Wombstone (The Vampireland Series)

by Jessica Roscoe

  Ivy shook her head, turned and fled up the stairs away from him.

  That had been intense. I shook my head, blinked my eyes a few times and waited patiently for the images in my head to dissolve. I tossed and turned, trying to get comfortable, but my mind wouldn’t stop racing. Every time I got close to drifting off, another image jumped into my brain. Ivy opening a wine bottle in the kitchen. Sam pacing in the basement. Ryan shifting in his sleep.

  I glanced at my phone. Three–fifteen in the morning. So much for vampires being able to sleep soundly. I sat up and swung my legs over the side of the high bed, my feet just touching the cool floor. I padded over to the door and opened it, not surprised when a vampire fell into the room at my feet.

  Ryan groaned and rubbed his face wearily. “Where are you going?” he asked.

  “Jesus Christ,” I muttered, stepping over him. “I’m just getting a sandwich. Go back to sleep.”

  He didn’t follow me, so he must have either retreated to his room or curled up on the hallway floor again. I didn’t really care, as long as he left me alone.

  As I entered the kitchen, dark except for a lone lamp, I knew I wasn’t alone.

  “You look exhausted,” Ivy observed from the large oak table where she sat. An empty wine glass and a half–full bottle of red wine sat in front of her.

  “So do you,” I replied. It was a lie. She looked sensational. And drunk.

  She shrugged. “I’ll sleep when I’m dead,” she quipped, smiling darkly. I shifted uneasily from one foot to the other, not sure whether I should invade her space and make something to eat, or just go the hell back to bed.

  “There’s some cold cuts in the fridge,” she said. “Bread’s in the pantry.”

  So she did have excellent hearing as well. Thank God she couldn’t read my thoughts on top of that.

  “Thanks,” I said awkwardly, reasoning that I may as well eat now that she had given me permission. I opened the giant stainless steel fridge and started grabbing salami, cheese, mayonnaise and tomatoes. I found a loaf of bread and a plate and started assembling a monster sandwich. Suddenly, I was absolutely starving again.

  I stood at the dark granite bench and ate my sandwich, then another, and a third. By the end I was just eating salami and sliced beef straight from the package and not bothering with bread or condiments. The meat tasted really good, but unsatisfying at the same time – it was too dry, too overcooked for my liking.

  “Sam told me you’re not craving blood,” Ivy said quietly. She had been silent the entire time I was eating, a good fifteen minutes, and I had almost forgotten she was there.

  “No,” I said after swallowing another mouthful of roast beef. “The thought of it makes me feel sick.”

  She nodded, taking a moment to think about what I had said.

  When she didn’t keep talking, I tried to think of something to say, something to break the unbearable silence.

  “What kind of wine is that?” I asked.

  She looked at the bottle. “Tempranillo. From Spain. You want some?”

  I shook my head. “Maybe some other time.” After seeing Ryan with his blood–infused coffee, I didn’t want to risk spiked wine.

  As I was putting everything back in the fridge, I smelled something really good. It smelled thick and juicy, like a rare beef roast. I shifted a few things around, packages of salad mix and a bowl of chopped pineapple and strawberries, until my eyes landed on the thing that was making my mouth water.

  It was a stack of plastic bags, each holding an equal measure of human blood. I was drawn to them like a moth to a flame, my mouth tensed to rip open the flimsy packaging and suck greedily at the viscous nectar contained within. I stepped back and shook my head, and just as soon as the intense and foreign hunger had consumed me, it was gone again.

  It’s nothing. You need some red meat is all. You’ve been living on fries and sandwiches for days.

  I slammed the refrigerator shut and jumped as a face smirked at me where the door had been.

  “Help yourself,” Ivy said sweetly. “There’s more than enough to go around.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  This is the point where I wish I could tell you things got better for me. That I took a few vampire history lessons, purchased a vampire cookbook (101 tasty blood–filled recipes!) and packed up my meagre possessions to return to my old life.

  Except that’s not what happened.

