realized there was only one room.

  She looked over at Santiago, and quickly looked away.

  “It troubles you that there is only one room.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Afraid I might want to share your bed?”

  She stared at him, wondering why the thought wasn’t as repulsive as it should have been. She really was losing her mind, she thought, to even consider sleeping in the same bed with a vampire, no matter how sexy he was, or how attracted she was to him.

  “Not to worry,” he said dryly. “I will sleep on the floor under the bed.”

  “Under the bed? Wouldn’t it be easier to just get another room? I mean, I haven’t noticed anyone following us, have you?”

  “No, but I will not leave you alone.”

  “I admire your sense of chivalry, I really do, but…” She lifted one shoulder and let it fall. “I don’t know what help you’ll be if Vasile happens to show up while you’re asleep.”

  “If you need me, I will know it. Self-preservation is very strong in my kind, as is the instinct to protect those we…”

  Regan’s heart skipped a beat as she waited for him to finish his thought.

  “Those we care about.”

  “And you care about me?”

  “More than is good for either of us.”

  “I care for you, too,” she murmured, and wondered how and when it had happened. She had known him only a short time. They had shared little more than a few kisses and yet, in spite of the danger that threatened her and the nagging fear that she might be a werewolf, she couldn’t think of anywhere else she would rather be, or anyone else she would rather be with.

  As if sensing her thoughts, Santiago closed the distance between them and drew her into his arms. “Do you know how beautiful you are? So incredibly beautiful.” His hand moved in her hair, lightly massaging her scalp.

  A shuddering sigh escaped Regan’s lips. How could such a simple touch feel so erotic?

  “Your spirit is so strong,” he went on, his voice low and whiskey smooth, “and yet you are so fragile. So desirable…” His lips brushed hers lightly. “I never intended to love anyone again.”

  She blinked up at him. “You…you love me?”

  “It does not please you?”

  “I didn’t think vampires were capable of love.” But even as she uttered the words, she remembered the woman he had told her about. The Gypsy girl, Marishka.

  Santiago looked down at her, amusement dancing in his dark eyes. “Do you think we are only capable of hatred?”

  “I…I sort of thought all those human emotions were, I don’t know, wiped out when you became a vampire.”

  He grunted softly. “It would be easier if they were.”

  “I find it hard to believe that the vampire who killed those teenagers was harboring any tender feelings.”

  “Like anything else, what is not nourished gradually withers and dies.”

  “So you have to make a conscious effort to hang onto your human emotions?”

  He nodded.

  “I’m glad you did.”

  “As am I,” he said, his eyes glowing with an intensity that sent a shiver down her spine.

  Regan’s heart began to beat a little faster. Hardly aware of what she was doing, she tilted her head back a little, hoping he would kiss her.

  But it wasn’t her mouth he was looking at. His gaze was focused on the hollow of her throat—and the pulse beating there.

  “Joaquin…”

  “One taste?” he asked, his voice almost a growl. “A sip, no more.”

  “Don’t, please,” she whispered. “You’re scaring me.”

  His arm tightened around her waist. She had often heard of a man’s arm feeling like a steel band. Usually, it was just an exaggeration, but not in this case. She saw the change in his eyes, saw the internal struggle as he fought down the urge to take what he wanted by force, if necessary. She had never done drugs, but she thought being a vampire must be a little like being an addict, the craving for blood a constant clamor for one more hit, one more taste, one more…

  She had always admired his ability to be in control of the hunger that lurked forever just under the surface. She only hoped he didn’t lose hold on that control now.

  She stood quiescent in his embrace, afraid to move for fear any movement on her part would be mistaken for flight, arousing the vampire’s instinctive urge to hunt. She could feel her heart beating erratically in her chest, hear it roaring in her ears, and knew that, with his preternatural senses, he could hear it, too. He was still staring at her throat.

  “Santiago,” she implored. “Please, don’t…”

  “Ah, Regan, you tempt me almost beyond my power to resist.”

  Hardly daring to breathe, she clung to the word “almost,” felt her whole body go weak with relief when his arm fell away from her waist and he backed away from her.

  “Rest well,” he said, and before she could reply, he turned and slid gracefully under the bed, hidden from her sight by the overhang of the bedspread.

  She stood there a moment, her heart still beating wildly, unable to think clearly. So much had happened in the last few days, she feared she was on sensory overload. Too many dead bodies. Learning that werewolves weren’t extinct. Being bitten. Living with the fear that she would become a werewolf at the next full moon. Meeting Santiago. Kissing Santiago. How much more could one girl take and remain sane?

  She stared at the place where he had stood only moments before. Vampires had amazing powers. Could he see through the bedspread? Would he watch if she undressed for bed, or, rather than take that chance, should she just sleep in her clothes? Maybe he was already unconscious, trapped in the Dark Sleep of his kind, but how was she to know?

  And how was she going to get any sleep, knowing he was in the same room?

  Grabbing her overnight case, she went into the bathroom and locked the door, then stood at the sink, staring at her reflection in the mirror. What would she look like as a werewolf? Would she have blond fur and green eyes? What would it be like to run on all fours? To have a tail? And sharp white teeth, the better to eat you with, my dear?

