First Blood

by Susan Sizemore

  Just another phantom, another bygone. But unlike the first—the jab of pain, the re-opening of an old wound—that flash of color deepened an ache that had been lurking beneath the surface of her skin for six years, leaching into her flesh, her bones.

  The man had turned down a side street as she’d pulled her gaze away from Tony’s, but even in the shadows that pooled between the streetlights, Annie had seen his rumpled hair was a shade too brown for auburn. The sun would lift out the red like the glow of a fire.

  Just like Jack Harrington’s . . . although this man couldn’t be him.

  He’d rubbed at his face as he walked, and she’d heard the sandpapery scrape of his palm over his jaw. Definitely not Jack, she’d thought, and the startled gallop of her heart had settled into a steady, relieved beat. Mayfair wasn’t Jack’s neighborhood—and she doubted he’d ever gone five hours without shaving, and never looked unkempt. Certainly his white shirt wouldn’t have been untucked, wrinkled, and clinging damply to his back. Not because of the Bureau’s dress code—it was the way Jack had been, on duty and off. He was the poster boy for “eager and fresh-faced,” intent on saving the world, and Annie had loved him for it.

  But then, she’d been exactly the same.

  And she couldn’t recall making the decision to follow the human; her feet had simply begun to move.

  She’d hung back a block, keeping just out of sight, but she couldn’t mistake the scent of alcohol he left in his wake. The odor was too sharp for beer—his drinking had been serious that evening.

  Serious, but not heavy. His face had been downturned, as if he’d had to concentrate on the placement of his feet, but he hadn’t staggered. A slow, even stride had carried him past the unbroken line of row homes, past the trash cans and recycling bins caged just off the sidewalk, until he’d reached a block where lawns grew in tiny patches and separated the concrete from the front steps of the houses.

  He hadn’t appeared alert to his surroundings, but he didn’t have to be. Unlike some parts of the city Annie had walked through during the past ten days, kids did not roam in packs, laughing and hollering, their weapons bulging in their pockets and outlined in the bottoms of their backpacks.

  They’d laughed and hollered at Annie until she’d gotten close. Then, like hyenas suddenly aware of a lioness in their territory, they’d settled back, watching her warily.

  Her guns didn’t bulge and her blades didn’t gleam, but in the sweltering July heat, her long black coat always drew a second, apprehensive glance. So did her pale skin, glistening with perspiration; her light eyes, searching—and probably shining with desperation. As the days passed, it became more difficult to conceal.

  Thankfully, the one she’d followed hadn’t looked around. Didn’t know what waited outside his home.

  Five minutes now—and the night would still be young when she finished. There was more than enough time to stop by the clinic and steal a unit of blood. She should; she’d been alternating nights so the packaged blood wouldn’t wear her down too quickly. This was supposed to be a packaged blood night.

  But she wanted this one. Maybe it was stupid to allow nostalgia to affect her this way—and maybe she just had little defense against her old life when it teased her with ghosts and darkened windows, reminding her of easier, brighter times.

  And maybe she was too damn tired.

  Not physically tired—she couldn’t fight the daysleep that came upon her every morning—just soul weary. She hadn’t stopped for a moment since returning to Philadelphia and discovering that every vampire in the city had been slaughtered over the course of a single night—since discovering that the new life she’d made had been destroyed along with them.

  Annie shook herself, straightened her shoulders. Nostalgia, exhaustion, whatever. She had good reason not to go back to the clinic: Feeding from a nonliving source would eventually make her weak and stupid.

  Weak and stupid wouldn’t help her find Cricket.

  A twelve-year-old girl alone in the city had more things to worry about than vampires, demons, or any of the other creatures who stalked the night; there was hunger, loneliness, and fear.

  And hyenas—or, more frightening, the monsters. Hyenas might laugh and holler, but most of it was for show. The monsters hid behind friendly, quiet faces, and their smiles were widest when the horrors began.

  Annie could easily imagine the unspeakable things that happened to young girls alone—they’d been drilled into her from birth.

