He took off his suit coat before clasping her hand in his and guiding her to the very small dance floor in front of the man with the guitar. He played a slow rhumba tune, which, of course, they kept up with perfectly.
“You’re doing great,” he whispered in her ear. “Amora absolutely despises you, and Olivier might be in love.”
She scoffed. “Perfect.”
“Indeed.”
She leaned her cheek against his. “You said you loved me earlier.”
He almost stepped on one of her toes—almost. “I recall.”
“Did you mean it?”
“I suppose.”
“Even after I tried to have you killed?”
He sighed. “Yes.”
“Say it again.”
He pulled back to look at her. “Why?”
“Hold me tight. Rhumba me. And say it again.”
Nicholas held her close with his hand against the small of her back. They stepped in perfect synchronicity, and he whispered, “I love you.”
Again, like at Necto, her chest cavity felt tight, like something was trying to escape. She suspected something was, actually, trying to escape—but not like in Alien.
“Again,” she said, eyes focused on Olivier, who spoke in hushed tones with a pissed-off Amora.
“I love you, Imogene.”
She took a deep breath of his scent. “Why?”
“Because you’re beautiful, and you make me laugh more than anyone I’ve ever met.”
The pressure in her chest increased. “Keep going.”
“You’re real and present. You’re unabashedly you. You’re brave to the point of utter stupidity.”
She laughed against the side of his neck.
“And you make me very happy.”
That did it. The pressure in her chest expanded and flew out of her, targeted like a ray gun at Olivier, whose hand twitched. He knocked over the entirety of Nicholas’s full martini.
Imogene closed her eyes and kissed behind Nicholas’s ear. “Don’t look, but I just made Olivier knock over your martini glass.”
Nicholas did actually step on her toes, but she coaxed him to keep dancing. “You’re kidding,” he said.
“Nope.” She buried her face against his shoulder to hide what could only be described as orgasmic amusement.
Nicholas squeezed her so tight, she burped.
They made a quick exit—a few excuses, but, mostly, Imogene’s direct admittance that she wanted to “fuck her boyfriend” got them out of there without questions asked, even though Amora looked so angry she was ugly, eyebrows pointed down in the center, lips pursed, and creamy arms folded across her chest.
Imogene kept walking, fast, when they stepped outside, but Nicholas grabbed her and spun her around. “It wasn’t anger the other night at the club. It wasn’t…” He looked up at the starry sky. “God, Imogene, I thought your power came from your resentment toward me.”
She turned away from him and kept walking, but of course, the jerk kept perfect pace.
“All those people you glamoured at that dance club. What you just did to Olivier in there. It’s because of love.” He stopped walking, even as Imogene continued, but she could still hear him. “My love,” he said.
She halted and stomped her feet in a little circle until she faced him. She extended her arms out at her sides, a visual question mark. “Fine. Yes. So what?”
Imogene didn’t see him move, but then, there he was, right in front of her, with his hand on her face. “When this is all over, stay with me forever.”
She shoved his hand away. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Why not?” He followed close behind as she neared her car, keys already out and ready.
“I’ve never been the marrying sort.”
“I didn’t say anything about marriage.”
Her own hair smacked her in the face as she spun at him. “You said forever. It insinuates…” She gestured with her fists.
“Forget titles, Imogene. I don’t need to marry you. I don’t need to be your husband. I just need to be with you. Please. I will beg if I have to.”
“Begging is not sexy.”
He smirked. “You think everything I do is sexy.”
She groaned. “I hate you.”
“That’s what Sally told Harry, and she didn’t mean it.”
She chuckled. “Of course you can reference eighties romantic comedies.”
His hands landed on her shoulders. “Let’s go home.”
Imogene shimmied out of his grasp. “I’m not sleeping with you.”
“No,” he said. “You’re not.”
She turned around, confused.
“We need to practice. Now that we’ve figured out your trigger, you need to get good at using it.” He circled the car without waiting for her approval and climbed in the passenger side.
