Bite My Fire: A Biting Love story.

by Mary Hughes

  “Not around you, Elena.” Bo’s voice dipped into black satin.

  My stride lurched as my panties stuck big time. “Fuck.”

  “Mmm. Yes. That’s what I’d like to do with you.”

  I glared. “I’m working now. Save it for end of shift.” Though I snarled it at him, the warning was for both of us.

  He put a large, warm arm around my shoulders. “Think of this as foreplay.” His whisper tickled my earlobe.

  Foreplay my ass. This was eightplay, at least. “Why here? Shouldn’t you be walking around your neighborhood for your neighborhood watch?” His presence was making it impossible to think. Maybe if he were patrolling over on the northeast side of town my brain would work again. Ten light-years from where my pussy was screaming would be better, but I’d take ten blocks.

  I needed my brain with me. I needed to keep alert. The tip might be valid. Murderers often returned to the scene of the crime (Elementary Deduction, chapter two). Besides, I needed to reflect on what Mrs. Smith had told me. On what Officer Mancuso had told me—and not told me. I needed my head on straight, and it was hard with Bo and his curving lips and Viking Horn of Plenty so close. If only Bo and his distracting lips (and other body parts) hadn’t shown up. If only Bo hadn’t arrived just as I was about to get somewhere—

  Damn. Bo appeared shortly after I’d gotten off the phone with Mancuso. Mancuso, who’d had another call coming in.

  Or was it a call to make? A call to Bo, telling him to come distract me from the dead John Smith—and real answers?

  “Enjoying our walk, Detective?” Bo’s voice broke into my thoughts. Deliberately?

  I had to focus. Despite Mr. Bo-dacious distracting me. Schrimpf. Puncture wounds. Mr. Seriously Built Bo-dy. Mr. Drive-Me Bo-nkers. No, no, focus. Red-eyed attackers and charred remains of dead men. Mr. Bo-delicious.

  Focus.

  Mancuso had admitted that John Smith had been killed by stilettos. Long, thin knives. Like knitting needles, or nails, or…just say it Elena…fangs.

  At the very least it was suspicious. And at the very worst? If I’d really stepped into the Twilight Zone (both Rod’s and Stephenie Meyer’s), I was dealing with evil creatures of the night. And how’d I make an arrest then?

  Still, as Sherlock Holmes said, “When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.” So. Say John Smith was really a vampire. Say Schrimpf was killed by a murderous vampire.

  DNA evidence still said Smith wasn’t the killer. But Bo might be. Damn, I’d swapped spit with him half a dozen times and hadn’t bagged any of it for evidence.

  “What’s going on in that beautiful head of yours, Elena?” Bo’s arm tightened around my shoulders.

  Beautiful? Bo thought I was…shit. Focus. Say the killer was a vampire, or at least a wannabe. A second body would tell. I needed facts. Impossible bite-hole evidence was still evidence. Checking out the anonymous tip jumped from interesting to vital. I hit West Fifth, struck south.

  Bo’s hand struck south too. One finger traced lazy curlicues down my collarbone, over my breast, around my nipple.

  “Stop that.” Talk about diversions. “We’re in public.”

  “No one’s around.” Bo caught my nipple and pinched.

  I jumped. Seized his wrist, but it didn’t even slow him. “It’s Friday morning. People are up early. Someone might come.”

  “Hopefully you.” He pinched and plucked.

  I twisted his wrist, trying to capture him in a hold. “Jig’s up, Strongwell. I know you’re just trying to distract me.”

  He turned out of my hold and somehow got both brawny arms around me instead. Kissed me softly. “Is it working?”

  I gasped. At his audacity, and at the hot feel of his warrior’s body flush against mine. I thought about running but as long as there weren’t any trees or mailboxes for him to back me against, or doors to fall in, I should be okay. “I know you’re connected somehow. To Drusilla. To Mancuso.” I pulled out my big guns. “To Steve’s uncanceled death certificate.”

  “I have no idea what you mean, Detective.” With easy strength Bo pushed me against a too-convenient parked car. Damn. Hadn’t thought of that. He shoved a thick, hard thigh between my legs. His hands snaked under my top.

  I suppressed a groan as his palms found the cotton-covered peaks, abrading them stiff. “Tell me, Bo. Tell me the truth. Confess.”