  Ivy liked blood. A lot. And she didn’t do baggies from the blood bank – she got hers straight from the source. Ryan was the same. He’d drink from a bag when he was in a fix – but once I ‘calmed down’ enough for him to leave the house (his words), he resumed his normal feeding habits.

  Feeding houses. They’re everywhere, or at least they were back then. Ryan told me about them, asked if I wanted to come along and get a hit of fresh blood directly from a donor. Apparently the norm was a tube that went straight from a willing blood donor straight into the mouth of a hungry vampire in the next room. You could pay extra to bite someone and get it the old–fashioned way. You could pay even more to drink straight from someone who had just taken a hit of your drug of choice – vodka, heroin, cocaine, valium – so that you could get high at the same time.

  I didn’t ask either of them which method they preferred – I really didn’t want to know. I couldn’t think of anything worse than drinking blood, despite the bloodlust that had overcome me when I smelled the stuff in the refrigerator. My stomach was still tied in knots. Sam was having a great time, cooking all sorts of things for me that vampires like Ivy and Ryan weren’t interested in. Pasta. Fried chicken. I swear, I was going to be the fattest vampire in LA.

  I could tell that it pained Sam when Ivy had to go to these places. So, the first time Ryan suggested tagging along with Ivy, Sam put his foot down. See, I was learning pretty fast that Ivy and Ryan had killed a lot of people together in their time. And they were kind of a bad influence on each other. So, no feeding together.

  One night, after I had been at the house for a few weeks, Ivy was on her way out. Sam was already out, which was rare for him, but he had been working on a new research project with a fellow professor and they were going over something that sounded very complicated on campus. So that left me, and my favorite person in the world, Ryan.

  Ivy was dressed to kill, in skinny jeans, a black singlet that showed off her ample cleavage, and black leather boots. From my spot on the couch I could see her fussing with her makeup while she waited for her ride. As she stacked on more black eyeliner, I tried to imagine her in one of those feeding houses, drinking blood from a drugged girl. It made me sad.

  “Mia,” she said. “Remember you were asking me about the wine I was drinking?”

  I nodded. I had avoided her as much as possible since the night I’d found her drunk in the kitchen, and this was the first time we had been alone together since then.

  “Well,” she said, her green eyes sparkling as she handed me a bottle of red wine, “this is it. You should drink it tonight. Let Ryan have some, too.”

  I felt a wave of uneasiness pass over me, and then it was gone. “Sure. Thanks.” I took the bottle of wine and set it on the coffee table in front of me.

  “Whatcha watching?” She asked, dropping the eyeliner pencil into her handbag.

  “True Blood.”

  “Cool. Which season?”

  “Two,” I replied, watching as she stuffed her handbag with a gun, a switchblade and a small make–up case.

  She noticed me looking at the gun and smiled. “It's for protection only.” A horn honked from the driveway. “Enjoy your show.” Ivy called, closing the front door behind her.

  I felt like a little kid being left at home while Mommy went on a date. “Enjoy your blood,” I said to the empty room.

  ***

  Ryan strolled in about halfway through the first episode holding a glass of blood. “Want some of the good stuff in there?” he asked, gesturing to my wine.

  “No thanks,” I said,
sipping my wine.

  He shrugged, then picked up the open bottle Ivy had given me and poured some into his glass. Blood mixed with wine. Gross. Delicious. What?

  “Mind if I join you?” He sat next to me without waiting for a response.

  I shrugged. “If you want. Don't you have some girls to kidnap or something?”

  “You're hilarious” Ryan drawled, lounging back on the sofa cushions and crossing his bare feet on the coffee table. “True Blood? Why are we watching Sookie Stackhouse, Mia Blake?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Research.”

  “Right, you're basing your new life around what you pick up from Anna Paquin?”

  “Well, everyone's too busy to answer my questions,” I complained. “Or they just like keeping me in the dark. I should just go down to the feeding house and ask some questions.”

  “No, you shouldn’t,” he said sharply. “That’s the worst fucking idea I’ve heard all day.”

  “Oh, really?” I rolled my eyes again and poured myself a second glass of wine.

