by Sean Hayden
I snorted. Quickly my hand covered my mouth in embarrassment. "You're good at that."
"I've been working for him for the better part of a decade. One time I went home and spoke in French all night long to myself without realizing it. Want to talk about annoying?"
"You speak French?"
"No. He pissed me off and I went home shaking my head and making noises that sounded like French. It was very therapeutic."
I lost it. She and I were going to get along fine. "You don’t mind…"
"Oh, hell no. I've been bitten by vampires before. They couldn't get anything from it, so it was mostly for fun. I don't mind, and I heal quickly."
"Thank you. I really appreciate it."
She slid over to Marcel's leather sofa and threw her arm over the side while she crossed her legs. She did it with her ankle across her thigh, the way most men sat. She should give Marcel lessons. She patted the seat next to her and reached around her head and pulled the thick hair to the side, exposing her neck. "Come on, I gotta get back to work soon."
I walked over to her and sat down next to her on the soft couch. I took a tentative whiff of the air and caught her scent. My eyes widened. To my nose, vampires always smelled of sickly-sweet spices. Lycanthropes always smelled of the earthier spices. The few humans I could eat such as witches and magic users smelled like a combination of the two. Like stuffing cooking at the same time as pumpkin pie. It depended on the magic they used. Curiosity got the better of me and I leaned in closer to the nape of her neck. I nuzzled my nose against her neck and breathed as I gave a tentative lick of the skin on her shoulder. She gave a soft moan and uncrossed her legs.
She smelled like flowers and tasted like spring. Not being able to control myself, I bit into the flesh of her shoulder. Her body went rigid as she felt the pleasure my bite brought. Then her blood hit my tongue and my world exploded.
Her name wasn't Melanie. It was Melaniel. She was over four-hundred years old. She was a low court elf that had been trapped in this realm and didn't have the ability to go home, nor did she want to.
Her blood burned the entire way down. It was like giving whiskey to a thirsty person expecting a glass of ice water. I loved it. I hated it. But I couldn't get enough of it. I wrapped my arms around her and settled in for the ride.
What a ride it turned out to be.
We woke up on the floor twenty minutes later.
"What was that?"
I looked at her softly glowing grey eyes and smiled. "I've never had elven blood before. I certainly wasn't expecting that."
She scrambled off the floor and lacked the strength to stand. I laughed when she plopped down on the couch holding her head in her hands and tried to shake off the feelings of my feeding, the way a dog tried to shake off water. "I never had a vampire do what you did either."
I mentally ran through what I knew of the Fae, which wasn't much. They weren't considered good or evil, but they were beautiful. "I thought elves were supposed to be tall and anorexic thin."
Her hungover look vanished, replaced by one of skepticism. "I thought all vampires were snarly ugly things that smelled like dirt and drooled."
"Those are revenants… Oh. You're telling me there are different kinds of elves?"
"More than you can imagine. What just happened? I've been bitten by vampires before. That's the first time I've passed out." She gave up trying to hold her head up and flopped back against the couch cushions. I crawled up next to her and sat.
"I'm a little different from most vampires, too. I can't explain it, but I'll tell Marcel to give you a raise."
"Only on one condition."
I pulled away a little. That hadn't been the answer I was expecting. Skeptically I asked, "What?"
"You do that again sometime."
"Feeling a little better?"
I looked up and saw Marcel standing in the doorway. He stared at the both of us lounging on the couch with a bemused look on his face.
"You could say that," I said with a little giggle and glanced over at my new friend.
She flipped Marcel the bird, stood very slowly, and croaked, "I need a drink."
Nearly stumbling across the room, she ducked under Marc's arm and into the club.
I used her absence as an excuse to turn sideways and stretch out on the couch. Sighing deeply, I closed my eyes and for the first time in days, I relaxed.
"Marcel?"
"Oui?"
"Thanks."