  “Why? Because it’s the law?” His fingers rubbed and played over my nipples. “I’m sorry, Detective, but I’m not a rules-and-regs kind of man.”

  How had he figured that out about me? “Not because it’s the law.” I gasped as he tweaked. “Not even because you’ll feel better if you confess…although you will.”

  “Why then?” His blue eyes lit with amused interest.

  “You need to tell me—because it’s right.”

  “Ah. Well, right now, Detective, I have other needs.” His mouth fell onto mine and I found out what it felt like to be plundered by a Viking.

  His tongue thrust hotly into my mouth. Both hands shoved under my bra. He pinched my already-sensitive nipples, not gently. My shriek went into the dark cave of his mouth.

  I grabbed his shoulders to push him away. He tweaked until I clutched instead. Rock-hard muscles were firm under my fingers. I couldn’t help the groan that escaped.

  His thigh flexed between my legs. Bearing down on my pubic bone, he rubbed against the seam of my jeans. Heat seared me. I grabbed his thick thigh with both of mine. To stop him, but my hips began to rock. My fingers dug harder into heavy, knotted muscle.

  Bo whispered my name. Trailed hot, possessive kisses down my neck. I throbbed under his lips. He nipped, sharp little bites that ravaged me.

  His fingers twitched on my nipples. Pleasure shot through me, so hot it was almost pain. His enormous bulge pulsed against my leg, branding me.

  I pressed my hips into him. His fingers plunged down into my panties, plundered me to within an inch of climax.

  “Elena.” He nipped my neck. Tweaked my clit. “Let me…let me take you home.” His breathing wasn’t too steady. “Let me make love to you. Civilized…in a bed. My control…shit.”

  Viking-style rape and pillage was doing fine by me. I grabbed his head in both hands, insanely pressed his mouth to my pounding pulse.

  In return Bo released a sound almost like a whimper. “Sweetheart…oh, fuck.”

  Hot breath fanned over my skin. Something sharp pressed against my neck. I jerked in reaction. Knocked into the car.

  The car alarm started whooping at a zillion decibels.

  I shrieked. For me, Cupid’s quiver was loaded with prank arrows.

  Bo reacted swiftly, throwing open the hood and yanking wires or something. The noise blissfully stopped.

  He grabbed me again. “Now. Where were we?”

  But I’d had time to recover. To remember the phone call from Eastern European Guy. “Bo, I can’t. I have work to do.”

  His hands tightened almost painfully. “Damn it, Elena! I want in. Now!”

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “Don’t threaten me.”

  “Not threat. Hunger.” He ground his hips against me. “You have no idea how much I want you.”

  Mr. Big Horn was painfully large, so I had some idea. But…dead body. Vital evidence. I pushed him until he gave me some space. “I want it every bit as much as you do, Strongwell. More.” Five years, three months and six days more.

  “I doubt that.” He crossed his arms. His eyes were so bright they were almost red. His jaw worked hard. The enormous bulge in his pants was straining so fiercely it made me ache.

  “It’s not a contest, Bo. And it’s not forever. Just a few more hours.”

  “I can’t wait a few hours.” His lips were so tight they barely moved.

  My body iced over. “Meaning what?”

  But I knew. Meaning he was giving up on me. Meaning he’d find another woman, maybe his ex-playmate Drusilla. Meaning my personal countdown
would never end.

  I’d waited five years to find Bo. And even if I waited five dozen, I guessed I’d never find another man like him. Never find someone I responded to like him.

  Bo Strongwell was a once-in-a-lifetime kind of guy.

  I had a horrible choice. I could go home with him, have what promised to be pleasure and fulfillment beyond my wildest dreams.

  Or I could do my job. And lose him.

  Bo. The best thing that ever happened to me. In a weird, bitey sort of way.

  I tried to convince myself. I wouldn’t jeopardize my job if I went with Bo. In fact, regs said I shouldn’t follow up without EE’s name.

  Seemed like a no-brainer, right? But while Bo might be the fuck of a lifetime, my job was my life.

  I turned from him and headed for Nieman’s parking lot.

  There was no body.

  I stared at the spot where Napoleon Schrimpf had lain. I could have looked anywhere—the lot was tumbleweed empty. But I couldn’t see it so well. My vision was unaccountably blurry. Still, a body would have been obvious, if it was here to be found.

