Scratch Lines

by Elizabeth Blake

  I secured my weapon in the holster. When my wrists came back around, before the jacket sleeves settled, she saw scars. She clasped my hand and turned it palm up to see the edge of a fat scar snaking up the tender side of my wrist. Worried she'd think it had been a suicide attempt, I specified. “Claw mark.”

  Not so glamorous now, huh?

  She set her fingernail on the blot of insensitive tissue. For an instant I couldn't feel anything at all. As if her finger didn't exist or she wasn't really touching me. The world darkened and a murky tone chilled the room. This girl and I had nothing in common. I began to pull away, and she reached for me at the same time.

  “My, my,” said a voice. Male. Tenor. Trouble.

  Two men stood at the doorway. Immaculate. Stylish. Handsome. Eyes like worms wriggling in dark furrows. I've seen mutant leeches before and these men filled me with the same revulsion. A tremor rolled through me and turned into steel. Rachel stood perfectly still, clutching the silver bullet.

  “Two tender morsels playing house,” one cooed.

  They could have been brothers. Instantly, I had that dark-alley-feeling when something bad was going to happen and I'd have to shoot someone. I hoped these men weren't on my handshake list. There was only one exit, and they were standing in it. The men smiled. My gut instinct finally clicked with my slow brain and I realized the truth.

  They weren't human, these two. They lacked the wildly organic feel of mutts. These were more like evil mannequins with Cheshire grins.

  Vampires.

  I stepped in front of Rachel and she immediately pressed against my back.

  “Rachel,” one purred. “Aren't you going to offer us libations?”

  She gasped and they giggled like they were so clever. I reached back, touched her hip, and pushed her back a couple centimeters so I could pull the gun again.

  “Let's return to the party,” I said. Felt her vigorous nod tremble through her.

  “Perhaps you misunderstand,” one said.

  “We'll only take a sip...” said the other.

  “...a sweet, slow, single, harmless...”

  “...little taste. Of. Pleasure.” The way they shared sentences was super creepy, as I believe they meant it to be.

  “Time to move on, boys,” I said.

  “Only one drink,” they whined.

  “What could possibly go wrong?” one said. “Only a little bit...”

  “...only a gallon from such a...”

  “...pretty thing. How much can she spare, brother?”

  “Care to find out, brother?”

  “You wouldn't deny us, would you, Rachel?”

  They hadn't moved, but my skin crawled as if they had advanced across the cellar to breathe down our necks.

  “You know you want it,” they said.

  “The lady doesn't want anything,” I said.

  I never killed a vamp before and didn't know if I could. Maybe a really big, fast mutt could kill a vampire or four, but all I had was a gun in a confined space. I couldn't break their necks and make them stand still long enough to tear out their hearts with a corkscrew.

  “Stand aside,” I said. “You're obstructing a federal agent.”

  “But the girl is a chattel, Ms. Federal Agent. Aren't you, Rachel dear?”

  “Why else would you be Confirmed?” The brothers stepped closer.

  My heart did a sinking flip-flop. If Rachel was a Devoted donor, she had vowed to feed any vamp on demand. These hungry beasts had her implied consent. I decided to ignore their claim. No way would I let them drain the girl of blood. She trembled behind me.

  “I don't believe you,” I said. “Rachel doesn't sport the Devoted insignia or have bite marks. I think you have the wrong girl.”

  “Why would we lie?” they said, with an elegant press of their hands over their bosom. Mirror image of each other.

  Christ.

  We were going to die. They'd attack and Rachel would inevitably do something silly, like run. The predators would catch her before I learned if bullets killed these bastards or if I needed a fire ax to do the job.

  “No free lunch tonight, boys,” I said.

  “You haven't the right...”

  “...or the power...”

  “To. Stop. Us.”

  “Rachel, tell the agent what you signed up for.”

  I squeezed her hip and mentally told her to shut up. Amazingly, she understood. Or was too scared to speak.

  “I can smell you, my pretty.” One stepped to the left.

  “One taste,” the other said, moving in the opposite direction. Hunting like a pack of laughing hyenas. “You wouldn't deny us something so blissful? Please. We need it.”

  “We're hungry.”

  “Have pity.”

  “Have a heart.”

