First Blood

by Susan Sizemore

It almost sounded like she doubted his brilliance and strategizing. Which considering that they were standing in the storage room of his bar and he had no idea what to do long-term, she was probably right. At least he had thought through what to do for the night—he’d known going over to Cassandra’s he would have to hide the woman he brought back, and there were really only a couple of places he felt he could confidently hide Sasha. “You have two choices. We can go upstairs to my apartment over the bar.” Jack would be there later but he could count on his friend to keep his mouth shut.

  “No,” she said quickly. “I will not.”

  “Or we can hide you in the cemetery. I have a tomb—”

  “No! Absolutely not.” Sasha was pale and her chest was rising and falling rapidly.

  Alistair rubbed his jaw. The tomb was really the best option. They could hide Sasha for a few days, then get her on a flight to the East Coast, hell, even Europe. No one would look for her in the cemetery in the meantime. “You got a better idea? Do you know anyone in town you can stay with?”

  Biting her lip, she shook her head. “No. But I cannot stay in a tomb. It is out of the question.” Her chin came up defiantly, her eyes daring him to argue.

  He wasn’t going to. He had no desire to stand there for the next hour and give her survival pointers. If she didn’t want to, he wasn’t going to force it. He would just have to keep her hidden, then get her out of town somehow. Somehow being the operative word.

  “Fine. We’ll go upstairs then.” He waited for her response. He was done dragging her around. If they were going upstairs, she was walking.

  She nodded. “I suppose there is no other choice.”

  Good to see she could be rational.

  The main stairs to his apartment were reached from a doorway on Conti Street next to the bar, but Alistair didn’t want to parade Sasha back through the front rooms and onto the street. The steps in the storeroom led up to a narrow back hallway and stairs to the third floor. The only access to his apartment from this hall was through an odd window that overlooked the staircase, but they could climb in through that.

  “After you,” he said to Sasha, gesturing to the dark staircase on the other side of the metal shelving that held cocktail napkins and bottles of alcohol.

  She looked at the stairs, then back at him. Her face was guarded. “I will follow you.”

  The chick had issues, no doubt about it.

  But Alistair tried to be patient, putting himself in her shoes—not that she was wearing any—in an attempt to understand her fear and paranoia. A woman who had been tied up like that, sought after by slayers and vampires alike, was going to have power and control issues. It was completely understandable, even if it made him question yet again why he had put himself in the role of white knight. He hadn’t spent a lot of time being a humanitarian. Not since his wife had died two hundred years earlier.

  Her attitude was annoying, testing what little patience he had left.

  “Whatever.” Going up the stairs two at a time, he was fully prepared for Sasha to turn tail and run out the door to the alley while his back was to her.

  He would almost be relieved if she did.

  Almost.

  THREE

  SASHA HAD THOUGHT ABOUT RUNNING, BUT DECIDED she needed blood, shoes, and a shower first.

  She was willing to forgo the shower if the bathroom door didn’t lock, because she didn’t trust Alistair, but to her amazement, he actually left her alone in his apartment. He did lock the front door after he left, but he told her he was going down to the bar to talk to Jack and that he would be back in fifteen minutes.

  Being alone was both a relief and a strange disappointment. The quiet pressed in on her, but acutely aware of how little time she had, she sprang into action.

  Sasha fed first, going straight to the refrigerator Alistair had pointed out and downing three bags of blood. She despised the smell, so she drank it quickly, poking around the kitchen until she found a wastebasket she could toss the empty bags in. For being several hundred years old, Alistair had a rather adolescent apartment. Mötley Crüe featured heavily into the décor, from framed prints to guitars to concert T-shirts. There was even a collection of band shot glasses on the ledge above the dish rack.

  Yet for some reason, Sasha found the small apartment comfortable. After Gregor’s ostentatious wealth, this was very real, very normal.

  Aware of her time constraints, Sasha took a quick two-minute shower, washing the grime and fear-inspired sweat off of her skin. Her feet had been scratched and sliced from running barefoot, but once she scrubbed off the dirt and blood, it was obvious they had healed already.