  “Yes, really,” Ryan countered. “You don’t need to go anywhere. Ask me a question. Ask me ... anything.”

  “Okay. Here’s one. Why are you such an asshole?” I shot back.

  “It’s part of my charm. Why are you such a bitch?”

  “I'm asking the questions. How many people have you killed?”

  “I don’t know. Ask me another question.”

  Bullshit. I bet he knew down to the exact number.

  “How old are you?” I asked, trying a different tack.

  “I'm very old.”

  “Where were you born?” He was so frustrating!

  “In a barn,” he snickered. “Like Jesus.”

  “You're not funny. Are you really immortal? Can you die?”

  “Everyone can die.”

  I sighed. “See? You don't answer anything. I'm going for a walk.” I got up and started to walk away when Ryan's hand shot out and gripped my wrist like a vice. It reminded me of the other time he had grabbed my wrist. The day I had died. The day I had been Turned.

  It made me feel positively nauseous.

  “I was born in a village called Rioja, in Spain. My mother was Italian, and my father was Spanish. It was 1191. I’m eight–hundred–and–twenty–one years old.”

  “You're hurting me,” I said, tugging my arm away. He released his grip and let my arm fall at my side.

  “I can die, we all can. I won't tell you how, don't want you getting any ideas. But anyway, just about the only thing you can't kill is a demon.”

  “Demon?” I interrupted.

  “Yeah, demon. Like from Hell.”

  “Hell,” I said evenly. “Like the opposite of Heaven?”

  “I don't really know about that. I'm not exactly a Christian, if you know what I mean”

  I nodded, biting my lip. “But you know about Hell.”

  He nodded, inclining his head to the side. “Sit. I'm serious. I think it's time you knew what you need to know.”

  “Will I get fangs?” I asked seriously.

  Ryan laughed. “No. Your teeth are really strong, though. You can use them to bite through almost anything.”

  Gross. I didn’t want to think about all the different things I would now be able to bite through with ease.

  “Is it true vampires can't have children? Ever?”

  He nodded. “Never used to be, though. A recent development. That’s why Caleb is so intent on Turning others. Otherwise, the vampires won’t survive. Not in these times. There are too many people hunting us.”

  “Have you ever had a baby?” I asked.

  “I’m a man,” Ryan deadpanned, “so, no.”

  “I’m serious!” I said, hitting him with a cushion. He laughed, catching the cushion mid–air.

  “I had a child,” he said, serious again. “A daughter. With Ivy. She was stillborn. It was a very long time ago.”

  Born and dead. I couldn’t imagine anything more heartbreaking. I wondered if living as long as he had made the pain of losing a child easier to bear, or harder?

  “Why did you take the heart from Caleb?” I questioned. “It scares the crap out of me.”

  “Collateral.” He didn’t elaborate.

  We were silent for a while.

  “What’s going to happen to me, Ryan?” I asked finally.

  “What do you mean?”

  I looked down at my hands. “I mean, is he going to find me?”

  “No. He's not.” He took my hands and squeezed them reassuringly. “He's not going to find you. We're going to figure this out, and then you can go home and forget any of this ever happened.”

  I shook my head in frustration. “I can't forget, Ryan. I don't even know whether I want to go home! Not if people are in danger. Maybe it's too late.”

  “It's not too late.” Ryan’s attempt at comforting me was pretty pathetic, but I appreciated the effort.

  I took my hands back, wiping my eyes. “Yeah, well. Let's see how long it takes to get out of this mess before deciding whether it’s too late to go back. Ow!” I complained as my back started to throb again. I had landed pretty hard when I ran into the invisible wall (or ‘ward’ as Ivy called it) and my back had been aching for days.

  “How's your back?”

  “It's pretty sore. I've been using the heat pack you got me ... aren't I supposed to heal fast or something?”

  Ryan pressed his lips together, concerned. “You have to drink the blood. Otherwise, you're going to get sick. Sicker than you are now. And your back won’t heal, either.”

  I clamped my mouth shut like a little kid. “Mmm–mph.”