Imogene leaned back against her prized possession and looked up at the sky. It was colorless, deep black, spotted with blue-tinted stars—not a cloud in sight. If she listened carefully, she could hear the waves breaking across the street and down the grassy path, but she couldn’t smell the sea. She smelled Nicholas. She felt Nicholas as if he’d climbed inside her chest. She feared if she didn’t do something about it, he might move in permanently.
Chapter Eighteen
They sat in Dr. Savage’s living room, facing each other on the couch. Nicholas was super posh in a fancy suit, as usual, although Imogene hated how rested he looked, considering they’d been practicing so much—day and night. Her eyes felt like heavy, rolling bowling balls.
“Go ahead,” he whispered.
Imogene focused on his soft hand on her wrist.
“What am I looking at?” Dean asked from the doorway. He stood there, arms crossed, decked out all in black as if just waiting (hoping?) to murder somebody. Vixen sat patiently in a chair in one of her high-necked Amish ensembles, looking bored. Dr. Savage was on the floor, Indian-style, a few feet away in a peasant blouse and flowing pants. In the background, sitar music played “to relax Imogene,” even though it was really just pissing her off.
She groaned. “Can you please turn off that damn music?”
“Dean.” Dr. Savage nodded to her boyfriend.
Nicholas squeezed her wrist. “Focus.”
“I would if everyone wasn’t fucking staring at me.”
“Hey,” he whispered.
Imogene looked into his green-gold eyes.
“Me and you,” he said.
One of her eyes twitched, and Nicholas slapped himself in the face—hard—which was only funny because he looked so pleased about it. He turned to face Dr. Savage expectantly.
She touched her finger to her lip. “Hmm. I’m not sure what I just saw.”
Imogene grabbed Nicholas’s face. “Kiss my neck.”
He did, and five seconds later, Dr. Savage squawked like an actual chicken. Her eyes went wide, and she covered her mouth. “Oh.”
“Oh.” Imogene nodded and pulled away from Nicholas to stand and pour herself a drink. Or rather… “Dean. Scotch?”
“Make me.” He smiled.
She wrinkled her nose. “Humans are easy, bud. You don’t wanna see what I can make you do.”
He held up his hands in amused surrender and disappeared to the kitchen.
Dr. Savage unfolded her long legs and did some kind of yoga stretch. “So let me get this straight. You want us to lure Olivier and Amora into my home with the promise of a cordial dinner party, wherein Imogene will glamour them both—”
Nicholas interrupted, “She only needs to glamour Olivier for our use, and the rest of us will take out Amora.”
“You realize, I’m sure, we could be executed for taking advantage of a high-ranking, ancient vampire like Olivier Winsome.”
Nicholas shook his head. “I have evidence against him. I’ve been compiling all I could over the years, just in case, especially now with Celia’s baby.” He smacked himself in the face and, this time, winced. “Imo
gene.”
“Oops.” She shrugged.
Dean came back and handed Imogene a scotch.
She looked at the crystal glass. “That’s a damn heavy pour.”
“I’d need one if I were you.”
“Amen, son.”
Dr. Savage kept stretching, as if stretching would make her feel better about their current conundrum. “But Olivier is a pillar of the vampire community.”
“He won’t be if people learn about what’s really been going on at the SL.”
The doc stretched her arms high over her head. “And you’ve got the evidence against him.”
“More than that.” He glanced at Imogene. “I’m going to make him confess. Over Skype.” He grinned as if terribly pleased at his own grasp on modern technology.
“How?” Dean asked. “By putting a gun to his head?”
“By putting Imogene in his head.”
Imogene cleared her throat. “Uh, I don’t read minds.”
“You won’t have to. You can make him talk.”
She shook her head. “We haven’t tried that yet.”
Nicholas faced her and held his arms out at his sides.
She idly noticed how nice his suit hugged his slim waist and broad shoulders.
