Can’t kill her. She’s terrified and doesn’t smell the least bit evil. Plus, she has children. It would take a lot to justify ending a mother’s life.
Finally, a husky man with black hair, well over six feet, staggers outside to piss on the side of the building.
What is it with men peeing outdoors? I bet there’s a perfectly good bathroom inside. Still, his uncouth behavior isn’t enough to justify killing him.
I inhale deeply as a gentle gust of wind blows his pee-steam my way. Yuck. Smells like whisky. Wait…and… I catch an overwhelmingly pungent scent that can only be described as jalapeños roasting on a campfire.
The dinner bell has been rung.
Okay. You can do this, Mir. You’ve killed before. They just weren’t people.
I will strike fast, take a taste just to be absolutely sure he is a bad apple, and then I will drag him into the SUV to feed to Michael.
I quietly open the door, slide out, and tiptoe toward the tree-trunk-sized man. The closer I get, the bigger the lump in my chest. Guilt. Ugh. This is so awful! I bet Mr. Nice never felt this bad about killing. Just try to think of him as a pork chop in the meat department at Safeway. He’s just food.
I creep up and tap him on the shoulder. “Hi there,” I say in a sugary-sweet voice.
Startled, he turns and pisses hot, steamy urine on my legs.
“Hey!” I jump back. “Watch it!”
“What the fuck, bitch? Can’t you see I’m tryin’ to take a leak?”
His words set off my prickly vampire pride. “My name is Miriam.” I leap and go for his neck. And dammit, if he doesn’t taste good. So, so, sooo good. It’s like fire-roasted peppers seasoned with Frank’s Red Hot and breaded in dry habaneros. My mouth is on fire, but the sensation lights up my body, one vein at a time. Yum!
The large man fights to get free, but I am stronger, and feeling him struggle fruitlessly under my powerful grip only makes the meal more delicious. The beast inside me never wants it to end.
Suddenly, he goes limp, and I no longer hear the delectable thrumming of his pulse.
Oh no. The rush turns to dread, and I drop him like a sack of dirt. I think I just killed Michael’s dinner.
I crouch and slap his cheek. “Hey. Hey. Wake up, pork chop.” But he doesn’t respond, and his heart is silent.
Ohmygod. I smack my forehead. Worst vampire ever! I can’t believe I did this!
I quickly grab the walrus man by the wrists and slide him off to the side, behind some trash cans. I run to the SUV to check on Michael. From the color of his skin and complete lack of pulse, I know he only has minutes left. “Michael, Michael, stay awake! I’m going to find you another entrée, okay?”
But with the clock ticking, am I willing to kill whoever walks out that door next? Even if they are innocent? Or a mother?
I know the answer. No.
I suddenly get an idea. Mike’s dinner is currently pumping through my veins. And I know for a fact that vampires can drink from each other. Yes! I can do that.
I drive away from the fresh crime scene and find a spot to park down the block, near a used bookstore. I can’t lie. I want to break in and see what they have, but instead, I hop into the backseat. I straddle Michael, who’s stretched out with his back leaning against the door.
This had better work. I bite my wrist—Ouch! Son of a biscuit, that hurts!—and push the dribbling wound to his mouth. I expect him to drink or latch on or…anything! But he doesn’t.
“You have to drink, Michael. You have to!”
But I waited too long. He’s out.
What do I do?
At this point, my mind offers one option. It is the sort of solution that will only create an avalanche of problems and regrets. But this is the last card left to play, and as much as I will suffer for it, it’s better than losing Michael forever.
I sigh and look down at his beautiful, masculine face with those gorgeous cheekbones and that strong jaw. “I hope you’ll forgive me.”
I slide back into the driver’s seat and take off, knowing that after tonight, one way or another, my life will be forever changed.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
With Michael flung over my shoulder, I forcefully knock on the hotel room door. I pray no one saw me sprint up the stairwell and that hotel security doesn’t notice me now.
“Hurry!” I whisper and knock again, knowing that the man I’m carrying could turn into a cloud of ashes at any second.
