Poison and Potions: a Limited Edition Paranormal Romance and Urban Fantasy Collection

by Erin Hayes

  Just as I was about to beg for release, his mouth covered mine, sealing my lips against his, his teeth gripping my tongue playfully at first, then in such a fierce demand that my eyes flew open in surprise.

  Shock sent a jolt of adrenaline straight up my spine, making me jerk to a rigid stand. Not Sam. Not Sam at all. That greasy, cheesy Dracula had my hips beneath his hands as though they were pinioned in the middle of a vice. In the next instant, I thought that I had surely bitten my tongue. Pain was so intense it shot to the back of my skull, and then there was the sensation that something from the very depths of my solar plexus was being drawn out. Unbidden, tears stung my eyes and my knees began to tremble. I was sobbing into his mouth, trying to scream, thinking dimly that I should be able to ram my knee into his groin. Should have been able to. Except my feet felt rooted to the floor. My hands still gripped the railing as though someone had nailed them there. I was being crucified beneath some ridiculously greasy bastard using a costume party as an excuse to rape someone.

  I heard a command to be still. I resisted. The command came again. My stomach swamped with bile, dumping the last of the champagne into my veins. Drunk, yes, drunk with fear.

  Even as I registered the terror, it dissipated much like steam does in an over-warm room. Once again, my body sagged, each bit of resistance within my muscle tissues ebbed away. From somewhere within my core, I could feel myself being emptied with each pulse of my heart. Fog enveloped my brain and I had the ridiculous notion that it was made up of my fear, keeping my synapses from piercing through to the nerve endings that could electrify my muscles into action. All I was able to do was stare into the now hooded eyes. There were flecks of gold in them. The most beautiful iridescent gold leaves. I imagined illuminated Bibles not having such purity adorning their margins.

  I tasted my own blood; could feel some of my blood dribbling down my chin. Still, I couldn't form any sort of command that would make my muscles move. I couldn't even swallow the flood before he somehow drew it from my mouth, all the while pulling me closer and tighter against him. When he let go, he put a single finger to his lips, shushing me the way a mother would a child. He trembled all over as though he were trying to maintain his composure.

  "You taste like the finest Chianti," he murmured. "Like my first taste of it," he said. "Like the first drunken joy of it." His eyes swept my throat, taking me in as though I was his possession. "It's been decades since I tasted your vintage.

  "It will be the finest pain." He went on, leaning closer. He licked the corner of my mouth where I felt the cold stickiness of blood. "I promise you. I will give you the most delicious oblivion."

  He shuddered and then he buried his face between my breasts, sinking his teeth into the flesh of one and moaning the way a starved man would at the first taste of heady broth.

  Shock, I realized. I'd sometimes wondered what it would be like to be assaulted, whether I would scream or fight. I'd always taken myself for a bit of a warrior, and I'd always assumed I'd make any bastard that touched me uninvited would pay so dearly, he'd never rise to the occasion again. I'd never until that moment believed I would be rendered so useless that I wouldn't even protest at some deranged madman played at being Dracula as though it were some sort of sick S&M party. I wanted to feel something--rage especially. What I ended up feeling was sick at my complacency and confusion that I couldn't manage to feel violated.

  When he entered me, I had the distinct impression that his member was the only thing keeping me from collapsing. I might have whimpered because the next thing I knew his gaze was on mine again, his fleshy tongue licking blood from his lips.

  "Don't go," he whispered. "Not yet."

  Don't go. Strange thing for him to say. And it took me a moment for my oxygen-starved brain to process what it must have meant. Don't go. I almost laughed when I realized the meaning, except I couldn't manage more than a groan. I was dying. I had to be. Everything within my line of sight was tunneling down to one small pinprick of light. Sounds came to my ears as though they were struggling to reach me through water. But he was right about one thing: it was a delicious oblivion.

  The bastard was giving me the most exquisite orgasm of my existence as he watched my life drain away. And all I could think was that the strength of it was drawing power from my very soul and that when it was over, I'd be gone.

