by Michele Hauf
And Lark’s shoulders wilted. Why must she be so cruel? The alley cat only wanted to be picked up and stroked, not scolded for his appearance. The man wasn’t all there in the head. He probably didn’t even comprehend his tattered attire. Fashion couldn’t be a concern if he had in mind only to slay werewolves and, hell—to survive.
Lark straightened. This knight wasn’t going to abandon her hard-earned training at the first pitiful meow from a stray. “Don’t you have wolves to slay?”
“Thought I’d enjoy my free day,” he muttered, looking longingly at the couch. “I’d clean up if you wanted me to.”
Lark crossed her arms. “Is that so? You going sweet on a hunter, vampire?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know the meaning of that word. Sweet. Heh. Only dark and heinous in my world lately. I am getting a bit scruffy. Call it camouflage. Helps me blend when I’m stalking wolves.”
His chuckle was maniacal, and it set the hairs upright on Lark’s arms. He jerked, as if with Tourette’s, trying to shrug off the strange outburst.
Once, Todd had brought home a stranger who, due to his tics and constant shouts of nonsense words, she suspected had that very disease.
Oh, Lark, what would a little water and soap hurt?
It was apparent he was here for a visit, and she couldn’t shove him right back out into the rain. And conversation was not tops on her list, especially not with the enemy. Best to put him to work.
She marched into the bathroom, grabbed a razor and strolled back out to hand it to him.
Why did she care?
She didn’t. But this offer felt...familiar. As if she was doing something that she was supposed to do—something she’d once done willingly with her husband at her side.
“I get it,” Domingos said. “You need to clean me up before you stake me. For reasons beyond my ken.”
“I’m just offering a kindness, vampire. Take it or leave it.”
He snatched the razor and pointed to the bathroom.
“There’s shaving cream in there and you can use the towels. This place is stocked for men, so you’ll find everything you need.”
“An Order safe house?” he wondered as he strode into the bathroom.
“I’ll never tell. But you were never here. You know nothing about this place. We didn’t even talk. We’ve never had a conversation. Got that?”
Silence.
Lark waited, listening for the water to run, or for some sound that he was shaving. She slapped her arms over her chest, and now her conscience jumped up from the bleachers in revolt.
What are you doing? Rook will banish you from the Order. Todd would hate you for this. And you! Don’t you care about yourself? Because every moment you allow him to intrude on your life he pulls the emotional threads tighter and makes you...
Feel.
Sighing, Lark remembered the stray kitten she’d nursed for a few months when she was a teenager, only to have it die from feline leukemia on her lap one rainy fall evening. At least it had died safe and cared for.
And really? Todd wouldn’t have hated her for this act of kindness (though he would have raged to know the benefactor of her kindness was a vampire). If Lark had been the kitten magnet, it was Todd who had attracted the homeless. He had often taken in strangers. He’d bring them home, offer them a shave and a hot meal and then he’d send them off with a few crisp ten-euro notes in their pocket. Lark had always protested. They left a ring in the bathroom sink. They could be scoping the place out to later return and rob them. Todd would always dismiss her complaints, and later kiss away her protests and coax her into bed.
So here she stood. Razor secured in the homeless man’s hand. Assuming her husband’s role.
Dead husband. He’s not really your husband anymore, because he can’t be if he no longer exists on this mortal plane. Right?
Why did she cling to that label? Husband. It gave her no comfort to remember his last breaths. Nor did questioning whether or not she had truly loved him appease her aching heart.
She glanced down the hallway. Yesterday she had scuffled with the wily creature now lurking in her bathroom, and had almost taken a stake to the back of her skull. And today she was playing house with him?
Tilting her head back to prevent tears from spilling down her cheeks, Lark noticed Domingos stood in the bathroom doorway holding out the razor. Shaving cream frosted his chin and jaw.
Bother. “What’s wrong?”
“I can’t do this myself.”
“Why not?” She walked into the bathroom and found he’d set out the shaving cream can on a towel draped over the sink. He moved in behind her and she looked up in the mirror. And saw nothing. “Oh.”
The Order had taught her about a vampire’s lacking reflection. She’d even used a compact mirror on a few occasions while out in the field to verify her marks before slaying them.
“Will you do it for me?” He offered the straight-edged blade that most barbers would sharpen along a leather strap.
She snatched the razor and looked along the keen edge. Sharper than the blades edging her coat collar. And a fine weapon, that with just a flick of her wrist—
“You would trust me with a blade to your neck?”
“Eight hours,” he countered.
“Closer to seven now.”
He sat on the toilet seat and lifted his chin. “I trust you.”
“Me. A hunter?” She approached, hand to one hip, blade hand held up in challenge. “What if I’m a liar? Best way to lure the enemy to his death is through deception. That’s Order rules 101.”
“You’re not lying to me now. I can feel you are impeccable in your manner and word.” He tilted back his head and waited.
If only she had as much confidence in herself. Yet lies were a bane she despised. She lied rarely, and would never trust a person who she felt could lie to her.
Todd hadn’t lied; she’d just never wanted to believe his truths.