  Alistair had said the bigger bedroom was his, the other belonging to his friend Jack. After putting her jeans back on, Sasha left her filthy T-shirt in the bathroom, folded neatly on the countertop, and walked quickly to Alistair’s room. A search of his bureau revealed a vast sea of black T-shirts. He’d never miss one. She pulled one over her head, and removed a pair of socks from the drawer below and put those on as well. In his closet, she found black Chucks that were only slightly big on her feet. She was tall, with large feet, and his shoes felt good, stable, since she was used to wearing high heels. Gregor had liked her in heels.

  Walking around his room, Sasha admired her feet in the funky gym shoes. She liked them on her, enjoyed the spring they gave to her step, and the feeling that she could run fast and hard if necessary. The T-shirt she’d chosen at random had a leering skull on it. A far cry from her usual designer clothing. Her husband had likened her to a runway model and had dressed her in kind.

  Not that she was going to think about Gregor. Or Ivan. She was free. Finally. This was her opportunity to go away, to start over, to change her name, and become someone else. Someone she could like, someone she could start to respect again, someone who had her own identity.

  All she needed was a few supplies first.

  Rooting around Alistair’s closet, she found an olive green messenger bag that she could toss a few bags of blood in. She snagged his comb from the bathroom and a toothbrush that hadn’t been opened yet from the drawer.

  Sasha was stealing money from the jar sitting on Alistair’s dresser stuffed with ones and fives, when she heard the front door opening.

  Cramming the cash in the pocket of the bag, she dropped the whole thing between the bed and the window, flicking a pillow over it, and moved forward to face him, willing her heart to stop pounding so rapidly.

  She was not afraid.

  She’d faced worse and survived.

  She could handle Alistair Kirk.

  AFTER leaving Sasha alone to shower and feed, again half hoping, half afraid she would take off, Alistair went back to the bar.

  “Where’s your girl?” Sam asked. He hadn’t moved an inch on his stool while Alistair had been gone, though his gin had disappeared.

  “Upstairs taking a shower. She’s had a long night.”

  “Where’d you find her?” Sam said. It was a casual question, but they’d been friends for years and Alistair heard the curiosity in his voice.

  Since Raven had moved into the front room, Alistair was honest with his friends. He’d need their support if Sasha stuck around for a few days. “Met her at Cassandra’s.”

  Jack made a sound of disapproval, but didn’t say anything. Sam raised an eyebrow.

  “What’s her story?”

  “Not sure. But she wasn’t a willing houseguest.”

  “What are you going to do with her?” Jack asked.

  “I’m going to have her lie low and hide her until I can ship her out of town.”

  Jack shook his head. “That isn’t going to work. You already had her out here in front of people. Cassandra’s guards saw her, I’m almost positive.”

  Sam nodded. “Jack’s right. And Cassandra is looking for any excuse to tie your nuts in a knot.”

  The thought of his ex-wife knowing he had Sasha made him smile. “That’s true. So what do you think I should do? I’m no
t tossing her back to the wolves.”

  “You’ve got to be bold. Shove her ass out here every night. Tell everyone she’s your girlfriend. Keep her surrounded by your friends. Never leave her alone. They won’t pull anything if we’re all protecting her.”

  Alistair mulled that over, pouring himself a beer from the tap. “You have a point. But I don’t want to drag all of you into this.”

  Jack shrugged. “Why the fuck not? We’d drag your ass into it if we were the ones guarding some hot Russian chick. And you’d do it for us.”

  That was true. He would.

  “You’re right. Alright.” He drained the beer in one long swallow. “Let me go talk to her. It might take some convincing to get her to go along with the plan.”

  “She stubborn?” Jack asked.

  “That’s an understatement.” Alistair rubbed his chin, remembering the feelings of his fangs sinking into his tongue when she’d nailed him with her shackles. Speaking of which. “Hey, anyone got any metal cutters?”

  “Yeah, right here in my shorts.” Sam rolled his eyes. “Give me a break. Go to fucking Home Depot, man.”

