“It’s okay,” I murmured, scooping a dollop of icing from the cake and putting it into my mouth. I thought about how Jesse had shown up at the diner out of the blue like he had and hated the suspicion it stirred. I did my best to ignore it. “So did you move to Floyd recently?”
He recognized my deflection and gave me a look. “I don’t actually live here,” he said. “And I want to know about you. Everything.” He popped the last bite of his cake into his mouth and spoke around it. “Tell me.”
Maybe I wasn’t the only one deflecting. I looked at him. “Tell me about your job.”
“You first.”
I sighed. “Okay, Barbara Walters. What is it you want to know?”
He nearly choked on his cake. “Did you just call me Barbara Walters?”
Nodding, I finished the last bite of mine and began licking my fingers clean.
He laughed then. Loud and hearty.
I smiled.
“All right,” he said, regarding me with amusement. “I want to know it all.” He spread his arms dramatically wide, and I laughed again. “Do you have tattoos? What’s your favorite color? What’s your middle name?”
Delight swelled in my chest. “Let’s see.” I ticked off the answers to his questions on my fingers. “Maybe. Pink. And Ellen.”
Even in the dark, I could see his grin. “Maybe?”
Feeling bold, I winked at him. “That’s right.”
“A mystery.”
I didn’t have any tattoos, but it gave me a thrill to make him wonder. “So what about you?”
“Me?” he asked, reaching again for the box of cake.
“Yes, you.” I accepted another piece. It was just plain vanilla cake, but somehow nothing had ever tasted more delicious. And I didn’t think it had everything to do with Lou’s superb baking skills.
He thought for a moment. “Yes. Black. And William.”
So he had a tattoo. My face heated as I imagined the possibilities. “Black isn’t very original.”
“Neither is pink,” he said.
I smiled with my mouth full. “No, I guess not.”
Glancing out into the moonlit darkness, his infectious grin faded into a sad kind of smile. “What do you want to be when you grow up, Parsley?”
Laughing softly at the adolescent question, I ran the tip of my pinky along my bottom lip to sweep away the sweet buttercream and thought for a moment. “I don’t know,” I said after a while. “I’ve never really thought about it.”
He seemed surprised, turning to look at me. “Never?”
“I work a lot.” I blushed. “I don’t have time for wondering.”
A frown creased his forehead. “If you did?”
Glancing at my feet, I considered his question. I thought about the time I’d changed oil at a garage. It’d been greasy and dim and tedious, and the men had been no gentlemen, but under the hood it’d been quiet work. I’d shelved books at a library once. I could still remember the dusty, yellow smell of the place and how the mundaneness of the task had been soothing in its own way. The good thing about small-town libraries was they were usually empty. Then there was the time I’d been a housekeeper at a roadside mom-and-pop motel. Snapping starched sheets and scrubbing toilets had been hard work, but it’d been solitary too.
“I think I could be happy doing anything,” I said finally, softly, and gazed outward. “As long as it was quiet. I don’t like being around people. They think too much.”
Jesse stared at me, and I realized what I’d said. I scolded myself inwardly. What was it about him that made me forget all my rules? “I mean . . . they talk too much.” My face grew red. “I’m not good with people, so I—”
“I know what you mean.” He stared at me. “I’m not good with people either, if it makes you feel better.”
I grinned, remembering all the awkward, brooding non-conversations we’d had at the diner before he’d asked me out. “Is that so?”
“You have no idea,” he said, taking a bite of cake.
Smiling, I felt a strange camaraderie growing between us. I was abnormal and shy. He was dark and tempestuous and, at times, so intense it was frightening. I knew what made me different. It was what I loved and what I hated. It kept me safe and yet I was forever in danger because of it. But what made him different? I could sense the distinction, the strangeness, but couldn’t quite put my finger on it. And it felt somehow wrong to invade the thoughts of my new friend. My only friend. I was happy to just sit here with him, on this night, eating cake and watching the stars. I sighed as we shared the silence, contemplating our own thoughts and tasting the delicate sweetness of Lou’s homemade icing.
