Hotter Than Hell

by Kim Harrison

  After spreading a towel on the floor, she stepped from the bath.

  She looked at herself: she didn’t look any different. Same slim body, smooth skin, young breasts the right size to cup in her hands, nipples the color of a bruised peach. Her skin was paler than she remembered. So pale it was almost translucent. Bloodless.

  Not for long.

  She dried her brown hair so it hung straight to her shoulders and dressed with more care than she ever had before. Not that the clothes she put on were by any means fancy, or new, or anything other than what she’d already had in her closet: a tailored silk shirt over a black lace camisole, jeans, black leather pumps, and a few choice pieces of jewelry, a couple of thin silver chains and dangling silver earrings. Every piece, every seam, every fold of fabric, produced an effect, and she wanted to be sure she produced the right effect: young, confident, alluring. Without, of course, looking like she was trying to produce such an effect. It must seem casual, thrown together, effortless. She switched the earrings from one ear to the other because they didn’t seem to lay right the other way.

  This must be what a prostitute felt like.

  Dissatisfied, she went upstairs to see Alette.

  The older woman was in the parlor, waiting in a wingback chair. The room was decorated in tasteful antiques, Persian rugs, and velvet-upholstered furniture, with thick rich curtains hanging over the windows. Books crammed into shelves and a silver tea service ornamented the mantel. For all its opulent decoration, the room had a comfortable, natural feel to it. Its owner had come by the decor honestly. The Victorian atmosphere was genuine.

  Alette spoke with a refined British accent. “You don’t have to do this.”

  Alette was the most regal, elegant woman Emma knew. An apparent thirty years old, she was poised, dressed in a silk skirt and jacket, her brunette hair tied in a bun, her face like porcelain. She was over four hundred years old.

  Emma was part of her clan, her Family, by many ties, from many directions. By blood, Alette was Emma’s ancestor, a many-greats grandmother. Closer, Alette had made the one who in turn had made Emma.

  That had been unplanned. Emma hadn’t wanted it. The man in question had been punished. He was gone now, and Alette had taken care of her: mother, mentor, mistress.

  “You can’t bottle feed me forever,” Emma replied. In this existence, that meant needles, IV tubes, and a willing donor. It was so clinical.

  “I can try,” Alette said, her smile wry.

  If Emma let her, Alette would take care of her forever. Literally forever. But that felt wrong, somehow. If Emma was going to live like this, then she ought to live. Not cower like a child.

  “Thank you for looking after me. I’m not trying to sound ungrateful, but—”

  “But you want to be able to look after yourself.”

  Emma nodded, and again the wry smile touched Alette’s lips. “Our family has always had the most awful streak of independence.”

  Emma’s laugh startled her. She didn’t know she still could.

  “Remember what I’ve taught you,” Alette said, rising from her chair and moving to stand with Emma. “How to choose. How to lure him. How to leave him. Remember how I’ve taught you to see, and to feel. And remember to only take a little. If you take it all, you’ll kill him. Or risk condemning him to this life.”

  “I remember.” The lessons had been difficult. She’d had to learn to see the world with new eyes.

  Alette smoothed Emma’s hair back from her face and arranged it over her shoulders—an uncharacteristic bit of fidgeting. “I know you do. And I know you’ll be fine. But if you need anything, please—”

  “I’ll call,” Emma finished. “You won’t send anyone to follow me, will you?”

  “No,” she said. “I won’t.”

  “Thank you.”

  Alette kissed her cheek and sent her to hunt alone for the first time.

  Alette had given her advice: go somewhere new, in an unfamiliar neighborhood where she wasn’t likely to meet someone from her old life, therefore making her less likely to encounter complications of emotion or circumstance.

  Emma didn’t take this advice.

  She’d been a student at George Washington University. Officially, she’d taken a leave of absence, but she wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to continue her studies and finish her degree. There were always night classes, sure…but it was almost a joke, and like most anything worth doing, easier said than done.

  There was a place, a bar where she and her friends used to go sometimes when classes got out. They’d arrive just in time for happy hour, when they could buy two-dollar hamburgers and cheap pitchers of beer. They’d eat supper, play a few rounds of pool, bitch about classes and papers they hadn’t written yet. On weekends they’d come late and play pool until last call. A completely normal life.

  That was what Emma found herself missing, a few months into this new life. Laughing with her friends. Maybe she should have gone someplace else for this, found new territory. But she wanted to see the familiar.

  She came in through the front and paused, blinked a couple of times, took a deep breath through her nose to taste the air. And the world slowed down. Noise fell to a low hum, the lights seemed to brighten, and just by turning her head a little she could see it all. Thirty-four people packed into the first floor of this converted townhouse. Twelve sat at the bar, two worked behind the bar, splashing their way through the fumes of a dozen different kinds of alcohol. Their sweat mixed with those fumes, two kinds of heat blending with the third ashy odor of cigarette smoke. This place was hot with bodies. Five beating hearts played pool around two tables in the back, three more watched—these were female. Girlfriends. The smell of competing testosterone was ripe. All the rest crammed around tables or stood in empty spaces, putting alcohol into their bodies, their blood—Emma could smell it through their pores. She caught all this in a glance, in a second.