  He’d pencil that in for tomorrow night. After he found Sasha some shoes and convinced her that the smartest thing she could do would be to stick with him. That he’d get her to safety.

  Unlike Abby, who had died under his protection.

  WHEN he entered his apartment, calling out a greeting so Sasha would know it was him, Alistair was feeling tired and bitter. He had spent way too much time thinking about both of his wives in one night, and neither left him with happy, fuzzy feelings. He still missed Abby, and still felt the sting of guilt for her death. Whenever he thought of Cassandra, he wanted the ability to reverse time and never meet her, let alone marry her, and if that weren’t possible, he wanted to stab needles in his ears so he would never have to hear her grating, bitchy voice again.

  Neither was a practical option, and that made him cranky as hell.

  But the sight of Sasha made him forget both of the women in his past.

  Sasha was wearing his T-shirt. And his shoes. The ones he liked to wear when he was playing bass because they went with the artistically torn jeans and the chain that hung from his front pocket to the back. They looked cute on her. She looked cute. Shy. Her hair hung wet over her cheeks, her hands tucked in the front pockets of her jeans, her eyes blinking up at him from under those luscious lashes.

  “I guess you managed a shower, despite the shackles.”

  She nodded. “I tried to dry them off, but they will probably rust. It does not matter I guess. I will get them off eventually.”

  “Tomorrow. I’ll go get something to cut them off with.”

  There was a slight hesitation, so brief he might have imagined it, then she nodded. “Thank you.”

  Alistair was suspicious, only not sure why. Maybe it was because she had clearly gone through his drawers and yet was not bothering to acknowledge or apologize for it, or maybe it was because she was standing still, right next to his bed, and that seemed the last place she would want to be lingering. Maybe there was no reason to be suspicious whatsoever, yet he was, so he moved closer to her. She flinched slightly, but held her ground.

  When he moved around her and casually took off his watch and tossed it on his dresser, he said, “Do my shoes fit?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “Sure.” It was as he was pushing shut the drawer she’d left open an inch that he realized his jar of tips was empty. She’d stolen his money.

  Not surprising, but offensive nonetheless. He wanted to confront her on principle, but he didn’t care about the money. It had been only fifty bucks at most, and he suddenly felt downright sorry for her. She had nothing, no one in the world. She had his shoes and his tip money, and that was it.

  “You want to leave, don’t you?” he asked, turning around to face her.

  “What do you mean?” She stared at him, expression guarded.

  “Look, I’m not going to keep you here. If you want to leave, you’re free to go. I think you’d be safer with me, but I’m not Cassandra. I don’t keep hostages.” Not even if it was in someone’s best interest.

  “You would let me leave? Just walk out the door?”

  “Yes. With the T-shirt, the shoes, and the money. I think you’d be smart to stick with me for a few days, but it’s your choice.” Alistair was continually impressed by Sasha’s ability to control her emotions. She didn’t even flinch when he mentioned the money.

  Instead, she simply turned, moved behind the bed, and picked up his messenger bag off the floor. She put it over her shoulder as he wondered what else she’d stolen from him and stuffed into that bag. Not that he really cared. He had very little of value, and he definitely admired her survival skills.

  “Thank you,” she said, as she moved toward him, her long legs lithe in her tight jeans. She walked like a model, one foot moving in front of the other, creating that unnatural, yet very sensual roll of her hips. “For all of your assistance.”

  Alistair shifted to let her pass. “You’re welcome.”

  Her arm brushed his chest as she stared at him, wary, and she slid past him, the tension between them thick. He was attracted to her, intensely, and he knew she returned the feeling, but she didn’t trust him. Alistair could hear the rapid beating of her heart and the pulse of the vein in her neck, and he hungered for her blood, for her body. He wanted to take Sasha down onto the hardwood floor and taste her everywhere, her mouth, her flesh, her inner thighs, to push himself inside her while her blood flowed over his tongue and down his throat.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to stay?” he asked, aware that his voice was a little rough, and that he was staring at her full mouth.