For reasons beyond her grasp, Lark leaned forward and stroked the blade across Domingos’s jaw. The steel glided smoothly over his skin, softened by the spice-scented shave cream. Turning to rinse the blade in the sink, she returned for a few more swipes. She was half finished before he spoke again.
“You’ve done this before.”
“My husband used to let me shave him. He said it was a symbol of his trust.”
“Just like I said. I trust you.”
The blade wobbled near his bottom lip, but she avoided nicking him. The vampire grasped her gaze and Lark noticed an oddity. One eye was golden-brown, while the other was completely black.
“What happened to your eye?” she asked.
“I think my pupil got blown out, or something like that. UV light. Fuck, I hate it.”
It must have happened when he’d been in captivity. “Does it hurt? Can you see out of that eye?”
“I can, but it’s the first eye to freak out if I don’t time the sunlight correctly. When the UVs hit my eyes, feels like a hot stiletto getting pushed through the pupils.”
She didn’t know what to say to that. Details. You wanted details.
No, she hadn’t. Maybe? No.
Lark tended the other side of his jaw. He was still and calm; she was surprised at his composure after witnessing his ticlike behavior and his raging at the inner voices.
“You’re not hearing voices now?” she wondered. “You seem pretty calm.”
“Strange, isn’t it? I’m not going to question. Though, as always, the whispers are present.”
“Just don’t start banging your head when I have the blade to your neck. Or do. It’s no biggie to me if your death is accidental.”
“You cutting my throat won’t kill me. You know that, hunter. But maybe you like taking a vampire’s blood, eh? Watching your
victims bleed before you end their life?”
“Not at all. My kills are clean and quick. Never bloody, if it can be avoided. A well-placed stake reduces the vampire to ash.”
“I’d expect that from you. Efficient and graceful when granting death.”
She was about to protest that assessment. He didn’t know her. She didn’t grant death; she took out predators using skill and stealth, plain and simple.
What are you doing, Lark? Just get him shaved, stuff the euro bills in his pocket and send him on his way.
The vampire tilted his head to allow her access and closed his eyes, humming a few notes that she recognized as Mozart. Eine Kleine Nachtmusik? Interesting. And did his fingers tap the precise beat on his leg?
“Tell me about your husband. What happened to him?”
Startled by that question, Lark firmly gripped the curved metal handle of the blade before it could slice his skin.
With a deep inhale, she resumed calm. “Why do you assume something happened to him?”
“He’s dead. Otherwise he’d be protecting you right now. That, I know.”
A lucid assumption. This vampire was not crazy. Did he use the madness act to deflect from his true evil? If she had thought to keep her enemy close, he could be utilizing the make them think you’re not all there, and then strike method.
Suddenly Domingos grabbed her wrist and thrust away her blade hand. She struggled, planting her feet and lowering her hips to focus her strength at her core. She’d guessed his plan exactly—but when a ragged moan came from between his gritted jaws and his eyes closed tightly she realized he was having another manic episode. Music in his head? Didn’t sound so terrible if it was Mozart. But he’d said something about constant whispers. That sounded creepy.
“Damn it!” He kicked out a foot and clutched the sink with both hands, struggling against what seemed like his body wanting to rage and flail. “Get out!”
Lark backed toward the door.
“No! Stay! The voices—” He gasped and hung his head, heaving and breathing deeply. And with a chuckle that danced a rigid insanity, he looked up, then straightened, tilting his head up to expose the unshaved side of his neck. “Gone now.”
Closing her eyes and breathing through her nose, Lark vacillated between tossing the blade into the sink and finishing the job. She didn’t need this. Todd wasn’t even alive, so what could he care if she showed kindness to a homeless man on his behalf? The vampire probably wasn’t even homeless. He might own a fine estate and just didn’t buy new clothing or have a care for his appearance.
“Please,” Domingos said, “I’m good now. Finish?”
Heartbeat thundering, Lark exhaled and forced her body to stand upright from the defensive stance. Another inhale and she drew out the breath slowly as Rook had taught her to find her calm.
“You try me, vampire, and I will cut you.”
“Fair enough.” He tilted back his head.
And Lark returned the blade to his neck and slid it through the shaving cream. She wanted to do this more than she knew why the want existed. And the challenge of that ineffable desire kept her from ending this tense tête-à-tête with a rough dismissal.
“Your husband,” he prompted. “You were going to tell me about him.”
No, she was not.
And yet...
“Do you want me to arrange a visit with a psychiatrist? To talk about his death?”
Rook hadn’t waited for her answer before nodding and suggesting the option was always there. The implied message had been that if she’d taken him up on his offer, that would prove her weakness. Women were not meant to be knighted into the Order.
She hadn’t needed talk. Action had always worked best to soothe her aches, both physical and mental. Even after the horrible event early in their marriage—no, that was one thing she would not mentally revisit. She had enough on her plate as it was.
“He used to be in the Order,” she said quickly. And then more words spilled out before her heart could rule against the confession. “Todd Cooper was one of the best hunters the Order had. Until vampires captured him and tortured him for a year and a day.”