  She could feel the clear paths by the way the air moved. Incredibly, she could feel the whole room, all of it pressing gently against her skin. As if she looked down on it from above. As if she commanded it. There—that couple at the table in the corner was fighting. The woman stared into her tumbler of gin and tonic while her foot tapped a nervous beat on the floor. Her boyfriend stared at her, frowning hard, his arms crossed, his scotch forgotten.

  Emma could have him if she wanted. His blood was singing with need. He would be easy to persuade, to lure away from his difficulty. A chance meeting by the bathrooms, an unseen exit out the back—

  No. Not like that.

  A quartet of boisterous, drunken men burst into laughter in front of her. Raucous business-school types, celebrating some exam or finished project. She knew how to get to them, too. Stumble perhaps. Lean an accidental arm on a shoulder, gasp an apology—and the one who met her gaze first would be the one to follow her.

  Instead, she went to the bar, and despite the crowd, the press of bodies jostling for space, her path there was clear, and a space opened for her just as she arrived because she knew it would be there.

  She wanted to miss the taste of alcohol. She could remember the taste of wine, the tang on the tongue, the warmth passing down her throat. She remembered great dinners, her favorite Mexican food, overstuffed burritos with sour cream and chile verde, with a big, salty margarita. She wanted to miss it with a deep and painful longing. But the memories turned her stomach. The thought of consuming anything made her feel sick. Anything except blood.

  The glass of wine before her remained untouched. It was only for show.

  She never would have done this in the old days. Sitting alone at the bar like this, staring into her drink—she looked like she was trying to get picked up.

  Well, wasn’t she?

  When the door opened and a laughing crowd of friends entered, Emma turned and smiled in greeting. Even before the door had opened, she’d known somehow. She’d sensed the sound of a voice, the tone of a footstep, the scent of skin, a ripple in the air. Sh
e couldn’t have remembered such fine details from her old life. But somehow, she’d known. She knew them.

  “Emma!”

  “Hey, Chris.” Finally, her smile felt like her old smile. Her old friends gathered around, leaned in for hugs, and she obliged them. But the one who spoke to her, the one she focused on, was Chris.

  He was six feet tall, with wavy blond hair and a clean-shaven, handsome face, still boyish but filling out nicely. He had a shy smile and laughing eyes.

  “Where’ve you been? I haven’t seen you in weeks. The registrar’s office said you took a leave of absence.”

  She had her story all figured out. It wasn’t even a lie, really.

  “I’ve been sick,” she said.

  “You couldn’t even call?”

  “Really sick.” She pressed her lips in a thin smile, hoping she sounded sad.

  “Yeah, I guess.” He took the cue not to press the question further. He brightened. “But you look great now. Really great.”

  There it was, a spark in his eye, a flush in his cheek. She’d always wondered if he liked her. She’d never been sure. Now, she had tools. She had senses. And she looked great. It wasn’t her, a bitter voice sounded inside her. It was this thing riding her, this creature inside her. It was a lure, a trap.

  Looking great made men like Chris blush. Now, she could use it. She knew how to respond. She’d always been uncertain before.

  She lowered her gaze, smiled, then looked at him warmly, searching. “Thanks.”

  “I—I guess you already have a drink.”

  The others had moved off to claim one of the pool tables. Chris remained, leaning on the bar beside her, nervously tapping his foot.

  Compared to him, Emma had no trouble radiating calm. She was in control here.

  “Let me get you something,” she said.

  For a moment—for a long, lingering, blissful moment—it felt like old times. They only talked, but the conversation was long and heartfelt. He really listened to her. So she kept talking—so much so that she almost got to the truth.

  “I’ve had to reassess everything. What am I going to do with my life, what’s the point of it all.” She shrugged, letting the implications settle.

  “You must have been really sick,” he said, his gaze intent.

  “I thought I was going to die,” she said, and it wasn’t a lie. She didn’t remember much of it—the man, the monster’s hand on her face, on her arms, pinning her to the bed. She wanted to scream, but the sound caught in her throat. And however frightened she was, her body responded to his touch, flushed, shuddered toward him, and this made her ashamed. She hoped that he would kill her rather than turn her. But she awoke again and the world was different.

  “You make it sound like you’re not coming back.”

  “Hm?” she murmured, startled out of her memory.

  “To school. You aren’t coming back, are you?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, wanting to be honest, knowing she couldn’t tell him everything. “It’d be hard, after what’s happened. I just don’t know.” This felt so casual, so normal, that she almost forgot she had a purpose here. That she was supposed to be guiding this conversation. She surprised herself by knowing what to say next. “This is going to sound really cliché, but when you think you aren’t going to make it like that, it really does change how you look at things. You really do try to live for the moment. You don’t have time to screw around anymore.”

  Which was ironic, because really, she had all the time in the world.

  Chris hung on her words. “No, it doesn’t sound cliché at all. It sounds real.”

  “I just don’t think I have time anymore for school. I’d rather, you know—live.”

  This sounded awful—so false and ironic. Don’t listen to me, I’m immortal, part of her almost yelled. But she didn’t, because another part of her was hungry.