Inside, I hear Lula’s faint voice saying that she didn’t order anything. Nice grumbles something about not answering until she knows for sure who it is.
Oh god. Nice. The sound of his voice sends a wave of sick through me. I hate this man more than I hate people who dog-ear library books.
“Who is it?” says Lula from the other side of the door.
“It’s me, Miriam,” I whisper frantically.
The door flies open. Lula is standing there with her dirty-blonde hair, almost the same shade as mine, in two pigtails on top of her head. She’s wearing a hot-pink pleather bodysuit that’s unzipped halfway down her chest, showing off her cleavage.
“What the hell are you doing here? And who’s that?” she hisses.
“It’s Michael. Let me in. He’s about to dust.”
Her brown eyes go wide. “Hurry. Put him over there on the bed.” She steps aside.
I know she thinks I’m insane for coming here. “Someone shot him with an arrow, and he’s lost a lot of blood. He won’t drink anything.”
“What? Is that all?” Lula says.
Is that all? I say it’s enough. I lay Michael on top of the blue paisley bedspread.
“Who was it, my little vittle?” Nice emerges from the bathroom, wearing nothing but red G-string underwear.
Gross. I remember those.
His ominously dark eyes lock on my face. “Miriam…” he says, but it sounds more like Medium. His accent reminds me of…of…well, I don’t really know, actually. It’s like someone took Count Chocula and raised him in an international airport.
“Mr. Nice,” I bow my head, “it’s nice to see you.” I swallow my pride, knowing stupid phrases like that tickle him.
“Izz it now?” He presses those sickly pale hands together and wiggles his long fingers like a hungry witch about to bake a plump child.
“Yes. I have missed our poetry-slam Fridays together.” I stare at the floor in submission, just as he made me do for him not so long ago.
“Liar. Why are you really here? I want to hear you say it,” he says.
I look up to meet his sadistic, delighted gaze. He knows he has me right where he wants me.
It takes every ounce of womanly strength I possess to gather up my pride, roll it into a sticky ball, and swallow it down. “I’m here because Michael is injured, and I don’t know what to do. He’s only got minutes to live.”
Nice narrows his eyes, and I can’t tell if he’s insulted that I’d dare ask for help or if he’s preparing to scheme.
“Look,” I say, “I know you’re unhappy about the way things ended between us, but you got your revenge. You turned me, and now my life will never be the same. We’re even.” I don’t actually believe that. Nice used my daughter as leverage so I’d be his companion. “But now, I’m here of my own free will. So tell me what you want.”
“Vant?” One corner of his mouth twists up.
“Yes, want. Just tell me how to save Michael.”
“Miriam, no!” Lula whispers.
Nice shoots her a displeased look.
“I mean,” Lula adds with a sweet tone, “that you and I are together now, Nicee-poo. So just help the stupid librarian and send her on her way.”
Nice’s wolfish smile tells me he has other thoughts. “So, Miriam, choo weel come back to me and stay this time? Forever?”
My stomach knots and raises a Jolly Roger flag. Death awaits you! Go no further! But I have to do this. Like Michael said, this is bigger than him or me—me being the part of this equation t
hat isn’t going to change thousands of lives, for people who were never meant to live as a vampire.
“If you save Michael, then yes,” I raise my chin and look Nice in the eyes, “I will be yours forever.” All that matters is Michael survives and finishes making the cure.
“And how do I know choo veel not go back on your word, eeeh?” Nice asks.
God, I really wish he’d put some clothes on. It would make giving myself up to Satan so much easier. Lula isn’t helping either, since she’s shaking her head behind Nice’s back, telling me not to do this.
“You know I’ll keep my word because,” I swallow down my dying dreams of a good life, a life filled with love, family, and books, “because I give you my word as a librarian. And you know how seriously we take words.”
His eyes flicker with doubt.
“Please?” I revert to begging. “Please do something to help him. He hasn’t got much time.”
“Very well.” Nice flicks his boney wrist in the air. “We have a deal. But if you go back on it, I will burn down your library.”