  Chapter Three

  THE SMOKE OF FLEETING DREAMS

  I woke to shadows and a headache so massive my head felt swollen to four times its size. Alive. I was alive, even if I felt like I'd been dead three days.

  Something moved in the darkness, and I realized I was lying down. Someone's bed. Not my bed. I barely had the energy to twist my head sideways, let alone lift it off the pillow. A rustle of sound near my feet stole my attention. I strained my eyes in the darkness, trying to make out what was there. A memory tugged at my consciousness, telling me I should be frightened. That something in the darkness wanted to hurt me.

  "Do you want to die?"

  Did the question have a response? I wasn't sure. In the moment, I wasn't entirely aware what it meant. Confusion swam about me, trying to fish from the depths of my memories a sort of connection that might help me process the response. All I got was an image of the rental store clerk pushing a bracelet of bones onto my wrist. Bacalou, I remembered her saying. If I didn't get her things back, I'd belong to Bacalou.

  "Do you want to die?" The demand came again, this time more insistent. A growl from the darkness that commanded an answer. "Answer me."

  I tried to shake my head because the rest of the information hadn't dislodged itself from the recesses of my mind. Whatever connection my brain had to my muscles had long been severed. Along with the struggle of trying to find a meaning for the word die, I was now tripping over the question of whether or not a paralyzed person could have control of her head at all.

  Strong fingers gripped my ankles and squeezed hard enough that pain managed to find its way through the fog. I heard myself groan and realized that at least such a thing as sound existed, that sounds could come from my throat. I opened my mouth to test the theory--

  And realized something was stuffed inside it. Thick and fleshy, I knew it couldn't be material of any sort.

  Disgusted with my lack of response the black thing began pacing, swelling to twice its size, turning, pacing back again.

  I tried to talk around the stuffing. "Who are --"

  Before I could get out the rest of the question, I realized that what I thought I was saying was nothing like what was coming out of my mouth. The hulking shadow disappeared from the room, leaving me not entirely sure it had been there in the first place. My eyelids were so heavy, I couldn't keep them open to save my soul. The tip of my nose itched, and I couldn't seem to find the strength to lift a finger to scratch it. I just lay there, sinking into oblivion and rising again from the depths over and over. Sometimes the hulking shadow returned, asking me the same question, growing frustrated when I couldn't seem to process its meaning. It was just so much easier to sink, so much easier to let the heaviness of my limbs pull me down into the darkness that existed somewhere beneath me. Strange that a bed so soft could make me feel so black.

  At one point, I managed enough strength to turn my head to the right. French doors. The liquid red of the rising sun painting the balcony. I knew where I was then. I knew I had been out there. I knew something had buried its teeth beneath my skin while I inhaled honeysuckle and rode the currents of orgasm. I should've screamed. Somehow, I should have found the wherewithal to scream. I didn't need to touch my breasts to know they were sticky with leftover blood, that the stuffing between my cheeks was my own tongue, swollen and tender, butting up against my teeth in a way that made it impossible to sound coherent.

  It took me several seconds to realize the piercing sound drilling through my eardrums came from my own throat. No, I couldn't speak; but I could certainly scream.

  And I could sob. I wept until oblivion took me again.

/>   The shadow was there again when I woke next. This time, my eyes were better adjusted. I was still exhausted, terrified, confused, but I was also determined.

  I waited for him to ask me that question.

  "Do you want to die?"

  This time, I inhaled through my nose, fueling my muscles with as much oxygen as I could pull in. And then I thrashed on the bed like a landed fish. The bones wrapped around my wrist clattered together. When I had spent all the energy in my body, I lay staring at the ceiling, my lungs burning and my core trembling from the exertion. There was a sound of satisfaction from the end of the bed. I wasn't sure if the interrogator stayed or left. I only knew that when I woke again, it was to sunshine and the feeling that some of the heaviness had lifted.