  When he spoke, he sounded uncertain. “Do—do you want to get out of here? Go to my place maybe?”

  Her shy smile widened. She’d wanted him to say that. She wanted him to think this was his idea. She rounded her shoulders, aware of her posture, her body language, wanting to send a message that she was open, willing, and ready.

  “Yeah,” she said, touching his hand as she stood.

  His skin felt like fire.

  Chris took her back to his place. He lived within walking distance, in a garden-level unit in a block of apartments. A nice place, small but functional, and very student. It felt like a foreign country.

  Emma watched Chris unlock the door and felt some trepidation. Nerves, that was all. Anticipation. Unknown territory—to be expected, going home with a new guy for the first time.

  Chris fumbled with the key.

  There was more to this than the unknown, or the thrill of anticipation. She stood on the threshold, literally, and felt something: a force outside of herself. Nothing solid, rather a feeling that made her want to turn away. Like a voice whispering, go, you are not welcome, this is not your place, your blood does not dwell here.

  She couldn’t ignore it. The voice fogged her senses. If she turned away, even just a little—stepped back, tilted her head away—her mind cleared. She didn’t notice when Chris finally unlocked the door and pushed his way inside.

  She didn’t know how long he’d been standing on the other side of the threshold, looking back at her expectantly. She simply couldn’t move forward.

  “Come on in,” he said, giving a reassuring smile.

  The feeling, fog, and voice disappeared. The unseen resistance fell away, the barrier was gone. She’d been invited.

  Returning his smile, she went in.

  Inside was what she’d expected from a male college student: the front room had a ripe, well-lived in smell of dirty laundry and pizza boxes. Mostly, though, it smelled like him. In a moment, she took it all in, the walls and the carpet. Despite how many times the former had been repainted and the latter replaced, the sense that generations of college students had passed through here lingered.

  The years of life pressed against her skin, and she closed her eyes to take it all in, to feel it eddy around her. It tingled against her like static.

  “Do you want something to drink?” Chris was sweating, just a little.

  Yes. “No, I’m okay.”

  Seduction wasn’t a quick thing. Though she supposed, if she wanted, she could just take him. She could feel in her bones and muscles that she could. He wouldn’t know what hit him. It would be easy, use the currents of the room, slow down the world, move in the blink of an eye—

  No. No speed, no fear, no mess. Better to do it cleanly. Nicer, for everyone. Now that they were alone, away from the crowd, her purpose became so very clear. Her need became crystalline. She planned it out: a brief touch on his arm, press her body close, and let him do the rest.

  Fake. It was fake, manipulative…She liked him. She really did. She wished she’d done this months ago, she wished she’d had the nerve to say something, to touch his hand—before she’d been attacked and turned. Then, she hadn’t had the courage, and now she wanted something else from him. It felt like deception.

  This was why Alette had wanted her to find a stranger. She wouldn’t be wishing that it had all turned out different. Maybe she wouldn’t care. She wanted to like Chris—she didn’t want to need him like this. Didn’t want to hurt him. And she didn’t know if she’d have been so happy to go home with anyone else. That was why she was here. That was why she’d gone to that particular bar and waited for him.

  That doesn’t matter, her instincts—new instincts, like static across her skin, like the heat of blood drawing her—told her. The emotion is a by-product of need. He is yours because you’ve won him. You’ve already won him, you have only to claim him.

  She reached out—she could feel him without looking, by sensing the way the air folded around his body—and brushed her fingers across the back of his hand. He reacted instantly, curling his hand around hers, squeezing, pulling hi
mself toward her, and kissing her—half on cheek, half on lip.

  He pulled back, waiting for a reaction, his breath coming fast and brushing her cheek. She didn’t breathe at all—would he notice? Should she gasp, to fool him into thinking she breathed, so he wouldn’t notice that she didn’t? Another deception.

  Rather than debating the question, she lunged for him, her lips seeking his, kissing forcefully. Distract him. In a minute he wouldn’t notice anything. She devoured him, and he was off balance, lagging behind as she sucked his lips and sought his tongue. She’d never been this hungry for someone before. The taste of his skin, his sweat, his mouth, burst inside her and fired her brain. He tasted so good on the outside, she couldn’t wait to discover what the inside of him tasted like, that warm blood flushing just under the surface. Her nails dug into his arm, wanting to pull off the sleeves of his shirt, all his clothes, to be closer to his living skin. She wanted nothing more than to close her teeth, bite into him—

  She pulled back, almost ripping herself away. Broke all contact and took a step back, so that she was surrounded by cool air and not flesh. She could hear the blood rushing in his neck.

  This wasn’t her. This wasn’t her doing this. She couldn’t do this.

  Chris gave a nervous chuckle. “Wow. That was…Emma, what’s wrong?”

  She closed her eyes, took a moment to gather herself, drew breath to speak. It would look like a deep sigh to him.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I can’t do this.”

  She couldn’t look at him. If he saw her eyes, saw the way she looked at him, he’d know about the thing inside her, he’d know she only wanted to rip him open. How could she explain to him, without explaining?