  Worked a new case today, Annie. A little girl—not much older than you. They had a drawer full of pictures. A girl can’t ever come back from that, Annie, not all the way.

  She was just a little kid, and once she was knocked up, he didn’t have much use for her anymore. So you make sure you wait until you’ve got his ring, Annie; a man who doesn’t give you one isn’t worth giving anything in return.

  A little girl, Annie. Found pieces of her in a bag off of the turnpike.

  The stories had always been accompanied by a warning not to trust strangers. Annie had later learned that advice only applied to little girls: She’d grown up, been transformed, and it had been strangers who’d taken her in.

  She wasn’t going to repay them by leaving Cricket alone in a city of strangers who might not be as kind as those Annie had found.

  Steeling herself, Annie focused, opened her senses, and reached into the surrounding houses. One mind after another—and although Annie had grown up only three blocks away, and had probably known many of these people once upon a time, the flavors of their psyches were all unfamiliar.

  No Cricket.

  Her head throbbed painfully when she finished. Too many minds in too short a time. Annie had walked through most of the city in the past ten days, touching hundreds of thousands of them, extending herself as far as possible. She didn’t know if—or when—she would hit the edge, but hunger would probably get her there faster.

  Sighing, she rubbed her sweat-slicked forehead, trying to ease the ache. Another probe toward the second floor of the house touched on the man’s psyche, soft and heavy with sleep.

  She started across the street, then paused. Her hand found the grip of her sword, but she didn’t draw the weapon.

  Another mind touched hers—dark, searching, and powerful.

  Annie threw her psychic shields up full. Probably too late. The barn doors shut, but now someone would know a cow was loose. She waited, her gaze scanning her surroundings, her heartbeat pounding in her ears. No traffic, no one on the sidewalks—and a careful examination of the sky told her that no demons lurked, ready to descend on her from above.

  It hadn’t seen her, then, but had only felt her psychic presence. There was no telling how far away it had been.

  And she had enough reasons to find Cricket and get the hell out of Philly—but whatever she’d sensed had just given her another one.

  AN icy blast of air-conditioning welcomed her through the front door. Annie stood for a moment, closing her eyes in relief. The heat didn’t pain her, but the sweat and oppressive humidity left her feeling disgusting, uncomfortable.

  Carefully, she replaced her lock-pick tools in their velvet pouch and rolled it closed. The cylinder fit neatly into the pocket she’d sewn in the lining of her jacket; from another pocket, she withdrew an instant hot pack. Fabric rustled as she slid off the heavy coat, but nothing clinked. The quiet ticking of a clock, the deep sound of breathing from the upstairs bedroom were no louder than the crinkle of plastic when she squeezed the package in her hand.

  It was intended for first-aid kits—the chemical reaction created a temporary heating compress—but Annie held it in her mouth, careful not to pierce the casing with her fangs, and surveyed the room.

  He must have just moved in—or was preparing to move out. The sofa faced a blank wall. No TV, no stereo, no coffee table.

  Annie piled her jacket and sword on a stack of boxes near the door, but didn’t remove the holster that lay against the small of her back. With light
steps, she climbed the stairs, testing the surface temperature of her lips and tongue against the back of her hand. Warm. Their touch probably wouldn’t shock him awake, but they would cool quickly.

  She’d used a sedative on the others, but this one had been drinking; doping him might be dangerous. With luck, the alcohol would deepen his sleep, and he wouldn’t think her feeding had been anything but a pleasant—very pleasant—dream.

  His room was as sparsely furnished as the rest of the house: a large bed covered by a navy fitted sheet, and a dresser heaped with clothes. Although he’d taken time to fold his laundry, he hadn’t put it away. Not a slob, but not obsessively neat, either.

  His white shirt lay on the floor, the sleeve trailing beneath the bed. He hadn’t made it out of his pants. Annie studied the sprawl of his body, calculating the least disruptive approach, the best location to bite.

