“But … ” Hunter planted himself there on the sidewalk, apparently prepared not to move until I agreed to his request, and oblivious to the threat near us. At that very moment, the shadow I’d seen materialized into a man.
“You should have listened to the lady,” he said, voice emerging from the depths of his black hoodie, which was just so, so cliché that I didn’t even have words. He held an open flip knife beside his thigh, a subtle but clear threat. “Isn’t that right, B?”
I turned my head, trying to keep my body between Hunter and the blade—the one I knew of, anyway—and saw a second shadow step out of an alleyway on the other side of us. Same black hoodie, but with a flicker of metal at the neckline. I was too taken with the sparkly he held at his hip—all gleaming death—to pay proper attention to his bling. This was no flip knife, which was deadly enough, but a big, bad blade with barbs as it approached the handle. It would cut you like butter going in and tear through you like trans fat on the way out.
“Oh crap,” Hunter said, summing things up nicely.
“Stay behind me,” I ordered.
“How?” he asked.
He had a point. I only had one backside, and there were two toughs.
“Hand over your wallets,” the first hooded horror demanded.
I didn’t have a wallet so much as a slim card case dangling from my wrist with my ID, plastic, and a little cold hard cash. If I were all by my lonesome, I’d kick hoodlum heinie and hold onto my valuables. I was pretty sure getting jacked of my ID the first night of the mission would lose me serious spook cred. But with Hunter to worry about …
Slowly, so as not to worry the bladed baddies, I slid the strap of my card case off my wrist. Hunter, unfortunately, was not so smart.
“You can take ’em,” he hissed. “Why are you holding back?”
Sensing they were losing us, “B” moved in with his monster blade and instinct took over. I got a stranglehold on my wrist strap and swung the card case like a nunchuk, bringing it crashing down on B’s hand with vampire force. His knuckles cracked, and he howled loudly enough that company would be only a matter of time. The knife clattered to the sidewalk and I kicked it aside. It went skittering into the night, outside the corona of the streetlights.
“Cosette!” Hunter yelled.
I turned in time to see his eyes go wide as Flip-knife jammed his weapon into Hunter’s side. Swinging my makeshift sap again, I let out some warrior princess–sounding battle cry and went for the bladed baddie. He yanked his knife out, letting Hunter slide to the ground as he turned to face me.
B lunged at me from behind, grabbing me by the corset strings with his good hand, holding me in place while his partner closed on me. If I ripped free, I wondered what would give first—B’s fingers or my laces. I didn’t want to be flapping in the breeze, but it would make a hell of a distraction.
I stomped down on B’s instep, did the classic elbow-to-the-stomach, then hurled him over my shoulder when he doubled over in pain. He choked out a cry like a wounded wildebeest. His partner barely had time to point the knife away before B’s body was somersaulting through the air, hitting the ground hard and rolling into his friend, feet flailing straight to the gut.
The air whooshed out of Flip-knife’s lungs, but he kept control of his blade and clumsily vaulted his friend to get to me.
“You bitch!” he screamed.
“Be-yotch, please,” I told him. “Show some respect.”
He growled and dove with the knife, too angry for finesse. I blocked the blade with a swing of my crackin’ card case and countered with a two-fingered blow to the soft spot on the neck. He fell gurgling to his knees, knife finally dropping to the pavement. I’d stopped short of using enough force to crush his windpipe. He’d live, but he wouldn’t be too happy about it for awhile.
There was yelling from down the street. As glad as I was that help was on the way for the wounded, I didn’t want to get tied up giving witness.
Quickly, I knelt by Hunter’s side to check on him. It was a good sign that his eyes were wide open and tracking.
“That was awesome,” he whispered.
I ignored that and felt for the wound on his side. I was no expert, but it didn’t seem to be anywhere vital. He was lucky it had been the flip knife and not the monster blade that pierced him. The smell of blood was making me crazy. I’d exerted a lot of energy. I was hungry, and Hunter smelled really, really good. Not mochachino good, but almost. My teeth lengthened. I hurriedly patted him down for ID so I could look in on him later.
