From the Dark

by Michele Hauf

  But what would she get out of it? Did she want something? Was she being selfish to consider that she should get equal satisfaction?

  A drumbeat stirred the crowd to a roar. Jane winced. It took a while to adjust to the swell of noise, and before she could, three guitars joined the thumping drum.

  Below, blind followers pumped their fists and bounced to the beat. Heads banged, hips rocked and the masses shouted to their musical heroes. A tremendous wave of aggressive energy billowed up from the dance floor.

  It was fascinating to watch The Fallen perform live, though watching Michael was initially a bit disturbing. Unleashed mania and violent screams mastered the stage. Jane’s head pounded with the resonance of Michael’s plea to the masses. Gyrating and seething, he brewed The Fallen’s lyrics into malicious incantations.

  And his voice. Oh, but the man could slay angels with that controlled, yet manic yowl. He’d obviously studied, she guessed, for he could handle the double octave scales with ease and the drawn-out yowls—er, musical screams—were accomplished with a single breath.

  Hadn’t he said something about it all being about the scream?

  The man mastered the room, commanding all to bear witness to his song. To succumb to his ministry of noise and erratic motion.

  And sexy? Feline-like and frenetic, a long, lithe god on the stage, beating his head and swinging his hair, constantly moving and changing the air around him. He wore no shirt and the skin-tight black suede pants provided clear view of all that could be desired.

  As the second song began, the three guitarists lined up along the edge of the stage and each ripped into their parts in head-banging synchronicity. Beating their heads to the rhythm, they played homage before their master—the crowd.

  Michael drew up a wicked spell with his voice. Microphone his phallic totem, he spat out lyrics the entire audience sang along to. One arm thrust out before him, he conducted the crowd and gestured with his fingers towards himself, a symbol of wildness and exhilaration.

  Releasing the corner of her lip she’d sucked in between her teeth, Jane smiled behind a swish of her hair.

  And—she got it.

  She now completely understood why women mooned over rock stars. Looking a warrior angel standing down the devil himself, Michael mastered the masses with his every move. A wild glimmer flashed in his eyes as he stretched his gaze across each and every banging head and cheering teenager. His smile gleamed brightly, catching the spotlight like sun on a blade.

  And while the crowd ate it up, Michael tempted Jane up from the solace and tapped at the wall she’d so carefully built around her life. For decades she had been content to ignore the world, to simply exist. For to surrender to any one heart meant pain and suffering.

  Wake up, sweet Jane.

  What marvelous exhilaration contained within this vibrant, though troubled, man. She wanted Michael Lynsay, dark angel, singer extraordinaire. Vampire. She craved his energy and dark vitality.

  For a glimmer, Jane latched gazes with Michael. Bobbing his head in time to the drumbeat, which set a slower pace for the next song, he winked at her. The crowd went wild. Everyone thought the wink for them.

  But Jane knew differently. She could feel their connection across the room. And the shimmer, exclusive to the vampire, dove into her pores and inhabited her soul. He occupied her, stirring his wicked attraction into her innate magic. This is how it felt to live, to be alive.

  Before he ripped into the lyrics, Michael whispered in the mike, “This is for sweet Jane.”

  The song wasn’t a love song. Jane guessed the band didn’t do sappy stuff like that. But when he sang a line about childhood memories and a walk in the garden, Michael again found her gaze.

  “Oh, he’s so perfect,” cooed out from the table next to Jane. “And he keeps looking up here! Did you see? I am so going to get into that man’s pants tonight.”

  Jane laughed so hard she snorted.

  “What’s your problem?” The woman who mooned over Michael twisted and leaned over the black vinyl booth. “You think he was looking at you, sister?” She did a shoulder wiggle that moved her breasts in an amazing juggle. “He was looking at these double Ds, stick bitch. You got anything worth touching? I don’t think so.” She turned back to her girlfriends and they group high-fived each other.

  The women were drunk. They were high-glossed floosies. Michael would never go for their sort.

  Or would he?