He didn't respond, merely shut the light off before closing the door and exiting, leaving me alone in his office. I had no idea what time it was, but had little desire to sleep. The elven blood coursing through my system made me feel more alive than I had in weeks.
Rummaging around in my head for the sun, I could felt it well below the horizon. I had woken up on the dungeon slab just after sundown. The night was young, and I didn't feel like staying cooped up in Marcel's office.
I stood and caught my reflection in the mirror hanging on the back of the door.
Yikes.
Someone had cleaned the blood from my face, but my hair was matted and red, and the front of my shirt looked like I had murdered a cow with my teeth. Getting shot in the head was not good for one's wardrobe or hair. I needed to avoid it in the future.
Shrugging my shoulders, I opened the door and walked into the club. Techno music assaulted me, the pounding of the bass tickled places it shouldn't be touching while it drowned my ears.
Smoke drifted across my vision, but not enough to obscure the couple on the stage. The woman was strapped upside down onto the surface of a large metallic disk. She was almost naked, save for a strap of leather crossing her waist and places not allowed to be naked without a different kind of license. BDSM clubs didn't allow full nudity or open intercourse, but that didn't stop the performers from pushing the boundaries of the law.
The man standing in front of her slapped her spread thighs with a many tailed leather whip. She didn't cry out in pain but moaned instead and writhed against her restraints. She must have worn a mic. Her moans became the vocals to the music in the club.
I blushed and looked around for Marcel.
Melanie waved at me from behind the bar. I blushed even harder. Panic started in my chest and threatened to overwhelm me. I wanted out of there.
"Are you all right?"
I turned and one of Marcel's safety goons had come up behind me. He smelled of cinnamon and sugar. Definitely a vamp.
"No. Where's Marcel?"
"Entertaining a guest in one of the private rooms. He asked that I take care of you."
"I'm fine. I just need to go home."
"Follow me," he said and headed toward the back.
I shrugged and followed him, staring at his very broad shoulders and the name of the club printed on the back of the shirt. It beat glancing over at the sex show. I didn't know how Marcel dealt with the constant barrage of sex, but I knew I didn't want to get used to it. Ever.
We exited to the back of the stage, through another door, and finally made it outside. There was a small employee parking lot, which came as a complete surprise. The club we were at must have been on the outskirts of Chicago, instead of downtown. Real estate was too valuable to waste on parking.
"Name's Jimmy," the bouncer said and headed toward an older Chevy.
"Ashlyn."
"Yeah. We know. Everybody knows," he said with a hint of amusement in his voice.
"Why?"
"When the boss is interested in something, word tends to spread."
My head snapped up as he unlocked the door and opened it for me to slip inside. "It's not what you think…"
He held up a hand. "I didn't mean it to come out like that. I know. Let's just say you're on his mind a lot," he answered cryptically and motioned me to sit.
I had no idea what he meant or where he was going with the conversation, so I decided to keep my mouth shut and sat while I waited for him to walk around the car and slide behind the wheel. The car rum
bled to life and he turned on the GPS.
Without even asking me for an address, he pulled out of the lot and waved to the guard, pointing us toward the highway. He reached into the pocket on the front of his T-shirt and pulled out a pack of smokes, expertly lighting one with only one hand, in a windy car, with a zippo that looked older than me.
"Want one?"
"I don't smoke."
He made a funny face and flicked the beginnings of the ash out the window. "I was going to quit, but then got turned so I figured there was no point in stopping."
I gave a half-felt chuckle and rolled down my window to let some of the smell out of the car. "Maybe I should start."
"Maybe when you're older," he said and winked at me.
I knew he was kidding, but my age, and references to my age, irked me to no end. I reached down, grabbed the cigarettes and lighter and gave it a shot.
I whacked my forehead on the dashboard of his Impala. It felt like someone had dumped a campfire into my lungs. Drool fell from my mouth and onto my shoes. Jimmy's laughter grated on my nerves as he slapped my back with his meaty hand.
"First drag is always a bitch."
"That tastes like minty ass."
