“Oh,” she whispers, thrusting her hands through my hair and holding tightly. “I see you’ve found what your mouth wants.”
A rumbling, deep hum bubbles from me, teasing and tantalizing her as the vibrations cascade from my mouth through every nook and cranny of her body.
She squirms and wiggles, apparently as motivated to feel my hot skin sliding against hers as I am. After a moment of rearranging herself, her hands fly to the top of her pants, eager to remove the obstacles between us.
“Get those off,” I say in a rough voice, “and I’ll show you exactly what I want in my mouth.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
VIVIAN
“Good evening, Margery,” I say upon entering the resort’s walk-in refrigerator, my hands full with vials of my blood. “I didn’t expect to see you here.” With no guests on the resort, I figured the kitchen would be empty at this hour of the morning.
The resort doctor turns and smiles at me, tucking a loose strand of short, auburn hair behind an ear. “How else do you think the stores of frozen blood donations make it to the fridge for consumption?”
“Touché.” I keep my face neutral. Dammit, I thought Rafe handled the freezing and defrosting of the blood supply. How much of what I think I know is right? Is my memory compromised in more ways than I’m aware? Shaking off the worries, I continue toward the shelf holding the bags marked for members of the seethe. No matter what, I’ve got to keep moving forward.
“Adding a little special something for the boys?” Margery asks while motioning to the vials as I set them down. “You’re spiking their bags with the ancient blood we sell in the bar, right? I wondered how they were able to awaken while the sun was still up. But that makes sense.”
“Yes, I am. It’s the best way to rouse a sleeping vampire without putting them in a situation where they wake thinking they have to fight for their lives.” I’m referring to the “love taps” Drew is not averse to delivering to a slumbering vampire who needs to rise before the sun sets. After hearing Paul retell his experiences, it sounds like Drew might enjoy that aspect a little too much.
“Ah, Drew’s heavy-handed methods. I heard about a recent slap-fest from the chef.”
I nod and busy myself with setting out the vials and needle.
If not for the spiking, and without Drew slapping them awake every night, they may not be able to resist the pull of the sun and rise at all during the summer months—which would leave them raving blood-lunatics by the time real darkness swung back around to our region.
Grabbing the marker from my pocket, I write Paul’s name on seven of the bags. Next, I use the hypodermic needle and draw out five CCs of blood from the flat bottom vials. After repeatedly injecting my blood into each receptor at the top of the bag, I move to seven new bags, and inject only four CCs, marking them for Asa.
“Vivian, I’ve noticed our frozen blood stores have grown significantly in the past few weeks. Are you expecting trouble?”
I lift an eyebrow over her observations and raise my shoulders a tiny bit. “Not sure. But it doesn’t hurt to be prepared.” I wasn’t the one who ordered more donations, so it must be something Asa initiated while we were away.
Worry clouds the lovely woman’s face. “You neatly avoided my question about trouble.” She smiles, a gentle curving of her mouth. “Should any of us be planning an extended trip off the resort for a while?”
Her question hits close to my heart. The hotel is less than one-third staffed during the summer, and technically, we don’t even need most of them here. Eric mentioned the same thing at the debriefing, about possibly evacuating the resort. Maybe it’s time to do so. “You bring up a very valid point. I have no idea what’s in store for us, there’s a lot of unknown brewing on the horizon. But just to be safe, maybe it would be best if we announced a one month mandatory vacation from the property. With full pay, of course.”
My idea doesn’t seem to inspire the relief I was hoping for, if anything, she appears more disturbed at the suggestion. “Oh. I see.” One thing we don’t need is any type of panicked energy leaking out to our human residents.
I step forward and stare deeply into the aging doctor’s serene blue-green eyes. It takes less than a second to slip into her mind. “You’re not going to be worried about the upcoming announcement for a required vacation. You’ll remain neutral and not indulge publicly with speculation. You’re going to visit family and travel, relaxed and content that nothing is happening at the resort while you’re away.”