8
Daydreams & Dark Alleys
Jesse closed his eyes and breathed deep, sifting through the various scents. Damp earth and rotting wood. The musk of a nearby fox slinking through the weeds on its nightly hunt. The metallic, gasoline scent of his car. All strong, bitter scents. And then he got to her.
Soft. Sweet. Warm.
He opened his eyes to the night sky. Looking over, he could see her face clearly in the darkness, lit pale and small in the moonlight. They were lying on their backs on the hood, staring up at the stars in silence. They’d finished the entire box of cake hours ago. His gaze traveled over the curve of her nose and lips.
She turned to him. “What’s your favorite pie?”
He stared at her, their eyes meeting across the hood. “Rhubarb.”
They’d been exchanging questions all night. And they’d talked about everything. Anything. Most of it he already knew. He researched his jobs well. But he still asked. He wanted to hear it from her. All of it.
“Rhubarb.” Her expression was pensive as she turned her gaze back to the stars. “I’ve never had that.”
Still watching her, he asked, “Yours?”
“Hmm . . .” She crinkled her nose in thought, and he smiled again. She did that a lot. “Peach. With the lattice on top.”
A breeze rustled the trees, and she shivered, drawing her sweater tighter across her chest.
“You’re cold,” he said, sitting up and shrugging out of his leather jacket.
“I’m fine.”
He frowned. “Sit up.”
Lifting her brows, she glanced over at him. “Really, I’m fine.”
Jesse tightened his jaw. He wanted to wrench her upright and force her into his damn jacket whether she wanted it or not. Gripping the thing in his fist, he said, “Please.”
She stared at him a moment, and he knew she was trying to understand his abrupt change in mood. After a moment, however, she conceded, sitting up and sliding to the edge of the hood.
He ignored her outstretched hand and hopped down onto the ground, moving to stand in front of her. Her blue eyes were wide as she looked at him, and even in the dark he could see the heat rise in her cheeks.
“Put this on,” he said, holding it open.
“Okay.” She slid her arms through the sleeves obediently.
He stared down at her wearing his jacket, a jacket he’d had for almost half a century, its leather now soft and worn and white in the creases, and felt a tightness in his chest. For a moment, he forgot everything but the way she was looking at him right now. He reached out to her braid that was trapped beneath the collar and pulled it out, grazing the skin of her throat with his knuckles. Her mouth parted. He let the braid fall against her back and reached down to the cuff of one sleeve, which was too long, and rolled it up to her wrist. He allowed their fingers to tangle briefly before moving on to the other cuff. He watched her face as he worked. Taking it in. The way her gaze was riveted on his hands. The way her lips trembled ever so slightly and her skin flushed. The pulse throbbing in the hollow of her throat. And always his eyes returned to her lips, pale pink in the moonlight and so close he could feel the heat of her breath on his chest.
She closed her eyes. “Jesse.”
He ignored her and reached for the zipper of the jacket, his knuckles sliding against the f
abric of her apron, just below her navel. She gasped, and he realized with no small amount of shock that his own heart was pounding too. He tugged the zipper up, clicking it through each notch. When he reached the top, pulling it snug at the base of her throat, she finally opened her eyes. They stared at each other. She barely breathed. He couldn’t think.
Unable to stop himself, he leaned in, still holding the zipper. She tilted her chin up automatically, mouth opening in anticipation. He reached his thumb up and ran it over her bottom lip, pulling it gently to one side and then back again. It was soft and damp from her breath.
“I want to kiss you,” he said.
She nodded, chin brushing his palm. “Okay. I mean, yes . . . okay.”
Her words were sweet and innocent, and right then he wanted more than anything in the world to be someone other than who he was. Someone who didn’t know what he knew. Who hadn’t done what he’d done. Even still, the thought of tasting her overrode anything else. But before their lips met, a shrill, yowling cry cut the night so sharply that she jumped, startled. He froze.