  “Please, dearie. Pretty please, dear, pretty, pretty, pretty. Please.”

  I didn't think vampires could hypnotize someone, but they sure as heck were trying. Repulsive. They were like insects that wouldn't crawl back down the drain. Their beauty meant nothing. I pulled the gun. Rachel flinched.

  “This is where I get off the psycho train,” I said. “I do not recognize your claim over this woman. You have no authority here.”

  “Why deny our divinity? Don't you believe us?”

  “I see two rapists threatening to violate an innocent. I'll shoot you in the face, ugly you up, and they'll call me a hero. Go ahead, test me. I'm real handy at sticking to a story when I find one I like. I have enough silver bullets to make you both suffer dreadfully for a long time.”

  The creature on the right snarled, revealing fang. The flash of predatory teeth gave me fear, like standing in front of a maniac hopped up on meth and holding an Uzi. I shoved the trembling sensation away and replaced it with arrogance.

  “Move,” I commanded.

  “Silver,” one whispered to the other. Bingo: even if silver didn't kill them, they didn't want to risk the pain.

  “We'll see you later, sweet, succulent Rachel.”

  They joined hands in a mockery of how they found us. Their fancy shoes clicked down the hall as they sniggered melodically. Lowering the weapon, my arm shook. I glared at Rachel. She immediately became more irritating than charming. I killed monsters to keep blood in human veins, and she pledged to donate hers.

  “Vampires?”

  She flinched, wide-eyed.

  “What the hell, girl? Confirmation makes you a human sacrifice, an immolated lamb. Life is short enough and you've already signed yours away. Spreading your veins to get fang-fucked by a random monster. What the hell possessed you?”

  “Daddy thought it would be a good idea,” she said, sounding betrayed and senseless. “It's so popular. And they were so beautiful.”

  “Not so pretty anymore, huh?”

  Her lips quivered. She'd cry if I kept at her in that tone. I holstered the gun and said, “Sit down.”

  She plopped her ass onto a cask.

  “Can the pledge be reversed? Is there an...unconfirmation ceremony to take you off the menu?”

  “If I recant a Pledge of Blood, my soul is forfeit.”

  “Sweetie, your soul is already on the chopping block.”

  I opened a bottle of wine and handed it to her. She needed fortitude. I painfully, achingly avoided grabbing the bottle and drinking from it. The aroma alone made my innards burn. Or was that residual fear?

  Rachel guzzled. Wine slopped onto her chin and she caught the drizzle with the back of her hand. A flash of metal betrayed the bullet clenched tightly in her fist. She gasped like she'd say something but decided to have another drink instead.

  I'd never confronted vamps before. Never been cornered by two of them. Never came across something I wasn't confident could bleed to death.

  Made me feel horrifically mortal.

  Doomed, even.

  “I didn't know vampires could be hurt by bullets,” Rache said, lips dark with wine rouge.

  “Me, neither.”

  “You bl
uffed?” She shook. I tried not to. Adrenaline stung like battery acid in my empty stomach. Wine vapors taunted my nostrils. She'd gone through half the bottle. She'd be drunk by the time I brought her upstairs.

  “Let's get out of here. Feeling better?” I'd be feeling better if I downed half a bottle of wine in three gulps. She nodded, face wan and tight.

  “Thanks.” As an afterthought, she offered the silver bullet.

  “Keep it.”

  She shivered madly. I slipped from my jacket. She saw the plethora of scars and her eyes widened to saucers. Her mouth opened.

  “Whatever you're about to say, keep it to yourself,” I snarled.

  Wisely, she did.

  I clenched my teeth and settled the jacket over her shoulders. I was sick of monsters. Sick and tired. I ushered her to the stairs. She stumbled, wine going to her head. I put my arm around her as a precaution against her staggered steps. We reached the main hall and I lowered Rachel into a chair. An onlooker gasped and ran off, probably to fetch her father. Personally, I wouldn't mind having a word with the man.

  In a dark alley.

  Security saw my scars and gun. “You can't have a weapon, ma'am.”

  “Get off it,” I hissed. “FBHS. I have a sick girl here.”

  “Drunk, you mean.”

  “Put on your jacket,” Tad chastised. “People are looking.”