I pull my will back, leaving her unaware I’m influencing her thoughts. “A visit with family sounds like a great idea!” the doctor says with joy in her tone. “My niece had a baby this past spring and I’d love to spend some time with them.”
She turns away from me and resumes her task, which appears to be checking freshness dates on the other blood bags. In another minute, I’m done and clearing up my supplies, organizing the bags with the oldest date on top before I leave.
The doctor finishes at the same time and we leave the fridge together. She hesitates by an old pencil sketch in the dining room, one of a Kodiak bear as it forages for food on a hillside. “Vivian, before I go, I’ve been meaning to ask you something. This drawing has been hanging here for years—I really like it. Where did you get it? The artist’s style appeals to me. And if I’m not mistaken, I’ve seen a couple other prints, and watercolors, throughout the resort that look like they may have been done by the same hand.”
The doctor’s question catches me off-guard, a bloom of pleasure filling me. There’s no harm in admitting what she wants to know, so I say, “Thank you for the kind words, and your interest. As a matter of fact, I drew it. And I’m also the one who created the others you’ve noticed throughout the property as well. Good rule of thumb with the artwork here—unless you see a signature somewhere on the front, it’s probably mine.”
Surprise flits across the doctors face, settling into a delighted smile. “I wondered if it could be you. But I wasn’t sure. I’m glad I asked. You do beautiful work.”
“Thank you. When you’ve lived as long as I have, it’s good to take up new skills.” A smile stretches my face, a feeling of closeness with the doctor that haven’t felt before, flaring to life. “You know, Doctor, now that I have you here…”
“You mean now that you’re actually talking to me?” Dr. Cook laughs. “I’ve always been here, Vivian. You’re welcome to talk to me about anything that might interest you.”
The smart woman stares boldly into my eyes, her knowledge and interest of who and what I am blazing front and center—along with her unwavering trust. The few humans who know a vampire don’t normally stare them in the eye. Dare I add “confidant” to her skill set? Would confiding in her be wise of me? Well, desperate times call for desperate measures. “Doc, I wanted to ask you about memories, the brain, and how we store knowledge. And inversely, how we hide known truths from ourselves.”
“Hmm…. There is a reason there’s an entire medical field devoted just to the brain. Neuroscience is not my specialty, but we obviously covered it in medical school. And I’m not so old that I’ve forgotten the basics, or haven’t kept up with my continuing education. I’m happy to be of help. But memory is a tricky thing. Trauma, tragedy, grief, shame—lots of things we experience can alter memories. Is there something specific you wanted to know?”
“As you may have guessed, I’ve lived a very long life. So long in fact there are parts I don’t remember.” The doctor’s eyebrows rise on her lightly furrowed forehead. I’ve got her attention now. “I was wondering if maybe, there’s a way to perhaps recall things that I have worked hard to forget.”
“Ah, that can be difficult. The lies we tell ourselves can quickly become the only truth we remember. Maybe ‘forgetting’ was used as a defensive trait if the experience was something very traumatic. Could that be the case here?”
“That’s where it gets tricky, Doc. If I can’t remember why I wanted to forget something, then I d
on’t know what initially happened to make me want to forget it in the first place. Do you see what I mean?”
“Yes, I think so. I’m not sure what help I can be. One thing I can tell you—the strongest of our six senses to help with memory recall is scent. I don’t know if that’s a possibility for you, especially depending on how old the memories are we’re talking about, as it could be even harder to track down coordinating scents.
“Looking at old pictures can help trigger memories, too. Or maybe visiting a place were a significant occurrence happened in your life, might bring back a memory. Oh, and you could always try hypnosis.” My look must speak volumes, because she rushes on. “Don’t discount it out of hand. It’s just a thought. There’s lots of tricks law enforcement officers use when interviewing a witness. They walk them through questions that touch on our senses, hoping to release details the witness couldn’t remember initially.”
Her suggestions intrigue me. While I can’t immediately travel to another location to jar a memory into resurfacing, there’s certainly one place to find an awful lot of old stuff. The storage rooms in the tunnels. And maybe if I’m lucky, there’ll be a bunch of old smells associated with the stored items, too.