  Jane swept her gaze across the room, scanning the balcony and then down to the dance floor. Every female was tricked out in sexy clothing and makeup. There wasn’t anything to choose from but these over-sexed plastic dolls. This was Michael’s world. Of course these were his women.

  Drawing up her leg and turning on the bench to look over the stage, she pressed a palm to her soft silk shirt. Size B cups underneath. No competition for the double Ds that had performed a lewd dance for her.

  Oh, stop it; he doesn’t care about breast size! And look at all that makeup. A man had to gag to kiss through all that thick red lipstick.

  Maybe. A collection of underwear and bras?

  “Jane Rénan?”

  She turned to find someone had slid into the booth beside her. Jane stiffened. Not Phil. A young man with a crew cut and creepy blue eyes tugged at the zippered lapels of his jacket.

  “How do you know my name? Are you with the crew?”

  “I’m sorry, it’s difficult to hear,” he said as he leaned in, too close, and yelled into her ear. “I’ve something for you.”

  He reached inside his windbreaker and pulled out an iPod and laid it on the table before Jane.

  “It belongs to your boyfriend,” the guy said.

  Michael had mentioned misplacing it in the graveyard.

  “He is your boyfriend, yes?”

  “Er, why do you ask?” She palmed the music player and slid it to the edge of the table. She wasn’t about to give this kid information, especially if he was the photographer Michael had said he’d seen earlier. “What’s your name?”

  “It’s Sylvan Banks.” He offered his hand, but Jane didn’t shake it. He shrugged, and retracted the friendly gesture. “Make sure your guy gets my name, will you? Can’t say much more, but it’ll all work itself out, soon enough. Nice to meet you, Ms. Rénan.”

  Too startled to reply, Jane merely watched as the kid slid out of the booth and insinuated himself into the crowd.

  Well, that had been mysterious. She tapped the hard plastic shell of the music player. Had he looked through Michael’s songs and other files? What things did Michael keep on here that might prove valuable to others?

  Pulled back to the present by a spectacular drum crash, Jane glanced to the stage and met Michael’s seeking gaze. She looked to the table next to her. A half dozen sets of breasts jiggled and flashed.

  Jane had had enough.

  Chapter 13

  A gush of dry summer air and cigarette smoke crowded Michael’s lungs. Two dozen women stood outside the back door to the club, most clutching scraps of paper in hopes of an autograph, which he ignored; instead he slapped a few hi-fives, and nodded at their effusive screams.

  The glint of a gold cross flashed. An inexplicable cringe forced Michael to look away. Avoid the holy. He dodged to the right.

  He didn’t need The Fallen’s logo T-shirt, so when some woman tore it off him, he let her. But he did like to wear pants. Thankfully, the bouncer charged out the back door and started wrangling women, two to an arm.

  Michael was able to shimmy through the parking lot and stalk down the alleyway, away from the chaos, pants intact.

  It was like walking away from his own party. The pull to return and bask in the adulation made him turn once and look back over the people loitering outside the club.

  And he hadn’t felt the urge to gnash his fangs and dig into anyone’s neck. That was the positive about performing: a stage high was like the adrenaline rush of drinking blood. It would last him until morning. He was safe; the
monster had been dragged around by a chain and put through the rounds. It wouldn’t stir until tomorrow night.

  But the ache now pounding in his chest felt different than the blood hunger. Something was missing, and he couldn’t conceive of going home until he found it.

  Michael rounded the corner and scanned the street fronted by half a dozen boutiques and bistros. There, out front of a bakery that touted Fresh Croissants! stood a copper-stained beauty talking to another he couldn’t determine to be male or female.

  “What the hell are you doing?” He crossed the street, arms spread and strides fast. “You can’t leave without telling me.”

  The person talking to Jane turned to Michael. Hands at her hips and cocky stance screaming domination, she sniffed the air, and then snarled. “This is Michael?”

  “Yes, Michael Lynsay, rock star with an attitude,” Jane said, sliding an “oh really?” look his direction. “Michael, this is Ravin Crosse, the woman I told you about.”

  “Ah.” Blood draining to his toes, Michael took a mincing step back from the woman and put up placating hands. “I remember. The vigilante witch.”