“Police!” someone called. “Stop right there.”
I tucked the business card I’d found into my cleavage and whispered “Not a word” in Hunter’s ear. I threw whatever mesmeric mojo I might have behind it.
Then I was off into the night, still safe with my secret identity. If there was any pursuit, it never even came close as I circled back to the club for my car.
5
I met up with Bobby at a hookah place he’d found that was open late. I had no idea what a hookah was until I stepped inside the smoky bar, which was apparently exempt from the indoor smoking laws, and found groups of people looking like the caterpillar from Alice in Wonderland, inhaling scented smoke through long tubes extending like tentacles from a central, lamplike pipe. I figured it was a really good thing I didn’t have to breathe.
Bobby waved to me from a dark corner, no problem at all to spot with my vamp-o-vision. He had one of those crazy contraptions in front of him for cover and even seemed to be taking hits off it. My nose crinkled.
“What?” he asked. “It’s not like we can get lung cancer or anything.”
“No, but stinky clothes and stained teeth are just as deadly to your social life.”
“So I’ll shower and brush. Want to try? It’s cherry
flavored.”
That did sound almost tempting. Since I’d been vamped, I hadn’t been able to eat or drink anything but blood. The one time my friends and I had tried, we almost got to see ourselves from the inside out. My stomach still ached to think of it. So the idea of flavor, any way I could get it, was … irresistible.
“Gimme.”
Bobby handed me the tube he’d been using and I put it to my lips. I took a deep breath—
And launched into a five-minute coughing fit. The smoke burned like someone had shot shards of glass straight into my lungs.
Around me there were low chuckles, some head-shaking, and stares.
“It’s an acquired taste,” Bobby said, trying to bury his own smile.
I handed the tube back. “No thanks. You acquire it then.”
He smiled. “So glad I have your permission. Anyway, I can’t see making a habit of it, but maybe once in a while … ” He got this wistful look in his eyes, and I knew he was thinking about flavor as well. If they had a mochachino or dulce de leche option, I might have had to reconsider, but …
“Good, because I have to admit, the whole fire and brimstone thing—so not a turn on,” I said.
“Ever been kissed by a smoker?” he asked, leaning toward me. “Makes your lips tingle.”
“Oh yeah?” I asked, leaning in myself to meet him halfway. “Prove it.”
He did, grabbing the back of my neck and brushing his lips across mine, gently at first, only feather-light. My lips opened beneath his. I definitely felt a tingling, but I didn’t think it had anything to do with tobacco. And then he moved in for more—a devouring kiss. Any last bit of breath I had sighed out when his tongue slid into my mouth, hot and intimate. I grabbed his shoulders to hold him in place and kissed him back, our tongues dueling, the zing starting to spread throughout my whole body.
A throat cleared to my right, and as tempted as I was to ignore it, Bobby pulled back. I turned with a glare.
“Can I get the lady anything?” the server asked pointedly.
“The lady is just fine, thank you,” I answered, knowing full well the interruption had been more about, well, interrupting than serv
ice. The man went off in a huff.
“I think that was the polite form of ‘get a room,’” Bobby said.
“Sounds good to me.”
His smile matched mine. “First things first. You wanted to talk?”
My smile faded. “Oh, yeah.” I paused for a second, wondering how to put all my doubts into words. “This mission … something’s not right.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, for one, this case—I know the Feds want to get you and me in with the vamps as double agents, but they could do that anywhere, any time. Why fly us all the way out to Florida? Why this elaborate scheme? I mean, the murders are really awful and all, but they don’t cross state lines or involve terrorism or anything. They might be the start of a series, but we don’t even know that yet. And why commit two whole agents, Marcy and Brent, to investigating the humans? Plus, you on background checks. That’s three quarters of our team. There’s got to be more here than they’re telling us.”
“Maybe the case was just in a convenient time and place. The Feds could kill two birds with one stone—take out vamps and killers alike.”
