When Blood Calls

by J. K. Beck

  "How?"

  "Whassat?"

  "How would they get here in seconds? All that stuff you were doing to my apartment, wasn't that to make it so that folks couldn't get in like that?" she asked, adding a snap at the end of the question for emphasis.

  "I like you, kid. I really like you. Good question. Shows you were listening. Remember how I said no one can port or mist into your apartment when you've got the system active? Well, you punch that button and all bets are off. Total deactivation, and at the same time, the cavalry comes running."

  "Wow," she said. "That's impressive."

  "We aim to please."

  He crossed the room to close her balcony door, then returned to the front hallway.

  "You arm the system the second I'm gone," he said.

  "Promise."

  He gave her one last grin, then pulled the door shut behind him. She keyed in her code, saw the light on the panel switch to green, and smiled. Her own little fortress. Who would have thought?

  And now, finally, she could go to bed.

  She kept the control box with her, intending to keep it on her bedside table. She felt a tiny bit foolish doing it, but Roland had told her to. And the truth was that she couldn't deny the fact that she was antsy. Stemmons's escape, the truth about her father's murder. It all came together to make her edgy and out of sorts. She hooked the box onto the waistband of her yoga pants, then reached inside her T-shirt to unfasten her bra. She did a Houdini move and pulled it out through her sleeve, then hung it on her bedroom doorknob. Without bothering to turn on her bedroom light, she headed toward her dresser, tugging off her earrings as she moved. She'd put the tulips from Luke in a vase, and now she set the earrings in a crystal dish next to the flowers, forcing herself not to reach out and stroke the soft petals. She remembered the romantic thrill she'd felt when she'd discovered the flowers on her doorstep, the care she'd taken in arranging them just so. She'd fallen asleep that night gazing at them, feeling warm and cherished.

  Even now, her body tingled when she looked at the vase, her skin recalling the feel of his hands, her mouth recalling the taste of his skin. She told herself she didn't want those feelings, those memories. 95

  And that meant she didn't want the damn flowers.

  Determined, she grabbed the bundle with both hands and yanked the stems straight up out of the vase. She dripped water over her dresser and floor before dumping the lot of them in the wastebasket beside her bed.

  She looked down at the flowers, still vibrant, and told herself she'd done the absolute right thing.

  With exhaustion dogging her every step, she unclipped the panic box, then wriggled out of her pants. She let them fall into a careless heap on the floor before she stepped over them and put the box on her bedside table. She needed sleep desperately, and neatness was the last thing on her mind.

  Clad in T-shirt and panties, she slipped under the covers, sank deep into the overstuffed down pillow, and finally-- finally-- drifted off to sleep. The night surrounded her, caressed her, and, yes, taunted her. The dream was coming. It came when she slept, and Sara knew that it would come now. Except she wasn't asleep, so how could she dream? She was awake. Very awake, and aware of everything around her. The crunch of the gravel walking path beneath her shoes. The warm pressure of her daddy's hand engulfing hers. The moon that shone high in the sky.

  And the faint but terrifying way that the trees seemed to be laughing as the two of them walked.

  "Daddy?"

  "It's nothing," he said. "Just the wind." It wasn't the wind, though. It was Death. And Death swooped down on her father, fangs bared, face twisted with malice.

  "Nothing you can do little girl. Nothing at all."

  She wanted to fight, to pound, to kill, but all she could do was stand there, feet planted, body cold. Death rippled and changed. First Crouch. Then Stemmons. Then something faceless and formless. Something that latched onto her father's neck, releasing a fountain of blood. Warm and sticky, the liquid poured over her, and eight-year-old Sara did the only thing she could do--She screamed and screamed and screamed and-"Sara!" Gentle hands. Holding her close. Murmuring her name.

  "Wake up, Sara. It's a nightmare. A dream. You're safe. I've got you." Luke?

  She knew that voice. Knew that touch, and without thinking, she clung to him, pressing her face into his solid chest, losing herself in the strength he offered. Luke was there.

  She was safe.

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  Chapter 16

  "Sara, hush. Hush, it's safe. You're safe." Her hands fisted in the thin cotton of his shirt, her body heaving as she sucked in air, growing calmer as he whispered soft words, even as he wanted to lash out in impotent fury at whatever horrible thing inhabited her dreams.

  Remnants of sleep clung to her as he stroked her back, her hair, every touch sweet torture. The scent of fear that had engulfed her was fading, replaced now with comfort and faint tendrils of desire, and he knew it would be easy--so easy--to take exactly what he'd come for. Sara.

  His body thrummed with the knowledge that he could have her, the allure all the more powerful because he knew that she still wanted him. Wanted his touch, his caress. Wanted to forget the nightmare from which she'd awakened and lose herself instead in pure sensual pleasure.

  So easy.

  He couldn't have planned it any better if he'd tried. Yet he hesitated, wanting to savor this moment, this one snapshot in time where she was once again with him, without guile or pretense, but because in his arms was where she wanted to be. Her hands relaxed, her palms splaying out across his chest, her fingertips brushing bare skin where he'd ripped the shirt down the middle. The shock of her touch sent ripples of pleasure through him, and he tensed, fighting the urge to thrust her back onto the mattress and claim her mouth with his, not because that was what he had planned to do, but because right then he would go utterly mad if he couldn't touch her. Couldn't taste her. Couldn't lose himself inside her and pretend that nothing else existed and it was simply Luke and Sara, and screw all the rest of it.