  Unless it had been dragged away. I wiped my wet cheek before digging through my pockets for my flashlight. Wiped the other cheek while I shone the light on the blacktop. The pavement was clean. No skid marks or smears. Nothing.

  I’d given up Bo for nothing. Nothing.

  Staring at the circle of light, my insides crumpled, chilled, like I’d swallowed an ice pack. Like I’d never be warm and happy again.

  That was my first clue. Not about the case. About how I felt about Bo.

  Somehow, when I wasn’t looking, it’d come to mean more than just getting laid. Somehow a simple attraction had mushroomed into…more.

  And now “more” would die before it even had a name.

  “Did you expect to find something in an empty parking lot, Detective?” The black satin voice was distinctly grouchy.

  I jerked around, too surprised to hide the tears on my face. Bo took one look at me and his gaze softened. He hooked my chin with gentle fingers. “I’m not quite such a jerk, Elena.”

  “You said…” The words were sobbed, embarrassing me.

  “I shouldn’t have said.” His thumb caressed my cheek. “That was my frustration talking. Every time I get near you…” He blew out a breath and stood. “It’s like a compulsion. I know better.”

  I gave a watery laugh. “You make me sound like a drug addiction.”

  Bo’s eyes darkened and he almost growled. “You are.”

  “Don’t look at me like that.” My cheeks warmed. “Like I’m supper.”

  “You are,” he repeated, even darker.

  I leaped to my feet. “Supper? Come on. Something sweeter, please.” I attempted to make a joke of it. “Dessert maybe. Or at least an after-dinner mint.”

  “You’re more than that, Elena.” Bo’s eyes flashed before he turned from me. “Much more.”

  “Cocktails?” I willed him to lighten up. “Get it? Cock? Tail?”

  He groaned. “That’s horrible.” But when he turned back the corner of his mouth curved. And his eyes were their normal sea blue.

  We stared at each other for the longest time. I nearly fell in and drowned.

  “Elena,” he said slowly. “I have something to confess. I think…”

  I watched his beautiful lips move. “Yes?”

  “I think I’m falling…”

  His lips stopped short. His eyebrows snapped into a frown. His nostrils flared as if he smelled something bad.

  And his eyes turned red. Not tired red or flash-picture red but glow-in-the-dark red. Hard, ruby red.

  Blood red.

  Shadows congealed around us, condensed rapidly into the solid bodies of three men. Two had spiked hair and wore long leather coats open over muscle shirts and jeans.

  The third wore a flowing silk shirt and tight pants, like an eighteenth-century poet or a pirate. He had long walnut hair and distinctly Eastern European features—high cheekbones, deep, pale eyes. A Mikhail, or a Boris.

  Bo spun toward the trio. Snarled at them like an animal.

  “Strongwell.” Boris’s voice had a Eastern European flavor, too. Baritone, but light. It sounded like…“Lord Ruthven sends his regards. And a message.”

  Lord Ruthven? No, must have heard it wrong. He said Lorne Ruthven, that weird tin-can voiced guy on the phone. And this guy sounded like EE, the other voice, the anonymous tip that led me… Damn. He’d lured me here. Should have followed regs. “Bo? You know these people?”

  “I know their boss.” Bo’s eyes never left Boris. Underneath his words was a low, warning growl. “What’s the message?”

  Boris polished nails against his shirt. “You are to give us what we want. This town will soon be ours, anyway. Give up gracefully and we will not harm you.” His eyes wandered over me, insultingly. “Or yours.”

  I eased a hand toward my gun. “This is a joke. It has to be.”

  “No joke, I’m afraid.” Boris smiled at me, slowly. His eyeteeth were disturbingly long. “Well? Your answer, Strongwell?”

  “This.” With a ka-click, Bo whipped out a really big switchblade. I wondered if it was regulation-length or if I’d have to arrest him. (Ooh, there was the cuffs idea again.)

  Then I had no more time to wonder about anything.

  The two long-coats jumped Bo, unnaturally fast, even faster than John Smith. And unnaturally fluid, practically flowing. It was creepy, how inhumanly they moved.

  Just as fast and fluid, Bo met them with knife and fist.