  “Think they'll look if I flash my tits?”

  “You wouldn't,” he said, but he clearly wasn't sure.

  The father bustled over to chastise Rachel in the same tone Tad had used with me. “Rachel, remove that ugly jacket and make yourself presentable. Don't embarrass me.”

  “We had an ordeal—” I began.

  “I'm not speaking to you, young lady.”

  My eyebrows shot up. “Rephrase that before I get all sorts of loud and dramatic in front of the cameras.”

  Tad ushered us into an elegant study and shut out the party.

  “Sigurd is here,” Rachel's father said. “What if he hears that you refused to nurture two of his kind? What will he think?”

  How did daddy-dearest know about Rache’s refusal to feed the vamps so quickly after the incident? Did he send the creatures to Rachel?

  Rage boiled up.

  Tad grabbed my arm, snapping me out of a moment when I'd been about to punch Rachel's father in the face. The greasy socialite didn't even notice. I shrugged out of Tad's grip.

  “Worry less about what a vampire thinks and more about your daughter's wellbeing,” I said.

  “Vampires are perfectly safe. Hasn't been a vampire murder in this city for a decade.”

  “That you're aware of, jackass. I know monsters, sir, and those—” I pointed at the door “—are monsters.”

  Only when we looked at my finger, it was centimeters from Sigurd's chest.

  Chapter 22

  Sigurd stared at my accusatory digit like he expected it to do a trick. The twin delinquent vampires smirked behind him. My hand recoiled. Rachel's father subjugated himself to his knees, and I decided to ignore him altogether.

  The golden vampire, Sigurd, had sunny eyes, smooth features, and immaculate clothing. His countenance radiated heavenly cleanliness and saintly purity. A celebrity in our midst. Gorgeous, if a bit skinny. He ran his hands down his shirt as if my finger might have flung something more than an accusation.

  “Am I a monster?” He considered the words the same way philosophers ponder the nature of mankind. Luckily, I was speechless. With every breath, warmth swelled inside me. I felt dizzy, dancing near a steamy vertigo. Jesus, I never had this reaction to stress. Like, I dunno...worship. Awe. Hope.

  Hopeful of what?

  I should call my father. I hadn't left a memorial on Mother’s grave. Maybe I'd go to church on Sunday.

  Whoa, whoa, whoa.

  I shook my head to clear it. Why was I standing there? What had I been doing? Something smelled like cinnamon and ginger.

  I rattled my head again. The peculiar disorientation didn't disappear. A druggy haze followed the emotional uproar. Sludgy, warm gut, like I dropped three shots of brandy down my gullet. Fingers swelled with heat and an ache to touch Sigurd. If I embraced him, I’d probably fall dead like the unfortunate Israelite who touched the toppling ark.

  What the—

  I didn't believe in magic but something wasn't right. Being near Sigurd, the vampire king, was like a happy pill. Looking at him gave me joy. Hearing him roused my spirit. If he touched me, I'd die of euphoria.

  Which was not right.

  I bit my lip so hard that blood leaked into my mouth. Sigurd's eyes flared and his mouth parted. The vamps behind him stumbled and dropped their hands.

  Blood.

  I brushed my fingertips over my mouth, smearing a trace of ruby liquid. His tongue slipped out and touched his lip. Like any other predator or nightmare, he wanted my blood.

  “Ask me again,” I croaked, finding my voice. “Ask me if you're a monster.”

  He clamped his mouth shut. Eyes flattened like shiny copper catching candlelight. He was indeed a monster, albeit a divine one. His aura, if I believed in such things, was heavenly. Made me ache to have a faith again.

  Staring at the lesser vampires, I reminded myself what they were: leeches. Parasites. Yet I couldn't look at Sigurd as I lectured myself because the sight of him would change my mind. My heart might lie again. Simply another reason to trust my gut over my head and heart.

  “Should keep those two on a leash,” I spat. The lesser sycophants sneered and gave me a malicious glare. A cute frown creased Sigurd's face.

  “Shut up, Durant,” Tad squeaked, terrified I'd make a PR mess.

  “They are young and impolite, but harmless,” Sigurd said.

  Yeah, right.

  “Mostly, they tattle tales and whine annoyances,” he specified, his voice like the coo of a harp. “Was anyone harmed?”