  I shifted on the bed only to realize that my arm was hooked to a length of tube that snaked its way from the crook of my elbow to a glass bottle held high above the bed by a stainless steel frame. An IV, then. Maybe even painkillers. My tongue felt less thick, but it was tender to the touch. I couldn't so much as swallow without it scraping against my back teeth and making me cringe. Maybe not enough painkillers, then.

  My benefactor came with the dusk. This time I was aware, the medicine in the IV making me stronger and able to stay awake for longer periods of time.

  "Do you know what's happened to you?" he asked from the foot of the bed.

  I eyed the Viking warily. Several thoughts flitted through my mind, all equally abhorrent possibilities taken from endless movies and instilled parental fear. I thought I heard him chuckle.

  "No," he said. "Nothing like that. In some ways, maybe those things would be better."

  He came closer as he noticed my confusion, running his battle-hardened hands along the silk of the duvet. They came to rest on my forearm, a cold and calloused touch that sent a shiver up the back of my spine.

  "It's not such a hard trick, reading minds," he said. "Especially yours. Your every thought crosses your face like words on a page."

  He tapped the IV bottle, making it chink against his nail. "Full of hemoglobin," he said. "It will help restore your strength but won't heal you."

  He sat on the edge of the bed, pushing closer to me, the cobalt blue of his eyes piercing through mine. For a second, I couldn't breathe. I felt again the panic I'd endured on the balcony, instilled by a gold-flecked gaze.

  "I'm not going to hurt you," he said. "Would I be helping you if I wanted to hurt you?"

  I managed a weak shake of my head, trying to process, trying to force my mind to find light through the fog.

  "He liked you," he said, leaning over me. I had the distinct sense of being enveloped. It made my chest squeeze in fear, my heart hammer at my ribcage. I tried to push away, but he splayed his palms across my chest, holding me still. I could feel my heartbeat in his hands as he held me still, drilling me with his eyes.

  "Not that rat of a date of yours. He's just a recruiter; his likes don't matter. Ambrogio. He liked you. I know he liked you because he didn't kill you."

  His gaze dropped to my mouth for the briefest of moments, then dragged itself back to meet my eyes.

  "He wanted all of you. Every last drop."

  He swiped at the stream of tears running down my cheek.

  "And yet he let you live." His tone was a musing one, pensive. He sat back, assessing my expression, letting something fierce run across his own that made him look even more a plunderer of old.

  "He'll return for you. Delaying the gratification will only make fulfillment that much more euphoric for him."

  He cocked his head sideways. "You won't survive it. You know that?"

  I nodded. I had no idea what he was talking about, but I did know I wouldn't survive. My body started to tremble. Seeing it, he ran his hands down my hair, catching in the tangles I had so carefully created, smoothing the tresses against the pillow, letting his fingers linger in my hair. I wanted to melt against him, sensing something stronger than me, stronger than anything I'd known, within him. Bacalou, my stuttering brain whispered.

  "Do you want to die?" he asked again.

  I croaked out a no past my swollen tongue, unsure whether he understood it. His response was a slow, languid, almost rapacious smile that chilled me to my toes.

  "Good."

  He pushed to his feet and nodded to a form that hovered to the side of my vision. The form fiddled with my IV, and a rush, like a wave of hot oil, moved through me, making me think for a second that I had taken to floating. The painful throbbing of my tongue eased away.

  I searched for the Viking, wanting to fill my vision with him before my eyes fell closed, thinking ridiculously that I'd be all the more safe with his image in my mind.

  He met my gaze with a cocky grin that made me flush beneath the sheets.

  "Sleep, my little mambo. Tomorrow night we'll see about sticking a big pin in your recruiter."

  My mind registered a second thought, on the heels of those last words that made me think he'd spoken straight to my mind. It couldn't be so, of course, but I was certain I heard him say, "And when Ambrogio comes for you, we will be ready."

  I didn't have a clue what ready would entail, but I was grateful to be left to my rest. Visions of teeth and blood and carafes of burgundy wine swam in my head. Just as I was sinking beneath the waves of sleep, a thought jarred me, struggling to the surface. I'd missed the rental clerk's deadline, and if she was being earnest, then I belonged now to Bacalou. A peculiar sensation passed through my solar plexus, sending heat suffusing my core only to dissolve to a fit of chilled shaking.