How much do I want to remember? Am I willing to open myself to the hurt that could be waiting for me?
I glance back at the sketch on the wall, one I did years ago while out exploring the tundra. If I can recall the time with my old turns, I could draw their likenesses. Could they be accurate enough depictions to help Asa with tracking down the people from my journals?
Definitely food for thought.
“Thank you, Margery. You’ve given me a great place to start.”
The doctor looks pleased, and still a little surprised. I’m glad I asked for her advice.
“Well, then, I wish you good hunting,” she winks, “memory hunting that is.”
A truer choice of words was never spoken. I’ll be hunting all right, but not necessarily for memories.
We say our farewells and the doctor leaves, a content expression on her face as she mumbles about the packing she’s got to do. Her suggestions really got me thinking. And now I know exactly where to start: the tunnels.
God, I love this place. This vast and lavish resort is certainly not my first V V Inn, but it is the best one ever we’ve ever created. As I descend into the concrete tunnel, a sense of joy infuses me. There’s nothing like the feeling of a perfectly designed escape route to reassure you that all is right in your world—and if it’s not, to not worry because you have a backup plan that’s fail-safe.
Sure, these tunnels were a bitch for the workers to build, and it took almost a decade, but the peace of mind their existence brings was worth it.
I step off the last rung of the ladder and close my eyes. Instantly, the energy within the tunnels fills me, and an internal map of the intricate passageways lights up in my mind. Every tunnel and door were designed to look exactly the same. I imagine a good blow to the head might mess up Asa or even Rafe when they travel down here, but thanks to my connection to every thing built on the property, I’ll never have that issue.
Literally, I could be dropped anywhere in here blindfolded and I’d never be lost for a second. My internal compass would re-orient based on the blood, sweat, and tears from every worker who ever toiled on the resort and their blood bond through me, accessed via my extended consciousness.
Striding with confidence down the passage, I make my way toward an old weapons cache hidden in one of the seemingly “abandoned” storage rooms. Even the empty rooms hide something, you just have to know where to look. After six turns and three reinforced steel doors, I enter a dark room and flick on the overhead light. This room was never empty, and now the wooden crates have been pushed aside with some lids off. Hmm… what happened in here? I take a deep breath to see if I can sense any trace of who was here recently.
There. It’s barely discernible. A subtle hint of death in the air. Very light. Like a brush against my senses, nothing more.
Ah, I remember now. This is the room that also houses one of my old sea chests filled with gold. Which means, this is where I instructed Asa and the reaper Lisa to search for gold doubloons a couple weeks ago. They needed them to pay the ferryman for the transportation of the inn’s ghosts across the river Styx. Their dead souls were trapped here after recently meeting a grizzly end, and Asa and Lisa worked together to clean up our ethereal plane.
Deciding the open crates are as good as any place to trigger memories, I reach inside the closest one and dig through the contents. My hand touches smooth wood, and I draw out a medium-sized, ornate box. It appears to be made of mahogany and hand-carved with gold pieces inserted on the corners and embedded in some of the design work.
No doubt the box is a work of art on its own. So what could it hold inside? My first thoughts are colored with annoyance—why don’t I recognize this damn thing? When did I get it? Who gave it to me? Did I steal it or buy it?
I don’t like these unfamiliar feelings swirling through me, they make me doubt myself. And doubt is not what I need. I need to be strong. I need to be driven, and I need to protect those I love. How can I when I don’t even remember who I am?
You know who you are. You’re a killer.
I shake off the dark thought. I am more than a killer. And I have always been more than just a weapon. I will not allow the darkness inside me to make my insecurities larger-than-life. They are as small and insignificant now as they were five hundred years ago. Fears and doubts only have strength if I give them strength. And I will not.
Done with my inner pep-talk, I lift the lid, eager to see what’s inside. Rich black fabric lines the interior, its softness and quality immediate upon inspection. Nestled in the black material is a pile of tiny silver circles linked one to another, forming a fine chain-mail mesh. Frayed and faded material lines the back of the metal.