  She had told Santiago she would rather be a werewolf. For one thing, vampires were vampires every day, or night, of the year, whereas werewolves were compelled to change only during the full moon. True, Vasile could shift whenever he wished, but he was a rare exception. If she went into the woods or some other unpopulated place before she shifted, perhaps she could avoid killing anyone.

  As for being a vampire, except for Santiago and perhaps a few other ancient vampires, the Undead were helpless during the day, every day of the year, dragged down into the darkness of oblivion whether they wished it or not. They had to drink blood to survive. They had to live in protected areas, and if someone came along and changed the law and that protection was lifted, they would again be hunted because they were different and therefore to be feared and destroyed.

  “Eeny, meeny, miney, moe…werewolf or vampire, which way should I go?”

  She was losing it, she thought, stifling the urge to laugh. No doubt the men in white coats would show up and haul her off to the funny farm long before she and Santiago reached the Black Hills. And wouldn’t the attendants be surpr
ised when they discovered they had a werewolf in their midst?

  “Stop it!” Undressing, she took a quick shower, pulled on her nightgown, and brushed her teeth, all the while refusing to think of anything but the task at hand. There was no Santiago. There were no werewolves. She was getting ready for bed. Soon she would be asleep.

  She switched off the bathroom light and hurried across the floor to the bed. She slipped under the covers, turned off the bedside lamp, closed her eyes, and took several deep, calming breaths.

  They would find the cave. They would find the shaman. He would help her with the cure. And everything would be all right.

  Santiago loved her…it was her last conscious thought before sleep found her.

  The following evening they stopped at a small sporting goods store to buy suitable clothing and footwear for climbing. Santiago had chosen—what else but black, of course. Black T-shirt, black jacket, black pants, black boots. Regan picked a pair of blue jeans, a red T-shirt, a denim jacket, and brown boots. She also bought a pair of white shorts and sneakers in case the weather was warm during the day.

  The store also sold groceries. Santiago followed her up and down the aisles. She looked at him inquiringly when he told her to buy enough food for two.

  “The extra food is for the shaman,” he explained. “It is customary to take a gift when one is asking for a favor.”

  Regan nodded. That made sense. In addition to the food, Santiago tossed a small sack of tobacco into the cart. “Also a gift.”

  When the clerk at the check-out counter found out they were going into the Hills, he admonished them to be careful, warning them to be on the alert, not only for wild animals, but also for wild Indians.

  “The Sioux don’t take lightly to trespassers these days,” he said somberly. “It’s almost like we’re back in the eighteen-hundreds, when a man was putting his life on the line every time he entered Indian territory. I’ve heard things.” He shook his head, then, after looking around to make sure they were alone, he whispered, “There’s been some killings up in the Hills. It’s all hush-hush, but word gets around, you know?”

  “Thank you for the warning,” Santiago said.

  The man nodded. “You, ah, might want to think about buying a gun, if you don’t have one already.”

  Santiago smiled faintly. “That will not be necessary.” Regan already had a pistol. He knew she carried it with her at all times and slept with it tucked under her pillow. The scent of the weapon was a part of her, a very tiny, rather disagreeable part which, perversely, added to her allure. He had never been with a woman who possessed not only the knowledge but also the means to destroy him.

  Gathering their purchases, Regan and Santiago left the store.

  “Hope to see you again,” the clerk called after them.

  A sentiment with which Regan heartily agreed.

  At the car, Santiago stowed all the food into his backpack, so that all Regan had to carry was her sleeping bag and her extra clothing, and the six candy bars she had added to the cart at the last minute.

  “Comfort food,” she had told Santiago with a shrug, thinking that on a trip like this one, chocolate was the one thing she didn’t want to be without.

  Bathed in the light of the moon and stars, the sacred Black Hills rose up from the plains like some mystical mountain of legend. It was here that the Sioux and Cheyenne Indians had roamed for hundreds of years, here that General George Armstrong Custer had found gold, thereby sealing the fate of the Indians who had lived there at the time.

  The Hills belonged to the Sioux now, and members of the tribe from all over the world had come home. Large herds of buffalo foraged in the Hills again. Deer and elk grazed in the deep grasses, bears roamed the timbered hills, wolves and coyotes stalked the land, birds nested in the trees, fish filled the rivers and streams, beavers built dams, and the spotted eagle again soared over the tops of the sacred mountains.

  Santiago drove as close to the Hills as he could and then he pulled off the road and parked the car. He shouldered his backpack, helped Regan with hers, and started walking.

  Regan followed close behind, hoping she could keep up. She considered herself to be in pretty good shape, all things considered. She worked out from time to time, and she jogged around the department track on a regular basis, but she was afraid hiking to the top of the Black Hills was out of her league.

  The landscape was beautiful and eerie in the darkness. Regan knew it was her imagination, but as they started their trek up the mountain, she was certain she could feel the spirits of all those who had inhabited the Hills in years gone by hovering nearby. Their voices called to her, muffled by the evening breeze, so that she wasn’t sure if the mountain’s ghosts were singing a welcome or chanting a warning. She listened to the sounds of the night—the rustle of the leaves on the trees, the lonely wail of a coyote, the cautious hoot of an owl.

