Bite Somebody Else

by Sara Dobie Bauer

He ran his hands through his hair. “She’s not here. She can’t be here.”

  “But Dr. Savage smelled her perfume tonight, right? At the crime scene. You’re saying that was just a coincidence?”

  Nicholas didn’t say anything.

  “Is that where you went, back to the crime scene? Did you smell anything?”

  “I’m not talking about this.” He pushed off the island and tried to reach the stairs, but Imogene stepped in front of him and shoved him in the center of the chest. With her vampire strength—and his distraction—she sent him flying backwards five feet.

  “Did you bring a monster to my backyard? Because if anything happens to my friends because of you, I’ll cut your fucking head off.”

  “Don’t ever push me again.”

  “Why not?” She stepped forward until they were nose to nose. “I’m not scared of you.”

  “You bloody well should be.”

  “Oh?”

  He didn’t back away. “I am not a nice person, Imogene.”

  “Well, neither am I.”

  He moved even closer. “Yes, you are. You just want people to think you aren’t. You want people to think you’re heartless and horrible, but I think you have a heart the size of the moon. My heart was burned out of me years ago, and in its place is nothing but rage. I will hurt you, and I won’t even care.” He shoved past her and spoke as he disappeared up the darkened steps. “Don’t mention Amora again. And I told you, don’t call me Nicky.”

  Chapter Nine

  Two seconds after Imogene’s alarm went off at nine p.m., someone knocked on her bedroom door. She sniffed twice, scowling and swooning in equal measure at the scent of a fully fed Nicholas in her hallway.

  “What?” she groaned.

  “I made you a cocktail.”

  Damn that sexy British voice.

  She flipped back her sheets and grabbed the same discarded Rainbow Brite t-shirt from the night before. Most of her hair was in her face when she opened the bedroom door and found Nicholas, already showered and dressed, in a gray suit she’d seen once before. It was more summery than his darker suits. His shoes shined, and his hair was perfect. She scratched her nose.

  “Here.” He held out a glass of chilled blood.

  “Uh. Thanks.”

  He put his pale hands in his trouser pockets. “I’d like to take you out for drinks.”

  She took a long gulp of her “cocktail.” He’d spiked it with something different this time, maybe Goldschläger. Her liquor cabinet sure was getting a workout. “Why would you want to do that?”

  “Because I was horrible last night.”

  “So you want to force me to spend more time with you?”

  He smiled. A little. “Yes.” Then, he pressed his lips together in a way that was damn near scorching.

  She slammed the door in his face.

  “Imogene. Please.”

  “Please what? You’re an asshole.” Although, admittedly, a very good bartender.

  “I’m sorry,” he said through the door. “I was very upset.”

  “No shit,” she muttered as she dropped down onto her bed.

  “I shouldn’t have said… I didn’t mean what I said. I meant that I think you have a very good heart, even if it’s perhaps tinted purple, but I didn’t mean what I said about hurting you. I would care if I hurt you. I would care very much.”

  “Go. Away,” she shouted.

  She only knew he was gone because his scent left her near proximity, which was a good thing, since his scent had a way of making her legs tingle—her whole body tingle, really. Setting her half-empty blood cocktail on the table by her bed, she curled up in her covers again. She thought about just going back to sleep and having a proper lazy lie in. Maybe he’d be gone by then, off being an asshole to someone else. But then, quietly, the soft, opening chords of “Space Oddity” came through the speakers in the corner of her bedroom. She tried to stifle her smile by curling into a smaller ball. Unsuccessful, she chuckled and rolled onto her back. She stared at the ceiling and floated away with David Bowie. She kicked her feet out of bed and walked downstairs, where Nicholas stood, leaning against the kitchen island.

  “Coercing me with Bowie,” she said. “It’s a low blow, man.”

  “I’m very sorry about last night.” That nineteen-year-old boy he once was showed through when he made a pouty face.

  Imogene really wanted to smack him. “Well, where are we going? Asshole.”