"Yeah. They're menthol."
"That is the grossest thing I've ever had in my mouth."
That just caused him to laugh even harder. I realized what I'd said and blushed again. I was going to need to feed soon, if all the blood in my system kept going to my cheeks.
I was about to flick the rest of it out the window when he said, "Try it again. It will be better, I promise."
I looked at it dubiously, but did it again. I coughed as it burned, but it wasn't nearly as bad as the first time. "Still tastes like shit."
"Cuz you're hitting it like a joint. Like this. Use your cheeks to suck the smoke into your mouth then inhale it all at once." He gave a quick demonstration, making it look easy enough.
The third hit was better, but nothing great, but they got progressively better. Before I knew it, I was smoking without thinking about it and contemplating my life. When the cherry got down to the filter, I gagged and tossed it.
"Better?"
"Much. Thanks."
Several minutes later, we pulled into my driveway. I had been lost in thought and turned to him incredulously. I hadn't told him where I lived.
He smiled and pointed at the GPS. "Marcel gave it to me. It has your address programmed into it."
"I didn't think it was on. I didn't hear anything."
"Cuz the fucking thing speaks French. I shut the sound off."
"Thanks for the ride," I said and popped the door open.
"Are you in for the night?"
"Yeah."
"Okay, Marcel told me to stick with you if you needed a ride anywhere, but if you're gonna stay home, I'll take the rest of the night off."
"Enjoy it." I got out and shut the car door as gently as I could. I lived in a normal neighborhood. Everyone was probably already asleep. They tolerated me because I worked for the FBI, but getting shot in the head on my front lawn probably wouldn't be getting me invited to the next block party.
I grabbed the stack of mail from the box next to my front door and punched in the code on the electronic entry lock I had installed. With as much as I've been blown-up, caught on fire, and had several thousand dollars' worth of business suits shredded by claws, I didn't always end up at home with a set of keys. Thompson suggested the new lock. He was a lot smarter than he looked.
The cool scent of autumn assaulted my senses as the door swung open. My aunt had been a huge supporter of the potpourri manufacturing industry, as in she bought a bag of it whenever she saw it. It didn't matter what it smelled like. I had broken into her stash to keep her memory alive. That and the house had been getting a little funky. I needed to hire a maid.
I flicked the light switch with my elbow and headed straight for my bedroom and a hot shower. The smell of my blood was beginning to overpower the potpourri. I got about three feet from my door when something began to feel different. It was October and chilly out. In the days before my intervention, I had turned up the heat in the house. It was almost balmy. The closer I got to my bedroom, the colder it became.
I let out the breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding, and steam that had never been present, even on the coldest of winter days, floated from my mouth, like the smoke from the cigarette I had tried earlier. My legs began to shake as I crossed the threshold. There were no lights on, but I didn't need them. Not with my eyes. I glanced quickly around the room and saw nothing, but the feeling remained.
With little else to do, I flipped the light switch next to the door. In darkness, there had been nothing. As the light radiated from the ceiling fan overhead, my greatest dream, and my most horrid nightmare, came to be.
Vic stood next to my bed. Her arms were outstretched, palms upward, as if she were begging me for something. Her head sat nestled upon her shoulders, but a jagged line wound around her neck and seeped blood. Her eyes, the eyes I missed gazing into so much, were lifeless and dull. White dominated them, blind and milky.
"Ash," she mouthed, not making a sound and looking as if she were in pain.
My heart broke and my mouth opened, a scream echoing off the walls that would probably wake every neighbor in a ten-block radius.
The bulb in the fan above us burst, plunging the room into darkness. The last sound I heard was my head thudding against the hardwood floor.
I was getting accustomed to being slapped awake. It wasn't fun. I opened my eyes and Thompson's ugly mug was about six inches from my face. I groaned.
"You okay?"
"No. You're ugly."
"She's fine," he called over his shoulder.