“Captivity hurts,” Domingos said, emotionless and still.
“Yeah? So does sitting at the edge of a big bed every morning, looking over at the undisturbed side and wondering if your husband is still alive, or if he’ll ever be set free.”
She drew the blade across the last narrow patch of stubble and then tossed it into the sink with a clatter. “I’m done. Wash up. Take a shower, and toss out your clothes so I can burn them.”
“I’ll have nothing to wear.”
“There’s men’s clothing in the bedroom. Help yourself. But don’t linger in the shower. This is not your wake. I want you to leave as soon as you’re dressed.”
Chapter 5
The cool shower felt so good, Domingos had lingered, his scarred back facing the shower stream, but not more than twenty minutes, he suspected. On the other hand, who knew? He’d lost the ability to gauge time without a watch since his adventure in the pack complex had damaged his innate sense of place—his very sense of self.
Or maybe it was the phoenix who raced through his blood, urging him toward the crazy train, which required no ticket but guaranteed him a lifetime pass. Just thinking about that other part of him made him chuckle.
Rubbing himself dry with a towel, he wrapped it about his hips, then slipped down the hallway to the bedroom. Rain drooled down the windows behind sheer white curtains. He was disappointed not to find Lark in the quiet, undecorated room.
Wanting to find a woman lying on the bed in wait for you? You really have slipped a cog, LaRoque.
“All my cogs, actually,” he muttered. “Heh.”
He listened and heard her moving about in the living room.
Why was she being so kind to him? He was still amazed she’d invited him in. He could now enter this safe house whenever he wished. It was bizarre that she would offer such compassion when not long from now she’d wield a stake against him. Of course, she had mentioned something about luring the enemy in with kindness.
Didn’t matter. She’d lose. He wouldn’t like killing her in defense. Maybe he wouldn’t have to. Perhaps he could injure her enough to keep her away from him. Because he wasn’t ready to die when their daylong pact ran out at midnight. His death mustn’t come until the rest of pack Levallois had suffered his wrath.
And after that? Come what may.
Wincing, because he hadn’t been concentrating on blotting his back carefully he’d dragged the towel across the tender flesh, Domingos gritted his jaw to prevent crying out.
Shaking his head back and forth, he tried to hold off the screeching that always accompanied his pain, but he wasn’t fast enough. His head filled with the horrid noise. So he shook his head harder, faster, trying to race the madness over the edge.
Slamming a palm to the closet door, he yowled.
Letting loose his voice allayed some of the dizzying noise. He waited, wondering if Lark would check on him after his outburst, but didn’t hear movement.
No one cares about you. Get over it, vampire. Slay the rest of the pack, then disappear. That’s how you have to do it.
Right. But he couldn’t do it naked.
Domingos touched the clothing hanging in the closet. All the items were fashioned in black and dark gray fabrics. Suit coats and slacks. Sweaters and a few crisp, ironed shirts. There had been a time when he’d possessed fine things and had taken care for his appearance. He’d liked deep purples and forest-greens for shirts, colors of royalty and wonder.
Wonder had fled his life.
Even after he’d been transformed to vampire against his will five years ago, he’d continued the personal care regimen and had slowly accepted vampirism,
inch by inch, confidently growing into the creature he’d become.
Thanks to Truvin Stone, who had taken him under his wing a month after his attack, he’d learned all he needed to know about vampires. Truvin had hooked him up with tribe Zmaj, and they had taken him in within a few months of his transformation. He’d almost felt a semblance of family and companionship for his fellow tribe mates.
Monsters? No, his kind were simply a breed apart from mortals. He had been this close to grasping pride for his vampiric condition.
Until he’d walked right into a pack of smirking werewolves.
Pressing his face against the fine clothing, Domingos wondered over his thoughts. They were so clear. The mind-creasing whispers had left as if on tiptoes. Rarely did that happen, unless he was focused on tracking a wolf. Focus was the key to touching sanity.
Did Lark’s presence alleviate the cacophony? Did it somehow enter his brain and push out the rubbish and twisted shrapnel?
“Can’t be that easy,” he said, clutching at a shirtsleeve. “Never that easy.”
A black shirt loosened from the hanger, and he decided to go with it. He fumbled with the tiny pearlescent buttons, but managed to get it halfway buttoned from neck to midchest. He searched for a pair of jeans, but the most casual he could find were a pair of black leather pants, which fit him well, though they hung low on his hips. He’d lost weight while in captivity, and didn’t feel quite like the man he’d once been.
Make that vampire.
When tossed in the ring and surrounded by bloodthirsty werewolves, he’d learned to scrap, to fight dirty in order to preserve his life. No man would claim pride for the things he had done to survive. Yet he must own the heinous acts he’d committed. Besides, he’d gained the strength of a phoenix, and so he’d worry about his physical shortcomings some other time.
Back in the bathroom, he claimed his goggles, draping them around his neck, then decided to comb through his hair. It took a while, because even though he’d shampooed, his hair was horribly snarled. Bet he’d scared the shit out of Lark kissing her last night.
No, she’s a hunter. Tough girl like that can take anything.