It’s already destroyed. “Sure. Okay.”
He adds, “And I will hunt you down, disembowel you, and take Stella to raise as my own.”
Crap. Not good. My heart aches just thinking about her living with him, but I have to do this. “I understand.”
“Zen we have a deal!” He pops over to their mini-fridge in the corner, next to the fake palm. He produces two bags of blood and goes over to Michael on the bed. He bites into the first bag, sucks up a bunch of blood into his cheeks, and then presses his mouth to Michael’s and blows.
“Wait. That’s it?” All I had to do was feed him like a baby bird?
I watch Nice repeat the action until both bags have been pushed down Michael’s throat. Instantly, I see color returning to Michael’s cheeks.
“Will he be okay now?” I ask.
Nice tosses the empty bags into the wastepaper basket by the nightstand. “He veel need more blood. Maybe another six or eight feedings throughout the night. By morning, he will be completely healed.”
I glance over at Lula, who, if she feels anything for my incredibly stupid move, is hiding it well. If only I’d known or thought of trying to force-feed him.
Nice looks at Lula and stands. “Now, I must dress. We mustn’t be late to zee the show. Lula, please go out and bring back an extra-large snack for our friend Michael here.”
“But I still haven’t done my makeup,” she whines.
“You will not be attending the show. Miriam will.”
Must the nightmare start so soon?
“Sure. Okay. I’ll take care of it.” Lula points to the closet. “Miriam, borrow whatever you like.”
I nod with gratitude and manage to produce a sad little smile. “Thanks.”
“And now, I must prepare!” Nice zips off to the bathroom. I immediately hear the whirring sound of a hairdryer.
Lula’s face fills with pity—brows knitted, lips turned down. “Why the hell didn’t you call me? I could have told you what to do.”
“We had to chuck our phones.” I sigh. “Someone’s been tracking us—a human. They blew up my library while Michael and I were in it. We barely escaped. Then they followed us here and shot Michael with a bow.”
Lula arches a blonde brow. “Human. And you don’t know who that could possibly be?” Her tone is all condescension.
“No. I don’t have any enemies.”
“The person’s a Keeper, Miriam.”
That doesn’t add up. She must be mistaken. “I thought they were all dead.” Clive killed them off before the Uprising. He killed my parents, too. He wanted to exterminate anyone who could possibly resist a global vampire takeover. The irony is that Clive created the Keepers. And then he just threw them out like trash when he changed his mind about protecting humankind.
“Apparently Clive missed one,” says Lula.
“I don’t think so,” I say. And even if the person was a Keeper, there are tons of other, more powerful vampires higher up on their kill list. I mean, I get why they’d go after Michael, but not me, too.
“I’m just glad the hunter missed,” I say.
With a sigh, Lula gazed down at a dormant Michael. “Man, is he going to be miffed when he wakes up. Especially when he finds out that Nice and him just did blood mouth-to-mouth, basically the equivalent of vampire sex. The missionary position, of course.”
Yikes. Really? “I didn’t have another choice.”
Lula shrugs. “You could have let him die, which is exactly what he would have preferred over you giving yourself up. Or mouth sex with Nice.”
Maybe, but this isn’t about Michael. It’s about the serum. “At least you’re free again. So there’s that silver lining.”
“Honestly? It hasn’t been that bad. We go out every night to parties, raves, underground vampire clubs. We go shopping and attend spoken-word open mic nights. My only real complaint is that the sex is too vanilla, but whatever.”
Too vanilla? Nice? I am very aware of the kind of stuff he’s into—toys, red lace, S&M, clowns—so if he’s too tame for Lula, I can’t imagine what her thing is.
“Just let me know if you need any tips,” she says.
“For what?” I ask.
“Well, if you’re going to be his fanged love companion, he’ll have certain needs. And trust me, you do not want to disappoint him. He gets nasty if you do.”
I feel my cold heart dive into my stomach, and my stomach dives for the floor. “You mean…he’ll demand that I…”
She stares, and then her eyes go wide. “Oh. No. I don’t mean that. He’s not into rape unless you’re the one doing it to him.”