  “Keep them away from us,” I said.

  Sigurd smiled. My blood thrummed. He toyed with my heart like a bully poking jellyfish with a sharp stick. With a step in my direction, he wafted sweet incense. Succulent. Transcendent. Glorious.

  “Do you believe in God?” he said. If there was a god… “Do you believe?”

  “No,” I said, but I wasn't sure anymore.

  “Do not deny me,” he said. The treacherous organ in my chest broke and wept. Pain and hope tumbled through me like a vicious tornado. Eve must have felt this when God tossed her from Eden. Something hot and sharp pierced my cheek. A tear.

  Kee-rist.

  Mortification followed and demolished whatever magic held me in thrall. As if I had been hypnotized and stupefied. I was going to kill that heartbreaking villain, the beauteous parasite, the glorious—

  “Go to hell,” I said.

  “Everyone out,” he said.

  The door clicked and I stood alone against Sigurd. I knew, instantly and with base intuition, that I wouldn't be able to kill him even if I tried. I faced something who compared itself, with a smidgen of success, to a god.

  And he was not pleased.

  I reached for the gun, but I was lulled by his magic and he moved super-naturally fast.

  He clasped the back of my neck. I yelped and swallowed at the same time, nearly choking. Eyes wet with frustration. His hand was cool and hard like the stem of a wine glass.

  His voice rolled in my ear. Melodic. Taunting.

  “Don't pretend you aren't a ravenous little beast about to die from a thirst of your own,” the vampire said. My skin crawled. His resplendent, pious demeanor faded like a dream of a shadow. Now he was simply the pretty icon that could kill and humiliate me. Fear slithered down my neck and crawled into my spine.

  My thirst rose like a demon from the pit of hell and overtook me. Gut cramped. Heart ached. Pulse struggled. Vampire glamour?

  Sick with wicked withdrawal all over again, I nearly fainted.

  Clammy skin. Sweat at my spine.

  All I wanted was a drink. Only one
drink.

  Worse, I couldn't say if the feverish craving was the vampire's suggestion or my own weakness. Both, probably.

  I shook my head and swooned. I struggled to breathe. Burning shame swelled in me.

  “Girl, you are nothing but a junkie.”

  His voice made insinuating music. He was entirely right. His fingers lingered on my wrist like the judgmental hand of God.

  “Back at ya,” I spat.

  He retreated three paces in an instant. A frown wrecked his perfect countenance. If his aura emanated euphoria when he was pleased, his displeasure was the crash and burn after a high. I couldn't catch my breath, couldn't imagine a way to defend myself.

  Magic exists.

  And it hates me.

  The door clicked and announced his departure, but I was too overwhelmed by my sweaty, wretched skin to care. I survived, so what? I had bigger things to deal with. Hunger. Thirst. Hatred. Nightmares. Emotional sludge crashed together and raced for my core, trying to overwhelm me.

  God hated me. Wait, I didn't believe in Him! Didn’t matter. He hated me despite His non-existence. Or perhaps because if it. God wanted revenge because He was nothing, and I was nothing, too, yet I had the gall to say He didn't exist.

  One touch from a vamp gave me a crisis of non-faith.

  My eyes smeared with stupid, horrified tears. Nothing made me want to drink like weeping shame. So why not? I was unstable, to say the least. Damned, certainly. Ruined. Outnumbered. My hands trembled. I carefully flicked the safety on my gun and slid it with utmost caution back into the holster. I wanted to chase Sigurd down and scream at him, but I couldn't bear to see his face again.

  Managed to put on my jacket and wipe my cheeks.

  Dragging my heart behind me, I left the room. Staggered. Felt drunk with an inferno of personal demons raging inside, bleeding my resistance dry. Ugliness rampaged through my skull.

  Sigurd did this to me. He unleashed the horrors and drove me mad.

  Drunken-mad.

  And I deserved this, of course.

  I stomped to the bar and grabbed the server.

  “Tequila,” I growled.

  Wide-eyed, he tried to pour me a shot. I snatched the bottle and he didn't protest, not even when I grabbed a second. The two lesser vampires lurked nearby, smiling, assuming Sigurd had softened me up.