  “He’s a smart one. A rarity.” Wearing leather vest and chaps, and obviously belonging to the chopper parked down the block, the woman commanded the atmosphere, despite her petite build. “I could do him right now and no one would be the wiser. Do you prefer a stake or blood bullet, vampire?”

  “Ravin, I don’t want Michael dead.”

  “Yeah,” Michael started, but when Ravin turned her body toward Jane he saw the glint of moonlight on the huge silver cross around her neck. “Yeiahh! Woman, would you put that thing away?”

  “Can’t.” She glanced a black-polished fingernail along the ornate silver. “Goes with the ensemble.”

  “Don’t worry, Michael, I won’t let her hurt you,” Jane added.

  He frowned at Jane.

  “Listen, witch, cool your guns. I’m one of the good guys.”

  “There are no good vampires. The only good bloodsucker is a dead one.” Ravin turned her attention to Jane. “This conversation isn’t over, Jane. We’ve got to talk soon. Tomorrow.” She sliced her gaze across Michael as she swept about. “Vampire.”

  The witch sauntered away, and on her back were two glinting pistols that Michael did not want to take a closer look at. She mounted the chopper, revved the engine, and took off.

  “What’s her deal?” he said after the bike had turned out of their view.

  Jane sighed and announced lightly, “She doesn’t like vampires.”

  “I caught that. Talk about uptight and looking for a fight.”

  “You know nothing about her. Ravin…she has issues.”

  “Issues? That dame has whole volumes.”

  “She’s a friend.”

  “Yeah? What about me?”

  “You are my man.” She stretched her arms and yawned. The thin silk moved over her breasts but didn’t conceal her hard nipples. Moonlight jealously slid across the lighter strands in her hair. “Show done?”

  “Twenty minutes ago.”

  “I see you must have left at least one fan satisfied.”

  Michael stroked his bare chest, and felt the serrated flesh below his ribcage. The woman who’d torn off his shirt had used her nails. He hadn’t noticed until now.

  “Comes with the job. If I ever make it home with the same shirt I arrived in, well, something’s wrong. Now, didn’t I ask you to stay put?”

  “I needed some fresh air. All the smoke and alcohol spattering me from every angle put disgust to a new level.”

  “Why didn’t you tell someone where you were going? Damn it, Jane! You can’t go running off wherever you please.”

  “And why not? Because I’m Michael’s girl and that implies some sort of ownership? You forgot to chain me to the table, lover, what did you expect?”

  “Jane, what are you doing?”

  “What are you doing? I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself. I didn’t wander far. And look, I ran into Ravin. If anyone could have protected me against a baddie, it would have been her.”

  “A baddie? Do you automatically consider vampires part of that group?”

  “Michael, please.”

  “No, tell me. I’ve got to know if, when I’m making love to you, you’re cringing inside. Or is that it? You’re fulfilling some sort of fantasy every time you have sex with me?”

  “I’m leaving. Obviously I’m not cut out to be your girl.”

  “Jane, don’t be like that.” Michael swept an arm around her back and pulled her close, nuzzling his nose into her hair. She didn’t smell like lilacs, but smoke and booze and anger. “It was my fault.”

  No reply, but she did lift a brow.

  “It was asking a lot,” he said. “I should have waited and invited you to a smaller show.” He shivered against her, her silk shirt tickling his bare chest. Yes, it was arousal, not the cool air, and oh yeah, those hard nipples begged for him to touch them. “But did you see? I was sending you love from the stage.”

  “Really?” She pulled back and stroked a finger along the tips of his sweat-saturated hair near his elbows. “Love, eh? Sounds pretty intense, especially since I’m only in it for my bad boy fix.”

  “You know what I mean. I care about you, Jane. I missed you during the last song. I wanted to sing only to you.”

  “Well, I’m sure the women next to the table where I had been sitting didn’t mind you singing to them. They’re double Ds, you know.”

  “Double—? Ha! Some fans are nuts. It’s just part of the job.”

