Chapter Eighteen
It didn’t take long for Riddick to find the vamp and his victim; he hadn’t bothered to take her any further than the side of the pub.
The vampire had the woman pinned against the building with his weight. Her legs were wound around his hips and her fingers were woven through his hair. Her halter top had been pushed down to bare her breasts, which were currently filling his hands. She tipped her head back and moaned as his fangs sank into the white flesh of her throat.
This woman was no victim. She was willing food.
The city was full of women who thought vampirism was sexy and romantic, and some of them got off by offering up their bodies—and their blood—to vamps. Sick and wrong, Riddick thought, but not illegal.
And if this vampire liked to fuck his food, who was Riddick to interrupt?
But just as he turned to go back inside, Harper stumbled into the alley and smacked into his chest full force. He put his arms around her to steady her. “Harper, what the hell…?”
“Don’t hurt him,” she said on a gasp. “He isn’t a killer.”
He frowned. “Why would you think I needed you to tell me that?”
Harper’s brow furrowed. “Um, I uh…” Her gaze moved past him to the vampire and the redhead. Her fair skin flushed candy-apple red and her eyes widened. “Ooohhh. Sorry to interrupt.”
“So good to see you, Harper. As usual, your timing is perfect.”
If possible her flush deepened as she met the vampire’s gaze. “Hi, Hunter,” she said weakly.
Riddick’s chin hit his chest. Was there a single danger in the city she wasn’t up to her neck in? “You two know each other?”
She shrugged sheepishly. “He kind of lives with me.” When the redhead sucked in an outraged breath, she hastened to add, “In the basement apartment below the office. Just friends, I swear to God.”
Riddick glanced at the vampire Harper had called Hunter with an assessing eye. His high, wide cheekbones, caramel-colored skin and long, straight black hair spoke of Native American heritage. About six feet tall, nearly two hundred pounds, leanly muscled...physically, it would be a fair fight if he had to take the guy on.
Unfortunately, Riddick’s gut was telling him this particular Native American was well over five hundred years old. Fuck, the bastard probably had a front row seat when Christopher Columbus first set foot on American soil.
It would be a fair fight, Riddick thought, but it sure as hell wouldn’t be a pretty fight.
Fortunately for both of them, he was looking at Harper with fondness instead of lust or malice, so Riddick didn’t feel any pressing need to kill the guy.
Not yet, anyway.
Hunter set the redhead on her feet, and she tugged her top up with an impatient jerk. “What the hell is going on here, Hunter?”
“Why don’t you go home, darling? I need to talk to my friend for a moment,” he said, nodding toward Harper.
The woman’s face twisted with rage. “That’s it? You’re just going to pat me on my head and send me away so you can talk to this skank?”
Harper sucked in air. “Who do you think you’re calling a skank you sleazy little bitch?”
Hunter stepped between them and brushed his hand over the redhead’s eyes, and as quickly as that, her features relaxed, the tension lines around her mouth smoothing almost magically.
“Why don’t you go home, darling?” he repeated, his voice low-pitched and smooth as melted dark chocolate.
Her expression went completely blank. “I think I’ll go home now,” she whispered and wandered back toward the door.
“That’s right, you better go, bitch,” Harper mumbled as the woman walked back into the pub past a scowling Mischa.
“Some things never change,” Mischa muttered. “Still using mind control, I see.”
Hunter’s impassive expression flickered for a heartbeat as his gaze met and held Mischa’s.
“Miss Bartone.” He bowed as if they were embarking upon a waltz. “This is truly a pleasure.”
Mischa wore the sourest face Riddick had ever seen on her. “I wish I could say the same,” she answered, her voice dripping scorn.
Before any of them could blink, Hunter had moved to stand directly in front of her. Riddick didn’t think Hunter intended to hurt her, but he went to her side just in case. He wasn’t about to underestimate a vampire as old as Hunter.
“Come now, Miss Bartone,” Hunter purred. “It’s been nearly…oh, how long has it been since you sent your last assassin to dispatch me?”