“That’s what I thought—until tonight. The vamps are interested in Dion, too. And not just to terminate him for smearing the good name they don’t have since they’re still hush-hush and all. They want him alive.”
Bobby thought about that for a minute. “Maybe they want their own kind of private justice.”
“You think so?”
“No. I don’t think they’d waste that kind of time on a mere human, especially one who others are looking to take care of anyway. But it’s a possibility.”
“Okay, fine, it’s a possibility. I’m still going to look into the alternatives.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know yet. It just feels all wrong. You know, women’s intuition or whatever. We have to investigate.”
Bobby didn’t look convinced.
I huffed. “What do you think is more likely—that the spy guys are telling us everything, or that we’re on a need-to-know basis?”
“That last part,” he admitted.
“Right, well, I need to know the whole story, don’t you? What if there’s something important they’re hiding?”
“Like what?”
“If I knew that, it wouldn’t be hidden, right?”
“R-i-ight.”
“Okay, so we investigate.”
“We spy on the spies?” Bobby asked dubiously.
“Well … yeah. I mean, it’s what they want me to do anyway. I’m supposed to pretend to the fangs that I’m a double agent. Might as well play it up.”
“What if we get caught?”
I pulled away from him and studied those seriously blue eyes. “Are you telling me you’re afraid of Sid ?”
His eyes crinkled up at the corners in a way I loved and that his vamp mojo would never let develop into wrinkles. Win-win.
“No,” he answered.
“Good, because brainy boys with balls—totally sexy.”
“Really?”
The waiter came back again to slam the check down on the table in front of us before Bobby and I could go in for another kiss. He cleared his throat meaningfully when neither of us moved quickly enough to pay up and get out.
“You ought to get that looked at,” Bobby said as he threw down a bill on top of the check. “Sounds like you’re coming down with something.”
The server sneered and walked off. I hadn’t paid any attention to the bill Bobby’d thrown down. I wasn’t sure he had either. But I hoped it didn’t include a big tip, since the waiter never even asked if he wanted change.
“So, where do we start?” Bobby asked me.
Spying on the Feds had seemed like a good idea when it was still theoretical, but my stomach was now starting to jitterbug like the time I downed a whole twenty-ounce bottle of Jolt while studying for finals.
We rose from our seats, and I leaned over to breathe in Bobby’s ear, “Well, it’s a little late to start tonight. Maybe we can go back to the privacy of my place and discuss this further.”
Bobby smoothed my hair back from my ear, causing a delicious shiver all the way through me. “What kind of discussion did you have in mind?” he breathed back.
“The non-verbal kind,” I said.
The gleam in his eyes said he liked that thought—a lot.
He held me as we walked out to our cars, as if we were some normal couple out on a date. It was nice. Really nice.
“I’ll follow you,” he said as we got to my car, giving me a squeeze before letting me go.
I watched him as he walked to his own vehicle, because he looked just as good going as coming. It’s a tragic fact that some guys are born totally without butt. Bobby was not one of them. His butt very nicely filled out his slacks, which looked tailored to him. Totally grabbable.
I sighed. Bobby looked back over his shoulder and caught me staring. I stuck out my tongue at him and he licked his lips. Fire sped through my body. “Hurry,” I said. I almost didn’t even want to kick him for the smug smile he sent back, as if he could read my mind. Hell, he probably could.
I turned to my car before I could be any more stupidly
vulnerable, clicked it open, and checked inside like I’d been taught to be sure no one was waiting in ambush. Then I slid into the driver’s seat. I made sure Bobby was behind me before peeling out of the parking lot. Way conscious of my dignity, I womanfully resisted breaking all land-speed records to get home.
I was leaning, pin-up girl style, against my bumper when Bobby pulled into the parking lot of my apartment building.
“What took you so long?” I asked in my sultriest voice.
“Actually stopping for that red light back there,”
he answered.
Okay, so I’d had only moderate success on the whole land-speed thing.