  He’d landed on his stomach, his arms wrapped around his pillow and his face buried in the crook of his elbow. The position brought his shoulders up and in toward his neck; it’d be difficult to reach his throat without moving him. The sides of the abdomen and ribs had too many nerve endings. Of all the flesh exposed, his back had the fewest pain receptors.

  Her gaze moved down the smooth muscles parallel to his spine, the hollows just above the low waistband of his black trousers. He looked to be of average height, and he wasn’t too bulky or too lean—just a man who kept himself fit and strong. Anticipation began to build its ache in her fangs. The bloodlust wasn’t upon her yet, but arousal sparked softly within her.

  Briefly, she wished she’d warmed her hands. Wished for a connection deeper than her mouth, his blood.

  But there wouldn’t be. Couldn’t be. She wound the damp, heavy mass of her hair into a bun and fastened it with an elastic band. A few red strands escaped, and she tucked them behind her ears, leaving nothing to brush or tickle, so that he’d swat at her in his sleep as he would a mosquito.

  She leaned over, bracing her palms alongside his waist. The mattress didn’t squeak as she eased her knees onto the bed, straddling his legs without touching him.

  Breathing wasn’t an option. An exhalation would be cold against his skin, an inhalation would bring his odor to her—and she didn’t want to be reminded that this was a stranger. Didn’t want harsh reality. She’d imagine a clean, lemon-bright scent, instead.

  She’d never asked him if it was his soap or an aftershave.

  Jack, she thought, closing her eyes and gently touching her lips to his shoulder.

  Harsh reality caught her wrist, rolled beneath her, and shoved the barrel of a pistol against her throat.

  Annie froze. God damn it. Lowering her guard to indulge in a memory and missing his shift from sleep to consciousness could only be called stupid. Inexcusably, tremendously stupid.

  But she could berate herself later; right now, she needed to pretend to be weak.

  The last thing she wanted to do was scare him. She’d had her throat shot out before, by a rogue vampire who hadn’t wanted to give up feeding from—and killing—humans. It wasn’t the pain that worried her; she couldn’t afford to lose that much blood.

  “Do you have anything in your hands?”

  His voice was flat, controlled. No, this man wouldn’t spook and pull the trigger. His heartbeat had sped up, but it wasn’t racing.

  Daring a movement, Annie opened her eyes. A taut pectoral and the brown disk of a nipple obscured her field of vision; if she lowered her lips even an inch, they’d meet the crisp, reddish-brown hair that roughened his chest.

  “No,” she said.

  Without a word, he reached up. Light pressure against her back made her grit her teeth, but she didn’t stop him. His fingers unerringly located her weapon, and he eased the revolver from its holster.

  “Any more?”

  Did he expect her to answer truthfully? “No.”

  “Right.” It only took him a beat to decide a course of action. “Keep your hands flat against the mattress, and slowly back off the bed.” The push of his gun against her neck emphasized slowly.

  Annie could have been across the room in a blink. But feeding from humans to survive was one thing; there wasn’t yet a reason to break the other rule she’d lived and killed by for six years: preventing humans from discovering the existence of vampires.

  So she edged her knees backward, her face down and her posture nonthreatening. Her compliance hadn’t eased his tension; only a marble statue might have matched the rigid cast of his abdomen. A small fold of skin stretched across the upper curve of his navel, and three tiny scars from a laparoscopic appendectomy marred—

  Oh, no. Annie stopped moving. Her fingers clenched in the sheet. Please, no.

  It had been at her parents’ dinner table, less than a month before her transformation. When Jack had grabbed at his stomach, pain twisting his features, they’d thought it was a comment on her mother’s meatloaf.

  Fifteen minutes later, Annie had been in an ambulance, helping the paramedics prep him for surgery.

  Aside from a single, impersonal handshake when they’d been introduced, it had been the first time she’d touched his skin. It had been the night he’d told her his name was Jack, not John Harrington the Third, or—as she’d thought of him until that moment—simply Harrington.