Mischa’s chin came up. “About twenty years. It was about twenty years ago that you killed the last slayer I sent after you.”
“Surely you wouldn’t begrudge me the right to defend myself.”
“What I begrudged you was the right to feed off of innocents. Still do. Animal blood and synthetics are readily available, you know.”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “I only feed off the willing.” His smile morphed into a smirk. “And they generally aren’t at all innocent. Besides, I wouldn't feed a dog that synthetic swill.”
Her eyes narrowed behind her glasses. “Mind control is illegal. I should turn you in for using it on that girl.”
“I used mind control to send her safely home. Everything else she did, she did of her own free will. Somehow I doubt the police would be too interested in that story.”
She rolled her eyes. “Next you’ll tell me you did that girl a favor by sinking your fangs into her.”
He leaned almost imperceptibly toward her. “Don’t mock what you’ve never experienced, love.”
Mischa practically vibrated with anger and tension, but held her ground. “Never.”
“Never is a terribly long time.”
Her teeth ground together audibly. “I’d rather die.”
Harper cleared her throat nervously. “Hey, not to change the subject, but did anyone see Game of Thrones last night? I fell asleep during the last fifteen minutes and now I don’t know what happened at the end of the wedding.”
Neither Hunter nor Mischa spared her a glance.
His voice remained silky, but Riddick could tell that Mischa’s barbs were drawing blood. For some reason, the vampire actually cared what the ex-watcher thought of him.
“Such hatred, love. I’ve told you and everyone else at Sentry that I haven’t killed anyone in this century. What would I need to have in order to prove that to you?”
“A soul,” she answered without hesitation. “You would need to have a soul in order for me to believe you.”
Riddick sighed. This debate could go on for years, and he needed to get Harper home.
“Look, man,” he said to Hunter, “if you’re going to try to kill her, would you do it fast so we can hurry up and fight? I need to get Harper out of here.”
Hunter’s smile held little warmth. He reached out and brushed his knuckles along Mischa’s cheek. “Regardless of what Miss Bartone might think, I’m not in the habit of hurting women. Especially not such beautiful ones.”
Mischa smacked his hand away, glaring daggers, which drew a chuckle from Hunter.
“All right, all right,” Harper muttered stepping between them. “No one is going to hurt anyone. Hunter, we didn’t mean to, um, interrupt you. Riddick only followed you to make sure your, er, friend was safe. We’ll all just go now.”
“Just a minute, pet,” Hunter said, laying a hand on Harper’s shoulder.
Riddick neatly knocked the dead man’s hand off her shoulder. He didn’t want to fight a five-hundred-year-old vamp, but would if the bastard even thought of touching Harper again.
God, he was getting more and more pathetic by the minute.
Hunter grinned. “Pet, you didn’t tell me you had a suitor.”
Harper frowned. “First of all, no one in this century says suitor. Second of all, don’t call me pet. It makes me feel like Lassie. And third, Riddick is my…friend.”
Riddick no longer had to wonder if she wanted to b
e the same kind of friend the redhead was to Hunter. After what she’d said in the pub, he now knew she did. That knowledge would probably keep him awake—and hard—for the rest of his life.
Hunter’s grin split wider, displaying gleaming white teeth without a hint of fang. “Your friend is very protective. With good reason, I suppose.”
Riddick scowled. “What reason might that be?”
“That’s actually what I wanted to talk to Harper about. The word around the more unsavory vampire circles is that Phoenix is coming after Harper.”
Mischa’s snort wasn’t ladylike in the least. “Old news, blood breath.”
“Charming,” Hunter said. “What else can you do with that sharp tongue of yours?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“Very much,” he murmured.
Mischa blushed. From fury or embarrassment, it was hard to say. Not that Riddick cared. His only concern was Harper.
He grabbed her by the sleeve and tugged her closer. “We’re leaving,” he said, his tone brooking no room for argument. “Do you know where I can find Phoenix?” he asked Hunter.