  Beside her, Santiago swore softly.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “The owl,” he said, and she heard the faint note of self-mockery in his voice. “The Apache believe the call of an owl is a harbinger of death.”

  “Maybe he knows there’s a vampire nearby,” Regan said with a wry grin.

  “Perhaps.”

  “You can’t be afraid of dying,” she remarked, “since you’re already dead.”

  He looked at her, his eyes glowing like a cat’s in the darkness. “But you, my lovely little mortal, are not.”

  His words sent a cold shiver racing down her spine.

  They walked for hours, steadily climbing higher and higher. When Regan grew weary, Santiago carried her. At first, she protested, but then, seeing how effortlessly he managed it, she rested her head on his shoulder and went to sleep.

  Santiago gazed down at the woman in his arms. Seeing her, holding her, only seemed to emphasize how empty his life had been. For centuries, he had been content to drift through his existence, always keeping his distance from those around him, never becoming involved in the world or its affairs.

  But Regan…there was something about her, an air of strength and vulnerability he found endearing. Of course, it didn’t hurt that her skin was smooth and baby soft, or that her body was young and supple, or that her hair was like a shimmering river of gold where it fell over his arm.

  He loved her. And he wanted her, wanted her with a single-mindedness such as he had not known since he became a new vampire drunk on the scent and the taste of blood. He ached with wanting her, not just her blood, but her love, as well. How had he existed all these centuries without her? And how would their relationship, new and tenuous as it was, change when she did?

  He rubbed his cheek against her hair. No doubt she would make a beautiful wolf.

  He walked until he sensed the coming dawn, then searched for a place where Regan could spend the day. He settled on a small clearing surrounded by tall trees. Holding Regan in one arm, he shook off his backpack, then unrolled her sleeping bag and spread it on the ground. He removed Regan’s backpack and gently lowered her onto the sleeping bag, drawing half of it over her. When that was done, he dug a pit and laid a fire.

  His skin tingled, the minor discomfort turning to pain as the sun began to climb higher in the sky.

  “Regan.” He shook her shoulder. “Regan, wake up.”

  With a sleepy sound, she opened her eyes. “What’s wrong?”

  “It is morning. I must go find a place to rest. Stay here until I return.”

  She glanced around. There were trees everywhere. The sky was still dark, though a faint light glowed in the east. “Where will you stay?”

  “Do not worry. I will find a place.”

  “But where…”

  “I do not have time to explain.” He kissed her quickly on the cheek, then vanished from her sight.

  Yawning, Regan sat up, wondering if she would ever get used to his coming and going so quickly. And where the heck was he going? As far as she could see, there was no place where he could hide from t
he sun. Reminding herself that he had existed for hundreds of years, she slid back into her sleeping bag and closed her eyes.

  The sun was high in the sky when next she woke. Rising, she stretched the kinks from her back and shoulders, wondering what she was going to do while Santiago slept. He had told her to stay where she was, though there was little need, since there was nowhere to go. A glance at her watch told her it was almost two o’clock. How was she going to pass the hours until sundown?

  Rummaging in her backpack, she found a box of matches and lit the fire Santiago had laid, then filled a blue-speckled coffee pot with water and put it in the coals. While waiting for the water to heat up, she found a convenient tree to hide behind while she relieved herself, though she didn’t know why she was hiding. There was no one to see her.

  Breakfast was a cup of instant coffee, a peach, and an enormous piece of coffee cake, which she figured she would walk off come nightfall.

  When she finished eating, she put out the fire, brushed her teeth, changed her underwear, again behind a tree, and then, with nothing else to do, she decided to take a short walk. Taking her gun from her handbag, she dropped it in the pocket of her jacket.

  The scenery was breathtakingly beautiful. The hills were covered with trees and shrubs and wildflowers. The sky was a clear, brilliant blue. There were birds and squirrels and chipmunks everywhere. She spent the better part of an hour watching two gray squirrels chase each other from tree to tree. Must be nice, she thought, to be so carefree, with nothing more worrisome than finding your next meal.

  Returning to her campsite, she fixed a quick lunch; then she sat down on her sleeping bag and turned on her MBox, hoping that listening to some soothing music would help relax her. With her back against a tree, she gazed at the countryside, trying to imagine what it must have been like back in the 1800s, when the whites were moving westward and the Indians were fighting to hang onto their land and their way of life. She had never been much for old Western movies, but she had watched a few in her time. Her favorites had been films like Wind-walker and Dances With Wolves and Winterhawk, and even the more contemporary Thunderheart, movies where the Indians had been portrayed as real people who were trying to survive in a harsh environment instead of mindless savages who killed indiscriminately and spoke in broken English. She had to admit, most of those films had also featured darkly handsome heroes, like Michael Dante in Winterhawk. She had watched that one over and over again, imagining herself as the innocent young white girl who had been kidnapped by Winterhawk and had refused to be rescued when her uncle found her.