  It had been the night he’d confessed he’d been messed up over her since that handshake. She’d waited until his morphine drip was off before confessing the same.

  “Whatever you’re considering doing down there, lady, it’s not smart.” Cold steel slid from her neck to the underside of her chin, and he nudged it up. “Keep heading on back, and look at the ceiling as you do it.”

  And she’d heard him speak softly before, but it had never been sharpened by the dangerous tone he was using. She squeezed her eyes shut and averted her face.

  Don’t recognize me. Don’t see what I’ve become.

  Maybe he wouldn’t. It had been so many years, and there were a few differences. Her hair color, the makeup. Both were dark now, because roses and cream belonged to the day.

  Annie didn’t—not anymore.

  “You picked me out as an easy mark the second I left Buddy’s. I expected you to try something when you followed me,” he said. “But to actually come into my home, that takes some . . . kind . . . of . . .”

  The anger in his voice faded with his words. The pressure of the gun eased.

  And his heart was racing now.

  She should run. Should tear away, without looking back.

  She stayed.

  “Who are you? You can’t . . . it can’t be—” Jack dropped her revolver to the mattress, and his fingers tangled in the hair piled atop her head. “Look at me, damn it.”

  She did, but only because she wanted to see him, too. To take one glance away with her.

  His face was leaner. Time hadn’t dulled his features, but honed them—and he could still trip her breath, skip the beat of her heart.

  His brows were heavy and low over eyes darkened by confusion and shock.

  “Annie? Oh, Jesus love me—Annie?” His gaze hungrily searched hers, hope and disbelief spilling from his psychic scent in a rich, warm tide. His hand opened, began sliding from her hair to her cheek.

  Her cold cheek.

  Annie pulled away. He probably didn’t see the movement she used to collect her gun. He continued to stare as she stood and forced herself to walk—not run. There was no longer any need to pretend to be weak.

  Jack had always been the only one with whom she had to pretend to be strong.

  TWO

  JACK CAUGHT UP WITH HER ON THE STAIRS. FROM just behind her, Annie heard him say, “Gallagher told me you were dead.”

  Her brother, Brian. It shouldn’t still hurt, but it did. And she shouldn’t answer, but leave him as silently as a ghost. A dream, to doubt in the morning.

  But she said quietly, “He told me the same thing.”

  “That I was dead?” Jack’s reply contained a strange m
ixture of outrage and relief.

  “No.” She allowed a bitter smile to part her lips; from his angle, he couldn’t see her fangs. “That I was.”

  Jack would wonder about the sword, but Annie didn’t try to hide it. She looped the cord over her shoulder, anchored the scabbard to her hip. The coat didn’t sway when she slung it over her forearm—too many things inside, weighing it down.

  She didn’t look at him. She couldn’t trust herself to keep going if she did.

  “I went to your funeral, Annie.”

  She hardened herself against the thickness in his voice, and reached for the door handle. “Was it nice?”

  He slid in front of her, his back against the door. His hard smile was at her eye level. “I don’t know. I only got through it with the help of a fifth, so I was too drunk to see much of anything. Gallagher told me I was an embarrassment.”

  Suddenly stricken, she dropped her gaze to her boots.

  “Frankly, I couldn’t give a shit about decorum, or the dignity of the Bureau. The only thing I noticed was that the casket was closed, and that your mother didn’t attend. I thought it had all been too much for her—first your father’s heart attack, then your wreck two days later. It never occurred to me you might not be in there.”

  She’d never asked her mother what story they’d told, but a car accident made sense. It would have been convenient. A closed-casket funeral—not because the body was missing, but because it was supposedly too mangled to view.

  “Stay, Annie,” Jack urged softly. “Stay long enough to tell me—” She could almost hear every question that ran across his tongue—why the sword, why were you in my room, why do you look like you do, why haven’t you contacted me all of these years—before he finished with, “—to tell me that you’re okay.”

  And there were so many questions that she wanted to ask him. Yet she turned the handle, and only said, “I’m okay,” before tugging it open, forcing him to step forward.