He shook his head. “No, but I know who might. I’ve heard there’s a vampire wannabe at The Lair who sets him up with victims. Apparently, women who come in by themselves on a Friday night are in danger of being overserved, possibly drugged, and waking up with Phoenix.”
Sweet setup for a vampire, Riddick thought. Victims delivered on a silver platter, like Meals on Wheels. No hunting necessary. All Phoenix had to do in return was dangle the carrot of immortality in front of the wannabe.
“Takes a killer to know so much about a killer,” Mischa said under her breath.
Riddick cupped the back of Mischa’s neck with his palm and steered her toward the door along with Harper. “We’re all leaving now. Thank you for your help, Hunter.”
Harper looked up at him, a disgusted scowl riding her features. “You suck! You can say thank you, just not to me!”
He almost rolled his eyes, until he realized that was exactly what Harper would do. “Say goodbye, girls.”
“Goodbye, girls,” they both parroted in stereo as he shoved them through the pub’s back door.
Riddick mentally face-palmed and did his best to ignore Hunter’s laughter, which he was sure was at his expense.
Chapter Nineteen
The Lair was the only vampire-owned club in Whispering Hope. Even though it was located in a strip mall with a Lady Foot Locker and a Fashion Bug, it looked surprisingly classy, its name above the door spelled out in neon red script, expensive-looking slate covering its façade.
Harper had dressed for a night of clubbing in a low cut black tank and a pair of black leather pants. In deference to the cool temperature that night, she’d thrown a black leather jacket over the whole thing. All in all, it was a very vampire-bar-friendly outfit.
The doorman’s eyes caught on the cleavage exposed by Harper’s tank top under her open jacket, then dipped to her skin-tight pants before he lifted the velvet rope and ushered her in.
He glanced at Mischa directly behind her, his eyes flicking over her with disinterest. Even though she was gorgeous, her simple blue T-shirt and faded jeans were hardly club-worthy.
Harper threw her arm around Mischa’s waist and tugged her close. “She’s with me,” she said, planting a suggestive kiss on her cheek before blowing in her ear. She let her eyes slide back to the now anything-but-disinterested doorman.
When they were inside, Mischa shrugged her off. “Did you have to let him think that?”
“Well, you’re obviously not here to meet men.”
Mischa glanced down at her outfit, looking completely unconcerned. “Why am I here? I’m hoping you can explain it to me.”
“It’s Friday night. I thought you’d like to get out of the house.”
She frowned. “If you’re so hot to work with Riddick, why didn’t you ask him to come with you?”
It was Harper’s turn to frown. She would’ve asked Riddick if she could’ve found him. She’d haunted his apartment for the past two days and hadn’t seen him once.
The last thing he’d said to her after their conversation with Hunter had been, “stay home and don’t do anything stupid until I find Phoenix.”
She was pretty sure he’d classify coming here as “something stupid,” but hell, she couldn’t just sit at home and wait for Phoenix to come after her. If there was something she could do to help find the bastard, she had to try.
“Riddick’s avoiding me, I think.”
“Shocking.”
Harper ignored the sarcasm in her friend’s voice and scanned the bar. It was completely packed with vamp groupies wearing white face paint and Lestat getups. A few losers even had plastic fangs and capes. How embarrassing for them, Harper thought. Oddly enough, the real vampires—of which there were very few—were the normal looking ones in the group.
The interior of the bar was simple, sleek and masculine. The dance floor was a shiny mahogany, ringed with red and black velvet couches and glass tables with chrome stools. Abstract paintings that Harper knew had been created by local vampire artists decorated the walls. Ultra-modern techno dance music pounded through the speakers.
The place was huge with a capacity in the hundreds and Harper would bet it was more than full tonight. She smiled. With this many people, if necessary, picking up a premonition or two would be a piece of cake.
She took a deep breath and sighed dramatically. “Smell that, my friend?”
Mischa sniffed delicately. “Sweat and desperation?”