Ew. Just ew.
She continues, “I meant that he really loves his dress-up time and Fanged Love role-playing. He especially wants the wedding vows said correctly.”
Oh, that. “Yeah, I remember.”
“Good.” She claps me on the shoulder. “Well, you need to pick out a dress, and I have to go find a donor for Mikey-Poo. Time to get a move on.” Lula dashes from the room, and I’m left alone with an unconscious Michael and Mr. Nice in the bathroom, singing his heart out to a show tune. Cabaret, I think. And somehow, I just know the crazy is about to begin.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I sorted through Lula’s collection of very strange outfits that look like they’ve come from a Halloween shop. The black dress I have on was the most conservative item in the closet, even with the plunging neckline and barely there back.
When Nice emerges from the bathroom, he has on a pinstripe suit that’s tailored to his gangly frame. His wingtips are shined to perfection, and his dark hair is neatly slicked back.
I do a double take. He looks like a well-to-do European gentleman out for a night on the town. Where are the fluffy lace collar and flowy sleeves?
He notices me staring and looks me over in turn. My blonde hair is back in a ponytail, and I have no makeup on, but he knows me well enough. My natural, no-frills look is how this librarian rolls.
“The dress will do. For now,” he adds. “But tomorrow we will ensure you have the appropriate attire for all occasions. Shall we?” He holds out his elbow, and I glance worriedly at the dormant Michael on the king-size bed.
“Do not be concerned; Nice made a deal, and zee Nice keeps his deals. Vanderhorsssthst will be fine.”
I nod with trepidation, knowing that the “deal” starts now whether I like it or not. From this moment forward, I am the property of Mr. Nicephorus, the ancient Byzantine general whose reputation for ruthlessness exceeds even Michael’s.
We exit the room, and I can only pray that Lula will return soon and nurse Michael back to vampire health.
Nice and I step into the elevator, and he hits the button for the lobby. The vibe in the air is all too familiar, him wanting something impossible from me—my heart—and me wanting to be anywhere else but here. Such as, glued to the toilet seat of an overflowing outhouse or swimming in a hot caldron fi
lled with festering boils. Anywhere else.
I avoid eye contact as a strategy to keep my nerves steady. “So,” I say, “where are we going tonight?”
Nice straightens his black tie in the reflection of the stainless-steel elevator door and then says with a deep voice that has only one accent, “To the theater.”
I do another double take. Is he role-playing? Because he sounded like an almost normal person just now. No silliness. No inflection. Just a smooth, velvety voice with maybe a hint of an Italian accent.
Unsure if I should react, I say, “Uh…I like the theater. Which show?”
“Cabaret.”
Ah, thus the reason he was singing “Willkommen, Bienvenue, Welcome!” earlier. However, I still can’t tell what’s going on with his voice. To probe, I ask, “Is this your first time seeing it?”
“No, I go at least three times a year,” he says with the crisp, proper articulation of a gentleman.
Holy crap. What is going on with him? I can’t help staring.
“I bet you’re wondering,” he turns to me, all seriousness, “why I’m not speaking like a lunatic with a speech impediment.”
I nod slowly.
“Well, Miriam, one does not get to be as old as I am without learning a few tricks. One of which is having a public persona that discourages other vampires from challenging you.”
Get out. “So you’ve been putting on a show this entire time?”
“Show?” He chuckles. “No, my silly woman, Mr. Nice is merely a disguise. A cloak. It is the way of the vampire—a lesson I shall teach you well. Vampires only respect that which they fear or do not understand. And now that you and I have made an irrevocable deal, it is in your best interest to listen and learn.”
The elevator reaches the ground floor, and the doors slide open. My feet remain glued to the tile.
“Shall we?” He gestures for me to leave ahead of him.
I’m too flabbergasted to say anything, but I manage to step out. All this time, he’s been pretending to be this insane, volatile, eccentric vampire, and not even I noticed he was putting on an act? I lived with him for five long years. That is some serious dedication to his craft.
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