  Before I could aid Bo, Boris lunged toward me. I drew my XD. “Stop! Police!”

  He kept coming. Maybe English wasn’t his primary language. Still, showing the gun should have translated. I flicked off the safety, chambered a round.

  Still coming.

  As he barreled toward me, my vision narrowed. Everything went black, except for Boris. His claw-like hands reaching for me, his sneering face.

  His glowing, blood-red eyes.

  Deep breath, I told myself. Aim. Smooth trigger press.

  I fired.

  I intended to wound, and his shoulder jerked. It was enough to stop most crooks. But it didn’t stop Boris—it didn’t even slow him. He grabbed me by the throat and hoisted me like a flag. I choked.

  Bo whirled, roared. Leaped toward us, baring teeth sharp as a saw. His hard red eyes became laser-deadly. His face was so contorted it looked—armored.

  The parking lot was unevenly lit. There was dust blowing in my eyes. I had to have been seeing things. Bo’s red eyes, the plated face…and please tell me I was only imagining the tusk-like canines I saw splitting his chiseled lips.

  But I didn’t imagine Bo chopping off Boris’s head.

  With a dazzling-fast slash of long silver blade, Bo sliced through meat and skin. Boris staggered, dropped me. I stumbled back. A second slash hacked bone. A third severed the man’s neck. Blood spurted, barely missing me.

  Boris’s head toppled.

  All movement ceased, except for that head. It tumbled down the collapsing body, winding itself in its own long hair. As fast as the attack had happened, the head seemed to roll forever.

  The skull hit pavement with a clunking thud. The body fell with a wet splat beside it.

  Bo was revealed, hands clenched, chest heaving. His neck was bowed. Beyond him were the white, horrified faces of the other two assailants.

  He straightened. Turned with that terrible, inhuman fluidity toward the spiked-haired attackers. They melted away.

  “Elena.” Bo’s broad shoulders were set. “Go back to the police station. I do not wish you to see this.”

  “See what? What’s going on?” My gun was still in my hand. I stared at the headless corpse. “Why didn’t my bullet even slow him?”

  “Elena,” he repeated. “Go.” It rang through me with the force of imperative.

  I turned and was halfway down the block before I even realized I’d moved.

  As soon as I did
realize it, I spun. “Hey!”

  Bo was gone. Like a ghost.

  I crept back to the corpse. Not only was Bo missing, so were Boris’s head and heart.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I should have reported the incident. I should have cordoned off the scene and started the paperwork.

  Instead I ran all the way to Gretchen’s. Not exactly regs, but neither was what the hell had just happened. Regs, right. If what I was beginning to believe was true, the corpse would be only a charred streak by the time officialdom got there. If Tight-ass thought I was bonkers before, that would make him rocket me to Nurse Mildred Ratched (Meiers Corners’ psychiatric nurse…don’t ask).

  I pounded on the cedar-and-crystal door until the windows rattled. The door cracked open to a sleepy, lined face and tousled silver hair. Jeeves Butler, complete with blue tartan dressing gown. “Detective O’Rourke?”

  Any other time I would have made some smartass comment about how Queen Victoria would be proud of him. “I need to see my sister. Let me in.”

  “Of course.” The door closed and I could hear the rattle of chain. The instant the door opened again I pressed past him. Leaped up the elegant stairs two at a time.

  “Gretchen!” I knocked sharply. “Wake up. I need to talk to you.”

  “Elena?” My sister opened her door. Despite the early hour she was wide awake and dressed. “What is it?”

  I pushed inside. Tonight the apartment seemed straightjacket small. “I want to know how much you trust him. How much you trust Strongwell.”

  She blinked. “With my life. Elena what is this all about?”

  “Then how much do you trust me?”

  She looked taken aback by that. “You’re my sister. You know I trust you.”

  “Yeah, well, something happened tonight. Something impossible.”

  “You’re upset.” My sister put a hand on my shoulder. “Come sit down. I’ll get you some tea, you’ll feel better.”

  “No.” I broke away from her to pace. “Gretchen…you’re going to think I’m nuts. But tonight…” I reached the far end of her living room and stopped.

  In the dark of the bedroom hallway, two red eyes glowed.

  I pulled my gun. I’d drawn my gun more in the last few days than I had my whole career. Such unnatural shit going down. “Who’s there?”