  I'd thought I needed a good exorcism at the beginning of this journey. Rid myself of the demons of grief and regret. What I'd ended up doing was trading one demon for another. The problem was sorting which of these men was the evil Bacalou: the nightmare from the balcony, or this seeming savior.

  Chapter Four

  WHEN SHE WAS BAD

  There are certain things about life that a gal takes for granted. She imagines she will be healthy. She imagines she will grow old someday but not today, and she imagines that whatever nasty thing is happening at the moment, hell, it could always be worse.

  At the moment, I was not in a position to take any of those things for granted. I'd been stupid enough to let my guard down just once and done something uncharacteristic for me. As a recently dumped chick of 23, I'd agreed to go out on a date with a complete stranger – a completely and stunningly gorgeous stranger, mind you, but a stranger nonetheless. I'd rounded myself up a voodoo priestess costume from a nut at a costume rental store, complete with authentic bone bracelets, and I'd drunk at the party until I was well past my danger radar. A bad enough recipe for disaster, if you really thought about it, but how many girls over the years had stirred together a similar concoction and come away clean at the end of the night? An overwhelming majority, that's what. Except my luck wasn't that good. My luck meant that my mixed cocktail had put me on the nasty end of my mortality; namely, with some stranger's teeth deep in my breast, however incomprehensible as it may be, draining me dry.

  So all three of those things I'd taken for granted before: health, invincibility, hope for a better future – all of those things had crumbled to dust like a vampire in the midday sun.

  Vampires. A perfect simile. It was the only explanation for why I'd been lying basically immovable on the party host's bed, hooked up to an IV for I couldn't count how many hours, gradually gaining enough strength that I could stay lucid for more than a few moments at a time. In the last few, I'd actually been able to scratch the horrific itch on my nose that had kept waking me up. I'd instantly wished it was something I hadn't done. My fingers relayed the information back to my brain that what was making my nose itch was a large glob of drying blood that was shrink-wrapping the skin at the tip. I'd dug at the flake until it gummed up beneath my nail and I stared at it until my eyes crossed. A real vampire wouldn't have wasted one drop, now would he? A real vampire would have turned into a bat and flown off the balcony, leaving m
e undead where he dropped me. A real vampire wouldn't have bothered with my pleasure as he took his own.

  Of course, there were no such thing as true vampires. But the cheesy looking Dracula who had pinioned me against the balcony railing just hours before had certainly believed in them enough to decide that his rapacious sex play would include role-play of the Nosferatu kind.

  No, it was most definitely an odd situation at best, more than likely some sort of human trafficking scenario at worst. Strange thing was that I felt the same steel-backed complacency over both. Whether I was being fed drugs through the IV to keep me docile until some deeply tanned sheik came to claim me for his harem, or medicine to make me better, I felt as drained of emotion as a piece of vampire bait on the end of a snake-like incisor.

  It was far easier to sleep, to avoid the kind of thinking that had begun to wind into an unproductive, unenlightening circuit. I took the easy way out without a single qualm, believing all would improve with the morning.

  I woke too quickly to watch the mid-night shadows lengthening on the wall with the sense that everything would be okay. Sweet. I could handle okay. Even before I opened my eyes, I felt my entire body suffused with a feeling of well-being. A dream, then. I was lying in my bed after an exceptionally hedonistic banger and I'd got home and had fallen onto my bed and in my inebriated state, I'd dreamed of monsters. A nasty nightmare, sure enough, but terribly hedonistic bangers tended to have that effect on me.

  I stretched my toes toward the end of the bed, burrowing my bottom into the mattress so I could enjoy each pull on my muscles. Aside from the nasty ending, I didn't think I'd had a good time. A Hollywood mansion in the middle of the city large enough to house at least a hundred costumed partygoers. The most wild looking and handsome host imaginable, enough that I could have happily allowed the Viking to rape and pillage me. Yes. A nice enough night for all that.