  “Mia, Sam is different. Even as a newborn vampire, he drank a lot of blood. He was insatiable. His fucking nickname was The Ripper. You need to drink.”

  “There has to be another way,” I said stubbornly. The Ripper? Sam?

  “There's not. Do I have to force you?”

  I narrowed my eyes. “You'd like that, wouldn't you?”

  “No, I would not like it. I would like you dying even less, though …”

  Well, what was I supposed to say to that?

  “Turn around,” he said.

  “Why?!”

  “Forget the blood for a while. Let's talk about it later. Do you want me to try and make your back feel better?”

  “How?”

  “I'll massage it a little. I promise I won't try and make you drink blood.”

  “Fine.” I turned around, still watching the television while Ryan’s strong fingers started pressing into my skin. A draft of air was getting into the room from somewhere, and I felt goose bumps rise on my bare arms.

  I looked to the coffee table, realizing the wine bottle Ivy had given me was empty. Had I really drank that much? On an empty stomach? It was like I couldn’t get enough of it. I was feeling kind of woozy, but more than that, I was sorely disappointed that there was no more.

  Was there blood already in the wine? Was that why it was so intoxicating?

  “Mmm,” I said, relaxing my tensed shoulders. I closed my eyes. Ryan was an excellent masseuse.

  What happened next took both of us by surprise. I breathed deeper as a delightful warmth spread through me, from where Ryan’s fingers touched my skin all the way to the tips of my own fingers and toes. A vague feeling of concern was replaced by invisible threads that pulled at me, urging me to get closer to him, to feel that warmth even better. Dreamily, I turned around to face Ryan. Our eyes met for one fiery minute, and then the unthinkable happened.

  We kissed.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  I don’t know who kissed who. It just happened, out of nowhere.

  Even as I pressed my mouth against his, I couldn’t help but wonder what the hell I was doing. This was Ryan. The bad guy. And all I wanted to do was rip my clothes off and jump him.

  “Ryan,” I breathed nervously between kisses. “What are you doing?” I was terrified. What was happening here? A voice in my head screamed Stop, but that vo
ice was drowned out by something else much more powerful, a primal hunger that rose from the depths of my stomach and coiled around me the way my fingers coiled around Ryan’s shoulders.

  After a few moments, Ryan pushed me away and looked at me with urgency.

  “Are you … drunk?” he asked in a voice barely above a whisper, tracing a line down my bare arm with his fingers.

  I giggled. “I think so. Are you?”

  He seemed to struggle with that for a moment, looking from me to the bottle of wine and back again. I leaned forward, arching towards him, and pulled him hard against me, surprising us both with my urgency. His lips were warm and the faint taste of what had been mixed with his wine sparked a thirst in me that needed to be quenched. Without thinking, I bit down on his tongue and moaned as I tasted the same sweet, coppery substance that had brought me back from the dead. I sucked greedily, utterly disappointed when he pulled away.

  He drew back. “Your bloodlust is starting,” he said warily.

  I shrugged. “I don’t need a running commentary,” I replied matter–of–factly, emboldened by this new feeling that was making me act like a rabid animal.

  He pushed away again, and I met his gaze steadily. I could feel the way my eyes burned, the way I longed for what was in his veins as well as the flesh that contained it.

  This is it. I really am a vampire. My final acceptance of what I had become was both exhilarating and devastating.

  Ryan appeared to be having an internal struggle. I didn’t know why, but he kept looking around, to the empty wine bottle, the rest of the room, and back to me. I wasn’t patient, though, and I wasn’t gentle. My nails gouged his olive flesh, and it took every ounce of self–restraint I possessed to stop myself from pressing deep enough to draw blood.

  “I should take you somewhere,” he said, to himself more than to me, but it appeared that the bloodlust I was experiencing was also affecting his ability to act rationally. I could almost read his thoughts, could see the change in his expression as he gave in to his own desire and stopped resisting my embrace.

  As his mouth crashed into mine I thought of Jared’s sweet face and tender mouth and for one rational moment, sadness engulfed me.