  “I think I’ll hop in my car and head back to the house. You go on and party and do whatever it is you do after a gig. I’m sure it’s all part of the job, right?”

  “Jane.”

  “Michael, I’m tired. And I know I can’t stand any more noise.”

  “You don’t want me to come home with you?” He slid his hands from her back, gliding across the silk top, and around to caress her breasts. Impossible not to touch her. “I don’t want to party with anyone but you and these size Bs.”

  Tilting her head down and smiling, she said, “How do you know what size they are?”

  “I’ve had a some experience.”

  “I won’t even ask.”

  She purred as he moved his thumbs up over her nipples, rocking the pads over the sweet insistent allure of her arousal. He nipped one of them through the silk. Since taking the stage, he had been riding an adrenaline high, but now, his world soared even further.

  “Oh, Jane.” Moving his lips along her neck, he teased at the vein, thick and pulsing with life. The tips of his canines were sharp weapons, but he did not will them down, nor did the lust draw them down without volition. He merely toyed with the idea of biting into her sweet smoke- and lilac-painted flesh. “This is too good.”

  Her fingernail skimmed his nipple. Baby, touch me again. Right there. Don’t be gentle. He bit her neck, keeping his lips over his teeth so as not to break flesh.

  “We shouldn’t be doing this on the street in the middle of town,” she murmured. “I want you, Michael.” Her hand slid down the front of his pants. Her touch rocketed Michael’s furious want to overdrive.

  “No one’s around,” he reasoned. “We can move into the shadows beneath the awning of that store.”

  “Michael.”

  “Right. You drive. I’ll do my best to distract you. Deal?”

  “Come on, rock star. I drive well when distracted.”

  Jane stopped the Mini in the garage and shifted into Park. “You haven’t kissed me for fifteen minutes. I’m feeling ignored.”

  “Let me unfold myself from this torture chamber, and then you had better watch out.”

  They poured out from the Mini, but didn’t make it further than the bonnet of the car. Michael met Jane halfway, lifting her under the thighs and setting her on the tiny car hood. Bending into her, he rifled kisses along her neck and into her hair.

  “You smell like smoke
. But I think I found some flowers,” he said. There, in the soft hollow at the base of her neck he smelled lilac. Heady colored sex lure. Shoving up the silk, he exposed her breasts and licked her hard nipples. “Did I tell you how much I enjoy lilacs?”

  “A man who likes flowers? Pity they’ve completely spent their blooms.”

  “I could get into roses or whatever else you choose to tiptoe through barefoot.” He growled when she wrapped her long legs about his hips and slammed his groin against hers. “You mean business, woman?”

  “Of course I do. I’m the girl who got to take the lead singer home. You don’t think I’ll let him go without having my way with him, do you?”

  “Oh, sweetness.”

  He slid a hand up under her skirt, conforming his fingers along the curve of her bottom. No panties. He was rock hard, and—and—no, he wasn’t going to think about it. The monster hadn’t shaken its chains.

  “Let’s go inside,” she murmured. “The hood of the car is dirty.”

  “Baby, I don’t think I’ll make it that far.”

  Sharp fingernails dug into his chest. Michael veered away, startled at her fire. She gave him a sneer, and leaped from the hood to dash inside.

  He followed her inside and down the hall to the living room. Jane tugged a white canvas from the couch and tore it off to reveal beneath a lush green velvet sofa. Michael recognized it as some of Jesse’s stuff from an apartment he’d had post high school.

  “I thought you were tired?” he said as he made for the left side of the couch, but then did a fakeout and dashed to the right.

  “You woke me up.”

  He jumped over the arm of the couch and gracefully lowered her to lie down. “You were never asleep, Jane, just hidden away. You’ve stepped out.”

  He slid up her shirt and tugged it over her head to toss to the floor. “I can’t believe you let some bimbos upset you. Your breasts are gorgeous. And they taste like sin.”

  “What does sin taste like?” She directed his head to pay full respect to both breasts, and Michael followed her lead.

  “Like smoke and flowers. Now let’s get this skirt off you. Ooooh, yes.”