I wiggled and looked around his massive shoulder. A uniformed police officer and a worried looking Marcel stood behind him. Again. I had a feeling I was in for a long day.
"Why didn't you let him wake me up?"
"I didn't want you covered in drool when I kicked the shit out of you. You'd get my knuckles all gooey," he said and let my head fall to the ground.
"Ouch, asshole."
"You'll live, now go eat."
"Huh?"
"Getting tired of coming over here and feeding you like a little kid. Get it through your skull. You need to eat. Don't make me have Marcel shoot you in the head again."
I sat up on the floor and stared at him like the dick that he was. "I did eat, Assface. Ask Frenchie."
Thompson paused a moment and looked behind him. Marcel nodded and shrugged. He looked back at me and lifted his massive frame from the floor of my bedroom. "What the hell happened then?"
"Trust me, you don't want to know."
"Ash…"
"Drop it. Help me up." He reached out a big meaty hand and lifted me easily from my prone position. "Thanks."
"You okay?"
"No. But I haven't been okay for a while. I'm getting used to it."
"Excuse me, ma'am."
I glanced over at the cop. "Yeah?"
"Were you accosted in any way, or did anybody break in?" He pulled out his notebook and began writing down some notes. In the dark.
I looked around and sure enough, it was dark as hell in my room. He must have been some sort of shifter to be able to see. "No, Officer…" I let my voice trail off, hoping he would supply his name. You didn't see too many supes on the burb police forces.
"Howard, ma'am."
"No, I thought I saw a ghost, screamed, and passed out. Sorry about that."
"No worries. I'll call it in and be on my way. You might want to let the twenty-seven neighbors who called in to report a murder know you're okay."
He chuckled and left.
"How did you two find out?"
They looked at each other and didn't say a word.
I could feel my blood begin to boil.
"What? Do you have my house fucking bugged?"
"No! Nothing like that," Marcel stumbled.
"We wouldn
't do that," Thompson added. Almost as an afterthought.
"What would you do?" Bitch mode on.
"Nothing! But out of concern, I might have given your nosey neighbor my phone number in case of an emergency…" Thompson smiled.
I sighed. "That probably wasn't a bad idea. Mrs. Holyoak means well." I sounded defeated, even to me.
"And she has a cool name."
"I thought so, too. Thought she might be a druid or some shit, but she's as Catholic as they come."
I led them out into the kitchen and opened the fridge, pulling out a bag of blood. Sure, I had just eaten, but seeing a ghost, screaming, and passing out takes a lot out of a girl.
Thompson smiled and nodded. "Good girl."
"Fuck off."
He chuckled and took a seat at the nook in the kitchen. Marc did the same. "You know, Marcel and I aren't leaving until you tell us what the hell happened."
I pulled a straw out of one of the drawers and snipped a point onto it with the scissors I kept next to them. Popping it into the bag, I took a sip of blood and let it flood my tongue and push away the cold that seemed to have settled into my bones. Steeling my nerves, I took a deep breath and looked up at my partner and my teacher. "I saw her," I said simply.
"Who?" Thompson looked confused. Marcel sighed in understanding.
"Vic."
"Ash," he began before I held up my hand, cutting him off.
"I know what you're going to say, and don't. No, I don't need a psychologist, especially that guy from the bureau, and I'm not crazy. Well not any more than I already was. I saw what I saw."
"She died. We cremated her, and you spread her ashes yourself. There is no way you saw her," Marcel tried to explain logically.
I have a new saying. Fuck logic.
"I know. I didn't see her. I saw her ghost."
Marc rolled his eyes and Thompson reached into his jacket, undoubtedly to pull out his cell and call the shrink.
"Look. Believe me. Don't believe me. Either way, I don't give two shits. I walked into my house and headed toward the shower. When I got near my bedroom, the temperature dropped like five hundred degrees. I walked in anyway and the room was empty. I flipped on the light switch and, just like that, she was there with her head attached, dripping blood, and mouthing my name. I screamed and passed out."