I know what these are, even if I don’t know where they came from. They’re silver hoods. Meant to be worn by a vampire to block out the power of a manipulator vampire. I doubt these were a gift. More than likely I took them from an enemy.
Closing the lid, I set the box aside. I don’t have need of these at the moment, but perhaps they should be brought upstairs and shared with the others as an extra layer of protection when we’re gone. I rummage through the crate deeper, pulling out a heavy drawstring bag about the size of a toaster. It’s made of soft, tan suede and weighted down by its dense contents. Metal would be my first guess. I slip open the drawstring closure, and reach inside, to draw its contents out.
My hand brushes cool metal as fiery pain assaults my fingers. I draw my hand back quickly, surprised I found another store of silver so soon, and so close to the last one. Perhaps this entire crate was loaded with items from a significant point in my life. I’m not sure.
Frustration spills through me as I realize none of this is helping. I open the mouth of the bag and dump the contents onto the top of the wooden box.
The light hits eight circlets of silver, finely wrought and delicate, reminiscence of an ornate head piece a noblewoman might wear for dressy occasions. In a flash, a memory comes to me, unbidden and in full color.
Laughter fills the moonlit air as the couples dance across the gleaming hardwood laid over the grassy field. Brightly colored ball gowns cascade to the makeshift floor, fabric swooshing on each turn of the dancers. The smell of fresh blood carries on a slight breeze, tickling my nose and stirring my cravings.
But the strong, cloying scent of the undead lies stronger, reminding me to not let down my guard. Shiny, ceremonial circlets of lined silver grace the ancients’ foreheads, catching the light as they dance. They wear the headpieces in tribute to our distant past, and to symbolize what we left behind when we fled Atlantis and the tyranny of manipulators.
My senses tingle with awareness. Danger and death lie heavy in the air. They don’t know it, but I am the wolf among sheep—as much as vampires can be called sheep—for I am t
he one they wear the ancient circlets to protect against.
With a shiver, I shake off the memory, thrusting the wooden box and the circlets on its lid back into the crate. Ugh. Walking through memories from my time with the Tribunal is not what I’d hoped for. Perhaps coming back later would be better. Besides, I need to liberate my old weapons before we leave. Might be better to focus on that.
Unable to ignore the rest of the mess, I straighten the wooden boxes, adjust their contents, and replace the lids. In a few minutes, I’m done and move toward a far corner, the opposite side of the room from the concealed pirate chest.
Counting from the top, I stretch on my toes to press the fifth cinder block down, and then step back. After a brief pause for the gears and levers to do their job, a door-sized section of the wall slides in and to the left, revealing an organized, hanging display of my old fighting leathers and weapons.
I stare at the well-oiled clothing and blades, debating on what I want to take with us when we start tracking my turns. When I last wore these items, times were different. The council had briefly hired me as a mercenary rogue-hunter centuries after my twenty years of service.
To hunt rogues, I often stuck to the shadows to avoid being seen. A woman wearing these items in the nineteenth century would have caused quite a stir. Now, I have no doubt I could walk fully-garbed in battle gear down most any city street and wouldn’t attract attention, besides receiving polite inquiries on where I purchased the cool items.
Idly, I wonder if everything still fits. A smile spreads across my face. It’s not like I’ve gained weight over the centuries—one of the best perks of being a vampire. Then again, I’m sure if I could eat real food that might change. A liquid diet does have its advantages, and disadvantages, too.
Deciding to give it a go, for fun, I strip out of what I consider to be my manual-labor working clothes, jeans and a tee shirt, and pull on the tight leather pants, steel reinforced corset-like top, and the reinforced leather jacket, too. The style cuts on the clothing may not be current, but the quality and craftsmanship is unsurpassed. I check all the secret sheaths built into the sleeves, pant legs, and across the jacket back. All the ticking is still sound and solid, assuring me I’ll be able to load up my favorite blades with no problem.
Sharpen the Blade (The V V Inn Book 6) Page 7