  She actually leaned slightly toward him, her tongue darting out to wet her lips. Her small breasts rose and fell beneath his T-shirt, but she shook her head. “I cannot.”

  It was what he expected, but it was still damn disappointing. “Okay. Be careful.”

  With a nod, she said, “I will.”

  Then she was gone.

  Alistair stared at the door of his apartment for a second after she left, then sat down and tried to watch TV. The screen blurred in front of him and he debated going back downstairs. Maybe company would distract him. Or alcohol.

  Standing up, he paced back and forth, going for a bag of blood in the kitchen, than changing his mind. That wasn’t what he wanted.

  This night certainly hadn’t gone as expected. He had thought saving someone from Cassandra would be satisfying, yet he only felt restless and agitated.

  Sasha would be fine. She was tough. She obviously wanted to be on her own, and he needed to respect that. He couldn’t make someone else accept his help.

  A scream, short and high-pitched, cut through his thoughts, and Alistair froze. It had come from the alley.

  Throwing the remote control at his couch, he ran.

  SASHA was almost down the alley and to the street when she sensed them. Her vampire skills were modest at best, given that she’d only been turned two months earlier, but even she could smell them. At least two vampires, with bad breath and a desperate need for a shower.

  She couldn’t see them though and she scanned the shadows left and right quickly, moving slowly, silently. Maybe she was only smelling the garbage that clung to the ground, plastered up against the brick walls of Alistair’s bar. There was only the sound of her own breathing and voices out on the street, random revelers, still partying the few steps away on Bourbon Street. Maybe it was only her imagination, and the sudden feeling of loneliness that had swept over her when she had turned and walked out of Alistair’s apartment and down the stairs.

  Gripping the strap of the messenger bag, she took a small step forward, still scanning and listening. She was so close to the street, so close to freedom. But their scent wafted over her again, floating in front of her nose, a noxious cloud.

  She never even saw them before she was on the ground.

&n
bsp; Instinct had her reaching up, scratching and clawing at whoever it was, and she knew she’d made contact when she heard a curse. Her vision was blurred because he was shaking her, knocking her down onto the ground, the hard blows rattling her brain and robbing her of her breath. It was a man, big and strong and dressed in black, and Sasha had no intention of lying underneath and just accepting whatever he intended to do to her. She’d fight him until the death if she had to.

  She opened her mouth to scream but he slapped her so hard the pain exploded in her head, stunning her. The hard asphalt and gravel beneath her ground into her cheek, her shoulder, her arm, and she tried to roll away from him, but he was strong. Kicking up, she nailed him in the gut, which momentarily released his pressure on her chest. She could see the legs of his companion right next to her and knew even if she escaped the first, there was still the second, upright and ready to subdue her.

  Their orders were likely to bring her back alive. She was worth money to her captor. But Sasha would rather die.

  So she drove the palm of her hand straight up into his chin and felt the satisfaction of hearing and feeling his head smack up and his immediate roar of pain. Driving her knee into his groin, she shoved him off of her, rolling in the opposite direction of the second vampire. Arms were on her immediately, but she kicked backward, hitting a kneecap. The second one was instantly in front of her, looking amused, big, and brawny, a wooden stake twirling in his hand like a baton, a silent threat. Clasping her hands together, Sasha swung as he stepped forward, and struck him straight across the nose with the metal of her wrist cuffs.

  His nose burst open, blood gushing down the front of him, the scent strong and ripe.

  “Bitch,” he said, his voice low and angry as he gripped his nose, trying to stem the bleeding. “Hold her,” he told his companion.

  Sasha gave one short sharp shriek as she fought the arms gripping her, but there was no escaping. He held her easily as his friend came toward her, eyes gleaming with malicious intent in the dark. She shuddered and shrank back, trying to maneuver away from the vampire in front of her, but he grabbed her head and held her still, his thumbs crushing her temples, her pulse pounding beneath his flesh. It was tempting to close her eyes, but she wanted him to know that she was not afraid. Wanted him to see the darkness of her eyes as he bit her. Let him know that Sasha was not going to quiver or beg or break down.