“I have a small penis,” Nicholas said, followed immediately by, “What? I do not!”
Imogene spun on Dean and pointed.
“I look like a run of the mill soap opera star,” he said. Then: “Run of the mill?”
Imogene laughed before eyeing a dumbfounded Dr. Savage.
“I really just want to help people,” the doctor said. Her gaze softened on Imogene—a bit. “Well. I really do.”
Imogene smiled—a bit.
“When is all this going down?” Dean asked, fingering a knife on his belt.
“Tomorrow,” Nicholas said.
“What?” That got Dr. Savage on her feet. Her yoga techniques couldn’t keep her that calm.
Nicholas took hold of her shoulders. “Rain. That baby’s coming any day. When it arrives, the game is over—unless we end it first. Imogene is ready. I’m ready; you’re ready. Dean’s been wanting to kill someone for weeks.”
“True,” he said.
“So you invite Olivier and Amora for dinner tomorrow night. Vixen, you don’t have to be here. You can be with Celia and Ian and Heidi.”
“Thank you,” Vixen whispered, wringing her fingers.
Dr. Savage ran her hands through her hair. “I can’t believe Heidi is a hunter.”
Imogene shrugged. “Better than the alternative.”
“So Celia and Ian will be safe behind their security system with the additional presence of a well-armed hunter,” Nicholas said. “They will be fine, and we will deal with the rest.”
Dr. Savage reached out and took a handful of Nicholas’s suit coat in her hand. “I’ve got a bad feeling.”
“Fuck your bad feeling.” Imogene finished her scotch. “I can handle this shit.”
Dr. Savage frowned. “This isn’t like Steve and Danny. We can’t just use garden shears.”
“Hey, garden shears are awesome.” She tossed the empty scotch glass to Dean, who caught it without even looking. “And PS: this isn’t like last time. I just made you squawk like a chicken.”
“Fair enough.”
Imogene pointed at Dr. Savage. “Call Olivier, and set it up. Eleven p.m. tomorrow. Nice lovely dinner, side of homicide.” She shrugged. “Nicholas, let’s go home.”
The whole room froze.
“What? I need more practice.” She didn’t.
She was pretty sure Nicholas knew she didn’t.
“Come on. We’ve got some super ancient vampires to kill tomorrow. Dean, don’t you have some knives to sharpen? Doc, where’s your samurai sword? Jesus, get your shit together, people.”
She walked from the living room, through the dining room, and into the foyer. When she opened the front door, she squeaked to find Nicholas right behind her.
She cussed. “Stupid British ninjas!”
“Don’t think there are British ninjas. Why do you want me to come home with you?”
She turned around but didn’t look at him. The floor was much safer. “Just come home with me.”
Imogene felt him studying her face, so she put her sunglasses on. He pulled her sunglasses off and tilted her chin up. She focused her eyes somewhere above his head.
“Why?” he said.
She scowled. “Because. If we end up dead tomorrow, I thought it might… be nice… to be alone with you one more time.”
He didn’t say anything—until he chuckled.
“What?” she hissed.
“Did that hurt coming out? It looked like it hurt.”
“You are an annoying twat.”
He squeezed one of her hands.
They lay in Imogene’s bed, side by side, facing each other, fully clothed. Occasionally, their fingers might touch but nothing more. Once, Nicholas leaned forward and kissed her forehead.
“I’m not coming to London, you know,” she said.
He laughed.
“And why the hell is that funny?”
“I’m just hoping to live past tomorrow.” He rolled onto his back. “Hadn’t thought much beyond that.”
She accepted the silent invitation to rest her head on his chest. “You think Amora’s gonna kill you.”
He spoke into Imogene’s hair. “If it’s the last thing she ever does.”
“I won’t let her. There’s a shortage of perfect ass in this world. Would be a pity to damage yours.”
He put his arm around her and squeezed. “The Princess Bride reference.”