“What was that?” she asked, her body tense.
He didn’t answer, just listened. Turning his head, he inhaled, closing his eyes to focus. Ferals. Two of them. Two hundred yards east. Upwind. A series of high-pitched yips and snarls erupted, followed by the distinct sound of thrashing weeds and branches. They were fighting. Which meant they were distracted. Probably unaware of Jesse and Par. For now.
“Jesse?” Par asked.
He realized then that he had a viselike grip on her waist. Letting go, he grabbed her by the bicep and pulled her off the hood, walking her around to the passenger’s side of the car.
“Get in,” he ordered, yanking the door open.
She stumbled, and he felt a stab of guilt, but there wasn’t time.
Trembling now, she opened her mouth, looking down at his grip on her arm and then back up at him. “I don’t—”
“Get in the damn car,” he said, looking over the roof and out into the woods. They were silent now. That was never good.
“Okay.” She tucked herself quickly into the seat. She was afraid, probably more so from his reaction than the actual feral cries, but she obeyed. And he vaguely appreciated that she didn’t waste time being stubborn or demanding explanations.
Slamming her door, he ran to the driver’s side and got in, turning the key already in the ignition. Under normal circumstances, he would’ve just grabbed a couple weapons from the trunk and disappeared into the woods. It was always nice to have them come to him, as opposed to spending weeks, sometimes months or more, locating nests. And he would never waste an opportunity. But not with her. When he’d heard that distinctive cry, an icy, unfamiliar fear had crystallized in his chest.
Her voice was quiet. “What’s happening?”
He ignored her, shifting into reverse and twisting to look out the rear window as he spun the car around, kicking up gravel and dust. The empty cake box slid off the hood and bounced out of sight. Within seconds, he was driving back down the narrow road, glancing into the rearview every so often. Nothing. The tightness in his shoulders eased slightly.
“The lights,” Par said beside him.
Glancing over, he noticed her white-knuckle grip on the door panel and her wide, frightened eyes. “What?”
“The lights are off,” she said, giving a quick jerk of her chin toward the windshield.
He followed her gaze and realized what she meant. Reaching down, he pulled the knob. Twin beams shot forth, illuminating the road before them and creating looming shadows in the trees standing guard alongside. He wouldn’t have needed the lights, but she let out a shaky breath of relief and relaxed her grip.
“What was that back there?” she asked after a moment.
The fear in her voice agitated him in the same way her shiver had minutes before. He didn’t like her being cold. Didn’t like her being afraid. What next? Was he going to outfit her with knee and elbow pads? Maybe a helmet?
“A coyote,” he said, keeping his gaze on the road. The headlights bounced erratically as the tires absorbed the uneven gravel and potholes.
“That didn’t sound like a coyote.”
He stared ahead. “It could’ve been rabid.”
She pulled his jacket tighter around her. “Rabid.”
“There’ve been sightings in the area,” he added, glancing in his side mirror. The red glow of the taillights revealed nothing but the empty road and dust billowing in their wake.
As she fumbled with her seat belt, her forehead creased in thought. He could tell she was testing the theory of rabid coyotes in comparison to his dramatic reaction. When they reached the stop sign at the end of the road, he slammed on the brakes, the car fishtailing in the gravel. The scent of her fear set his teeth on edge.
“Here,” he said, letting the car idle while he leaned over to fasten her belt for her, tugging it snug at her waist.
“Thanks,” she whispered.
He sat back in his seat and reached for the gearshift, glancing over at her. “You okay?”
She stared at him, shoulders trembling and hands joined tightly in her lap. “Yes.”
“Good,” he said. It was unlikely any ferals would attack a vehicle, especially now that they were near the main road, but he was still disturbed. His reaction to the situation was as unsettling to him as it clearly was to her. The night was turning out a whole hell of a lot differently than he’d originally planned.