  “Will you be calling me that all evening?”

  “Yes. I’ve replaced your actual name with Asshole.”

  He bit his bottom lip as the album skipped forward to “Rebel, Rebel.” He tapped his foot. “I deserve that. We’re going to St. Arthur’s. Café L’Europe.”

  “Fancy schmancy. You paying?”

  “Of course.”

  “Fine. Gimme twenty minutes. And make another one of those cocktails for the road.”

  He nodded before she turned around and walked leisurely upstairs. Once in the privacy of her room, Imogene did a single excited leap into the air. She took a quick shower, because the important thing was not the shower, but the ensemble. Drinking the remainder of cinnamon-flavored blood, she peered into her closet.

  First decision: dress. It was definitely a night for a dress.

  Second decision: color. She looked good in every color, except pink, but who the hell over the age of six wore pink?

  Imogene pulled out a purple lamé mini dress with a plunging neckline that made her boobs look like crystal balls. She had turquoise stilettos that looked as if they were made of magic mermaid tail.

  She added a bit of extra curl to her hair and black eyeliner with some false eyelashes. She painted her lips a shade of deep lavender and blew herself a kiss as Bowie continued with “Let’s Dance” on the speakers. Grabbing a tiny silver purse for her lipstick and phone, she descended the steps to her living room. A glass of blood already waited on the kitchen counter, and Nicholas handed it to her.

  “I’ve never met anyone like you,” he said.

  “That’s because I’m one of a kind. Now, show me a good time.”

  She didn’t let him drive her Mustang. He seemed content to be horrified by her devil may care driving across the Keys and into the heart of rich tourist land. They parked by a statue of a naked woman without arms.

  “Why do they do that?” Imogene gestured. “Statues without arms.”

  “Imitating the Venus de Milo, I suppose. They say imitation is the highest form of compliment. Or maybe the sculptor got bored.”

  “I’ll bet option two. Florida is a boring place.”

  They walked down the sidewalk toward the beckoning lights of St. Arthur’s Circle.

  “Then why do you stay here?”

  “It’s my home now,” Imogene said.

  “Have you traveled much?”

  “Yeah, when I was first turned.”

  Someone whistled in a passing car. Imogene flipped them the finger.

  “My maker, Wharf… you met.”

  Nicholas cringed.

  “He had some money. We did a tour of Europe—all the places you’re supposed to go. Paris, London, Venice. I liked the big cities all right, but I always preferred the beach. There was a little town called Biarritz in France, right on the coast.”

  “I’ve been.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Of course you have. Anyway, I liked it there. The whole town was crooked, like it was gonna wash away on a big wave. But that’s it—just that one trip. I never went anywhere when I was a kid.”

  “I can’t imagine you as a kid.”

  She eyed a designer gown in the front window of an overpriced tourist trap and tried not to get her heels caught in the red brick sidewalk. “I was pretty much the same as I am now, which was probably why I never fit in around my boring ass town. God, I hated it. Couldn’t wait to get the fuck out.”

  “And you did.”

  She nodded. “And I did.”

  “You know you walk
differently depending on what you’re wearing?”

  She found him smiling. “Oh, yeah?”

  “You might actually pass for a lady, the way you’re walking right now.”

  She spun around a palm tree to face him. “Do you like ladies, Nicholas?”

  “I already told you I’m not gay.”

  “Except with Freddie.”

  “I didn’t…” He shook his head. “No.”

  She tugged on the arm of his suit as they passed a shoe shop. “You said he was persuasive.”

  He bit his bottom lip to stop a smile but failed miserably. “I only said he was… Okay, I kissed Freddie Mercury.”

  Imogene screeched, which brought the attention of a dozen chubby tourists outside a yogurt shop. “I knew it! Was there tongue? I bet there was tongue.”

  He took her hand and swung her toward the entrance to Café L’Europe. “You are incorrigible.”

  “Freddie probably loved that sweet mouth of yours.”