“Sorry, it was yellow when I went through.”
“Maybe for the first millimeter of your bumper—”
I bucked myself away from my car and stepped up to him, sliding my hands over his chest. “Is this really what you want to use that mouth for?”
His eyes glazed over, I swear it. He took a deep breath and said, nearly on a sigh, “No.”
“Good.” I took his hand and led him to my place—second floor rear in an apartment block with four units. The few times I’d been here—to sign the lease and to move in “Gail Kuttner’s” few belongings—the cocker spaniel next door had gone nuts, barking up a storm as I approached like some kind of mutt motion detector. Tonight his owner must have had him out on a walk, because all was mercifully silent as we reached my apartment.
Bobby slid his arms around me from behind and nipped my neck as I unlocked the door. We didn’t really need lights, so I didn’t turn them on as we entered, though I did twirl out of Bobby’s hold long enough to shut and lock the door behind us.
Bobby backed me up against it and continued his attention to my neck, licking and nipping, though not drawing blood, not sinking his fangs in, as I wanted him to so badly. My own fangs slid down, fully extended, and I didn’t know how Bobby resisted. I wanted to taste him. His shirt was a button-up, probably so he’d look all official hanging out with the other Feds. I made short work of the buttons and peeled the tailored shirt off his body. Bobby let go of me long enough for me to slip it off his arms. A bare-chested Bobby was a beautiful thing, and I pushed him back to have a look at him. He was more swimmer-lean than body-builder bulky, but the kind of swimmer who did a lot of, I don’t know, breast stroke or something, because his pecs were very well developed, and his stomach was washboard.
“Couch,” I ordered.
Bobby grinned, saluted, and turned—at which point, the grin died a horrible and too-sudden death. I followed his gaze, and all that lovely heat fled my body in a rush.
SORRY WE MISSED YOU.
It was painted on the wall directly over the couch. Big, bold, red letters.
“Is that … blood?” I
asked faintly.
Then I realized how stupid that was. If I hadn’t been so overwhelmed with Bobby when we came in, I would have noticed it right away, as I did now—the smell of fresh paint.
“Nevermind,” I murmured.
Bobby’s eyes blazed as he turned back to me. “I’ll check the rest of the apartment. You call it in.”
I nodded, too stunned to protest Bobby putting himself in charge. And besides, the macho-protective thing was maybe just a little bit sexy—not that I’d ever admit it or anything. I dialed Maya, listed as “Mom” in my directory. She answered on the second ring.
“The killer kids,” I said without even a greeting. “I think they came for me. Bobby’s checking the apartment over now.”
“Clear,” he called from the bedroom.
“He says it’s clear, but they left a message on the wall.” I paused as she asked a question. “No, this one’s in paint. I guess with no victim they didn’t have a handy source of blood other than their own. CSI shows have probably convinced them that’s not the way to go … Right, thanks.”
I hit the End button and started to collapse onto the couch, but Bobby yelled “Stop!” from the bedroom doorway. When I froze halfway down, in an awkward hovering position, he added, “Check it first. Just in case it’s booby-trapped.”
“Wow, paranoid much?” I asked. Only the paranoia was as contagious as a yawn. Now that he’d put it into my head, I had to check.
Nervously, I patted down the cushions to be sure none were primed with spring-loaded stakes or other craziness. Pain burst over my hands like a flashfire.
I shrieked and drew back my smoking hands, the flesh charred where I’d brushed the couch. I blew on my fingers and palms, as if it would help, but even the gentle breeze blazed like hellfire.
Bobby grabbed me by the shoulders and raced me to the kitchen sink. He turned on the cold water and held my hands under the stream. Far too slowly, the pain downgraded from kill-me-now to sitting-through-Van Helsing. My fingers throbbed with an almost unbearable pain, and I was afraid to look at the damage.
“How bad?” I asked Bobby, my eyes squinched shut.
“You’ll heal,” he said softly, but I could tell it was bad. “They must have sprinkled holy water over the couch.”
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