She hesitated and then asked, “What happened back there, Jesse?”
He could tell she wasn’t sure whether to be frightened of the “coyotes” or of him. She was wondering if he was crazy.
With a grave sigh, he said, “I had to act fast.”
“Why?”
“Because there’s one thing rabid coyotes love more than anything else.”
Her eyes grew wary. “What?”
Pulling out onto the deserted highway, he forced a grin. “Vanilla cake.”
9
Blood & Jealousy
“Let it go, Bane.”
“No.” Bane shook his head and crossed his arms over his chest, leaning against the doorjamb of the draining facility. Despite being housed in a cavern deep in the bowels of a mountain, the room was clinically maintained. It was temperature controlled, impeccably clean, and smelled of antiseptic. Rows of wide stainless-steel refrigerators with glass fronts displayed bottles of blood, each drawn from a different host. Each cooler stocked blood from particular ability strains. 1A held werewolf. 1B fairy. 1C witch. And so on. With vintages dating back hundreds, even thousands of years. Lately, the number of gifted humans born each year had dwindled, and creatures of magic were damn near impossible to come by anymore. Therefore supply suffered. And Bane knew from personal experience that when his master went too long without access to special blood, things got messy. Patrick was like a cocaine addict. Only a million times more violent.
Zachary sighed, adjusting his grip on the tactical rifle. They were both on interior guard duty today, keeping watch over the precious remaining bottles as well as the draining in progress on the opposite side of the room. There were two other similarly armed guards posted just on the other side of the door. Patrick loved his children, but he didn’t trust them. At least not all of them, Bane thought with no small sense of pride. Only a select few were permitted within the walls of the draining room.
“Why do you even care if Jesse isn’t back yet? It’s his ass on the line,” Zachary said. “Not yours.”
“Because that’s one less bottle in this room,” Bane said. That, and he knew the spoiled bastard was up to something. He knew it.
Zachary glanced at him and arched a dark brow. “It’s not like this place is empty.”
“Maybe not,” he said, itching to light up a cigarette. “But I remember our sire’s last binging episode when he panicked over low supply. Perhaps you don’t.”
His shift partner cringed and turned back to face the room. “On the co
ntrary. I remember it well.”
It had been a proper slaughter. Blood-crazed and out of his mind, Patrick had ripped apart damn near anything breathing that night almost a century ago. Bane could still remember the chaos and the choking scent of fear that permeated the tunnels and caverns throughout the mountain. Then Patrick had nearly decimated the blood supply in his single-minded lust to feed. It was why so few of the oldest vintages remained.
He also remembered that Jesse had been the only one brave enough to approach and calm him. Bane closed his eyes as jealousy flared. In his mind’s eye, he saw Jesse crouching on this very floor, which at the time had been slick with blood and covered in shattered glass. And his sire, weeping and incoherent, clinging to the fucker as if he was his savior.
Grinding his teeth, Bane opened his eyes. “Then you understand the urgency.”
Zachary nodded, eyes scanning the room. “He seems content supplementing with plains until supply’s back up.”
“For now.”
“Besides,” Zachary said, gesturing with his chin toward the white coats at the draining table. “This one was just brought in this morning. And Stephan is due this evening from his assignment.”
Bane grunted, unappeased. His gaze traveled over the nude body of the young black man strapped to the stainless-steel hydraulic table. The table was tilted nearly vertical, with the man’s head toward the floor. His neck and both wrists had been surgically opened, and blood dripped steadily into sterile pails, where an herbal anticoagulant would be added before the bottling process. An easier alternative would’ve been to intravenously remove the blood using modern-day transfusion methods, but Patrick was at his core barbaric and found this way entirely more satisfying. Bane had to agree. He swallowed, his mouth filling with saliva as the enthralling scent saturated the air.
“Telepath?” Bane asked, nose lifting of its own accord as he tested the specific notes.
First Fruits Page 7