“Paraphrased.” She rubbed her face against the fabric of his suit. “So is that what happens when love goes bad? You want to kill the other person?”
He sighed. “No, I don’t think so. Well, not for normal people. Nor do I think Amora loves me—anymore. I merely think she misses having control over me. That’s how it always was between us. A constant power play.”
“I don’t want that.”
“I know. But it wouldn’t be like that with—”
“Promise you’ll leave after this is all over.”
“No.”
She shoved her nose against his chest. “You’re such a dick.”
“And you wouldn’t have me any other way.”
Chapter Nineteen
When Imogene woke the following night, still tangled in her clothes, a line of drool glued her face to the pillow. She swatted at the fabric and wiped her mouth only to discover she was alone. “Nicholas?” She sat up, then lazily slumped out of bed and down the steps to the living room, where she half expected him to be cozy in pajamas and reading the newspaper on her couch.
Nope. No sign of him.
She called his phone, which rang and went to voicemail.
“What the fuck?” she muttered.
She leaned against her kitchen island, poured a bag of B-negative into a tall beer mug, and topped it off with a shot of Jäger. She fed like she was in a rush—maybe she was. It was 8:30 p.m. They had two and a half hours before the start of a dinner party that would possibly end with lots of dead bodies, and her leading man was so far missing. She thought about calling Celia to see if he was over there, doing a final check-up, but didn’t want to worry her.
Instead, Imogene jumped in the shower. She played some Queen to set the mood: “We Will Rock You,” followed by “We Are the Champions.” She then reached for battle gear: black pleather pants and a black tank that said, simply, “Fuck You,” in red letters, plus her combat boots. She would not be outdone by Dr. Savage’s Matrix cosplay, damn it. She rimmed her dark blue eyes in black kohl, her lips in red, and puffed her purple hair to the point of seventies Afro height.
She called Nicholas again.
Nothing.
She considered just heading over to Dr. Savage’s digs. Maybe Nicholas was there already, but why the hell would he just disappear without telling her or at
least leaving a note? The man had disappeared like a Stoker green mist, which honestly? Didn’t sit well with Imogene. At all.
She half expected a flash of lightning, rumble of thunder. It was just that kind of night, like the last time they planned for homicide. She shouted when the lights buzzed and dimmed. She huffed a breath of air into her lungs—“Christ on a cracker”—and reached for the magic, electrified key fob in her back pocket. Someone had set off the security system.
She heard a voice through the door: “Imogene?”
“Celia?” she whispered.
She looked through the peephole and, indeed, found her best friend, along with a grinning Ian and scowling Heidi, smoking pitchfork in hand.
Imogene swung the door open and pointed at Heidi. “You know that doesn’t count as using the doorbell.”
“Not worth taking the chance.” She adjusted her red wig. “Don’t wanna get zapped, Olive Oyl.”
“What the hell are you guys doing here?”
“Um.” Celia looked down at her stomach. “My water broke.”
Imogene weaved a little in the doorway until Ian stepped forward and put his hand on her waist. “Ohhh,” she groaned and then snapped to. “No! You are not delivering that creature in my house! No.”
“Geeeeeene,” the unborn baby gurgled.
Imogene pointed at Celia’s stomach. “Don’t try and sweet talk me, you little gremlin.”
Heidi ushered them all in from the warm night and closed the door, locked it.
Celia’s eyes took in the empty living room. “Where’s Nicholas?”
Imogene reached for her phone. “No clue. I woke up, and he was gone.”
“Gone?”
“Gone, Merk!” She dialed his number, which went straight to voicemail. “Shit. We need to call Dean and Doctor—” As she was about to, though, her phone rang. She looked at the caller ID. “Thank Bowie, it’s Nicholas.” She answered. “Where the hell are you?”
She expected his deep, British baritone but was instead met with the teasing European drawl of one very feminine, very odious Amora Savoy. “Good evening, Imogene.”
Imogene pursed her lips together.
Bite Somebody Else Page 23