  Nicholas looked at her, one eyebrow raised.

  Imogene cleared her throat and said, “You have a very nice mouth.”

  The hostess popped up from behind a heavy wooden stand that looked carved from redwood. “Reservation?”

  “Two for Cuthbert.”

  Still holding Imogene’s hand, he followed the hostess beyond rows of wine bottles and a crowded dining room. Across from the bar, they settled into a dark leather booth that gave a wide-open view of St. Arthur’s nightlife and the way the little circle glowed gold in the summer heat.

  “Nice digs,” Imogene said.

  “I thought I owed you more than The Drift Inn.”

  “Don’t bash my bar.”

  “Not at all. It was very classy.” He looked to be swallowing a plum pit.

  She poked him in the shoulder and laughed until he laughed, too—that loud, youthful laugh that was so averse to everything else she’d observed of the man. The waitress came to their table and, Imogene noticed, zeroed in on Nicholas with the blind hunger of a crocodile. The man did look good enough to eat. The dim overhead lights made his hair look more red than brown and showcased the gold in his eyes. The expertly tailored suit gave him a James Bond allure, which only increased when he ordered a vodka martini, straight up. Imogene considered her usual rum punch but surprised herself and told the waitress she’d have the same.

  “What about your rum punch?” he said.

  “Variety is the spice of life.” She tugged at his silver cufflink, silver and the shape of an anchor. “What, were you a sailor, too?”

  He chuckled. “No. I own a shipping company. Family business.”

  “Right, uh, hasn’t anyone ever noticed you don’t age?”

  “I’m technically a fund.”

  “Come again.”

  She was beginning to really like his quirky side smiles.

  “Before I was declared dead,” he began. “I altered my father’s will to say that an amount of the company’s annual profits would be donated to the poor. It was a very lucrative company then and still is now.”

  “So you’re ‘the poor.’” Imogene grabbed her martini from the waitress and watched Nicholas take a slow sip of his.

  “Pretty much.”

  “But after you were dead, didn’t your dad, like, figure out that you’d messed with stuff?”

  He tilted his head, and his left eye twitched. “Well. My father and I, we legally died the same day. In a manner of speaking.”

  “That’s an amazing coincidence.” She took a large sip of her martini and almost choked on straight vodka. Smaller sips; definitely smaller sips.

  “Well, you see, in the year I died, a plague dismantled most of London. No, I…” He shook his head. “Further back.” He took off his suit coat and hung it on a hook above their booth. “I never liked my parents, but I don’t think they enjoyed my presence either.”

  “We’ve got that in common.”

  “You weren’t close to your family?”

  “No, they thought I was a freak.”

  “You are a freak.” He smiled. “In a good way.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I was raised by a servant woman named Jane. She was, for all intents and purposes, my mother. When the plague hit, it mostly affected the destitute. I was nineteen at the time, engaged to be married, so Jane was no longer under our employ. I caught wind that she was ill, and I went to see her, never knowing I would then contract the plague myself.”

  “Shit.”

  His eyes widened in agreement. “Indeed. I brought the illness into my parents’ home, and we were soon quarantined—locked in together. I don’t remember very much from that time, as I was very ill. I had fever dreams of a woman who came to me and said she could heal my illness.”

  “Amora.”

  He nodded. “She saved my life.”

  “And your parents died of the plague.”

  “No. I killed them.” His eyes moved to follow the foot traffic outside the restaurant as a jazz band started setting up in the corner. The clink of silverware and plates surrounded them, along with the smell of buttery fish and a summer rain, just begun, outside.

  Imogene sat with her mouth open like a guppy. “You killed your own parents?”

  He looked back at her. “Still think I’m cute?”

  “I never said you were cute.”

  He drank half his martini.

  “Wow. I mean, I always hated my parents, but I never had the balls to kill them.”

  “In my defense, they were my first bite. I didn’t really know how to stop.”