“It’s information. The smell of people willing to spill their guts to their friendly local PI.”
As they made their way to the bar, someone bumped into Harper from behind, knocking her into a table just off the dance floor. She grabbed onto the guy sitting there to steady herself and inadvertently made contact with the bare skin on the back of his hand.
The premonition that hit her was quick and ugly.
She curled her lip in disgust and looked the guy in the eye. He was average looking, with thick brown hair, dark eyes, and soft features. He didn’t look like a rapist, but what she’d just seen told her otherwise. “You sick bastard,” she said.
His eyes widened, and she could almost hear him thinking, what does she know about me? Then he pulled himself together and glared at her. “Do I know you, lady?”
“No, but I know you.” She reached into his jacket pocket before he could react and pulled out a vial of clear liquid. She tossed it to the pretty blond sitting across from the bastard. “It’s GHB,” she told her. “He bought it off a bartender and planned to slip it into your drink when you went to the bathroom. You can guess what he planned to do when you passed out.”
Her blue eyes widened, then narrowed. “You son of a bitch,” she said through clenched teeth.
“B-baby, no,” he stammered. “I would never…I don’t know what she’s…that’s not mine…”
The blond stood up and tossed her drink in the guy’s face. “Stay away from me, you freak,” she said, then glanced back at Harper. “Both of you.”
“Now there’s gratitude for you,” Harper muttered, though she hadn't expected much. Most people faced with disturbing news were quick to shoot the messenger.
The now dripping-wet, angry guy stood up and glared down at Harper. “Bitch, I don’t know who or what you are, but—”
Harper hooked her ankle behind his and shoved hard on his shoulder, forcing him back down into his chair. Leaning into him with her hands still pressing down on his shoulders, she situated her knee right up against his balls, hard enough to make it uncomfortable and make him think twice about moving, but not hard enough to make him scream.
“Shut up and listen to me, asshole,” she said directly into his ear. “All you need to know about me is that I know enough about you to put you away for a very long time. I know what you planned to do to that girl, and I know what you did to the brunette last week.” She felt him
tremble. Good. “So if I were you, I’d become very celibate, very quickly because if you try this shit with another woman, I promise you: I. will. know. And I will come after you.”
She pushed away from him. “Now get the hell out of here.”
He didn’t hesitate. He got up and practically ran out of the bar.
Mischa scowled at her. “We’re just going to let him go?”
“No,” Harper said, “I thought I’d let you do the honors and call in the anonymous tip to the cops.”
“But we don’t even know the guy’s name.”
Harper pulled the guy’s wallet out of her jacket pocket and handed it to Mischa. “This might help.”
Mischa shook her head and grinned. “You lifted his wallet when you pushed him into the chair. Nice.”
“Yep. And I put the GHB back in there while I was at it. Easier for the cops to believe our story that way.”
Mischa pulled her cell phone from her bag and started dialing. “You’re a scary woman, Harper Hall.”
“So I’ve heard.”
Harper watched the bartenders while Mischa spoke to the police dispatcher. Two were vampires. That ruled them out. The remaining two were human, and one had a black eye and a split lip.
Harper smiled. “That’s my guy,” she said to Mischa after she’d ended her call.
“How do you know?”
“Let’s just say I’m pretty sure Riddick has already been here and had a chat with him. It's written all over his face.”
“What are you going to do?” Mischa asked.
“I’m going to get him to follow me to the bathroom. Then we’ll have a chat.”
“How will you get him to follow you?”
Harper didn’t answer. Instead she took off her jacket and handed it to Mischa, who smirked. “Ah yes,” she said. “You’ll lure him there using the hypnotic powers of your boobs.”
“They haven’t failed me yet.”
“Happy hunting,” Mischa said.
Harper shoved her way through the crowd and squeezed between two vamp groupies at the bar. After resting her forearms on the bar—along with her cleavage—she locked eyes on her target. Hopefully he wasn’t gay.
Harper Hall Investigations Complete Series Page 11