  “Do you still feel guilty about it?” She hesitated. “Did you ever feel guilty about it?”

  He shook his head and finished his martini. “Not really.”

  She turned sideways in the booth so her knees touched the side of his thigh. “I always tell Celia I don’t really remember my first bite, but that’s not true.”

  “No?”

  “I went after this club kid in an alley. Wharf had to pull me off him. I just remember seeing red. I could have killed that kid, I was so hungry.”

  Nicholas gestured for the waitress. “But you didn’t kill him.”

  “No, but I think I wanted to. I’ve always been a little homicidal.”

  He smiled and ordered two rum punches.

  “Did you love Amora?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Do you miss her?”

  He rubbed his bottom lip with his fingertip. “No.”

  “How did she die?”

  “Maybe she didn’t.”

  The waitress returned with two tall, pink drinks and blatantly winked at Nicholas. Imogene sneered, and the little server girl went running.

  “Have you ever been in love, Imogene?”

  “Yes.” She quickly put her fingers on the back of his hand. “Now, let me see your sketchbook.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Why? Is it full of pictures of my boobs or something?”

  He moved his hand away to spin his drink in slow circles. “Although your breasts are quite lovely, no. My sketchbook is private.”

  “But your paintings aren’t.”

  “It’s hard to carry paintings in your pocket.”

  She took a sip of rum punch and was relieved to find her second drink didn’t burn but instead filled her mouth with the sweet, tart taste of beach bonfires and kisses under the stars. “How many woman have you painted, Lord Nicholas?”

  “Twenty-two.”

  “That is a very exact number.”

  “A man remembers the women he paints.”

  The jazz band in the corner started playing something soft and lilting, highlighted by tinkling piano.

  “Will you paint me?”

  “No.”

  “Why the fuck not?”

  “I only paint women I love.”

  “Oh,” she said. “Then, I guess you won’t be painting me.”

  She watched Nicholas observe an older couple get up and head to the small dance
floor near the bar. He tapped his fingers to the slow rhythm of the music.

  His brow furrowed. “I feel like I’m a right ass to you all the time. I don’t mean to be, but I say things that just come out wrong. Do you feel that way?”

  She snickered. “Maybe you’re just being yourself.”

  “God, I really am an asshole. You bring it out in me more than usual.”

  “Uh, thanks?”

  “See? I just did it again. Something about you makes my brain…” He pointed to his head. “I just say the most stupid bloody things when I’m with you. It’s frustrating.”

  She leaned back in her seat and laughed. “You’re usually suave at all times, aren’t you?”

  “Irrevocably. For centuries. I’ve known you for five seconds, and you’ve turned me into a bumbling ignoramus.”

  “It’s no big deal. I’m best friends with Celia. She’s a permanent bumble.”

  “Celia is sweet and innocent and trusting.”

  “Why shouldn’t she trust you? You’re her doctor.”

  “I never should have come here.”

  “You keep saying that, so what’s keeping you here? The weird goblin in her stomach?”

  “It’s your godchild.”

  She groaned. “Don’t remind me. Look, focus on the baby, which will be here before you can say fuzzy fuckwit, and you’re gone. No muss, no fuss, right?”

  He squeezed his eyes shut. “I’d love to focus on the baby, Imogene, if there wasn’t one horribly unexpected distraction.”

  “Yeah, what’s that?”

  He turned to face her. “You.”

  “How am I a distraction?”

  “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

  She gulped.

  “You’re headstrong. You’re funny. You don’t take shit from anyone, particularly from me, and you love your friends with a devotion I’ve never witnessed. Every inch of you compounds upon the other until you form this masterpiece of madness—every curve, every line of your body, a wild sketch of free will and passion. I wasn’t supposed to meet you, not now, possibly not ever.”

  If steam could have shot from her ears, Imogene thought it would have. Instead of spontaneously combusting, she leaned forward to take a quick drink of rum punch. “What the hell did you just say to me?”

  “I don’t think I should stay at your house anymore.”