  "Luke ..." Her voice, soft and dreamy, teased his senses. She nuzzled close, sighing, and something he identified as happiness bubbled up inside him, only to burst as she pulled back, the sweet fragrance of desire drowned out by the bitter stench of fear. Her fingers, once soft, hardened as they shoved him away, and she scrambled backward until she was crouched on her pillow, the panic box from her bedside table now tight in her hand. The hem of her T-shirt barely covered her panties, and he could see her bare thighs, muscles tense and ready to leap.

  She was breathing hard, her chest rising and falling in an effort to control her fear, and he held up a steadying hand, hoping to calm her down.

  "Sara."

  "No," she whispered, and right then he knew that he would have preferred that she scream at him. A scream was anger and rage. But this soft whisper held disappointment. And fear.

  This time, the fear was directed at him, and the knowledge that he was the thing that now made her cower was almost enough to make him forget his mission and leave. Except Luke never walked away from a mission.

  More than that, though, he couldn't bear the thought that she was afraid of him. 97

  Whatever else there was between them, he didn't want it to be that.

  "Why are you here?"

  He needed to move closer, to try to calm her. Needed to do all those things he'd planned before he'd stepped into her apartment.

  He stood up, determined to do exactly that, yet somehow unable to find the will to take the first step. In front of him, he caught a glimpse of red and looked down to see a dozen tulips dumped carelessly into her wastebasket.

  In his long life, he'd suffered many an injury, and yet none cut so deep as the knife that Sara had just thrust into his heart. He bent to pull out a flower, then caressed the soft petal with his thumb.

  When he looked up, she was eyeing him warily. "You don't have to fear me."

  "I think I do." Her finger shifted, covering the panic
button. Luke stiffened, waiting, knowing he should leave, should run. But he stayed, subjugated to her will, his life in her hands.

  Slowly, she moved her finger away.

  Slowly, he began to breathe.

  "What are you doing here?" she asked again. "You're in jail. I watched them cart you down to the detention block. I watched you," she added, "in that cracker box they call a cell."

  "You watched me?" The realization pleased him to an absurd degree.

  "You're my damn defendant," she said curtly, not meeting his gaze. "Of course I watched you. And now I want to know why you're here and not there."

  "I'm here to talk to you."

  "To talk to me?" Her voice rose with incredulity. "About what? The weather? No, wait. Maybe we can talk about local bars. Bars where badass vampires go to pick up prosecutors. Seems to me that would make one hell of a conversation opener." She snapped off her words, as if embarrassed that she'd shown her hand.

  "No," he said, determined that she know the truth. "There was no ulterior motive between us. I saw you in the bar. You pleased me, and I wanted you. Hungered for you even as I do now. I took only what you were willing to give." Guilt washed over him, because though his intentions that night had been innocent, now they were anything but.

  "Don't," she said, shaking her head, her eyes sad. "Don't come here with sweet words and try to twist me up in knots. It won't work."

  "Do you want me to go?" The words were out before he had considered them, and he stood frozen, waiting for and fearing her answer.

  "How did you even get here?" she asked, and he relaxed ever so slightly and took a single step toward her even as he reached up and opened his shirt, revealing the detention device.

  "Advocate-escorted furlough," he said. "And this band ensures that I do not run. I did not break out of jail, Sara, but I did abandon my escort." She licked her lips, a simple motion he found unbelievably sensual. "Why?" He took another step toward her. "To see you."

  She shook her head. "You shouldn't be here."

  "And yet who would have comforted you had I not come?" Another step, and he was able to sit on the edge of the bed, the tulip still in his hand. "What were you 98

  dreaming?"

  She met his eyes, hers defiant, yet still wary. "Of monsters."

  "What kind of monsters fill your dreams, Sara?" He would slay them if he could. Kill the monsters and free her from the horrors of the night. She watched him, her hands tight on the blanket, her mind calculating. He tilted his head, his nostrils flaring, and was relieved to find that the scent of fear was fading.

  "Sara?"

  "He escaped," she said. "The serial killer I told you about--the one who murdered all those little girls. He escaped. More than that, he had help. The kind of help that walks at night and sucks blood--maybe you're familiar with the breed? And now he's gone and by now he probably has the next girl picked out. And it's pissing me off," she said, voice rising and tears welling. "Really pissing me off that I did everything right. Everything. And still he's free. He's evil, and he's out there, and he's going to kill again." Luke tensed, his body going cold. "Are you in danger?" It was a foolish question. No matter how she answered, he would consider her in need of protection until Stemmons was caught.

  "I'm okay," she said, her hand reaching out to cup his before she quickly jerked it back. Even so, the brief touch eased him. Her actions did not match her words, and for that reason he was still in the room. Still basking in the pleasure of simply being near her.

  "I almost wish I were in danger," she added, the sentiment making him grow cold.

  "I can defend myself against the things that creep in the night. The victims, the girls, they don't know what he is."

  "I would destroy him," Luke said, the thought of a man who preyed as Stemmons did on young girls sickening him. "If I could find him for you, I would gladly destroy the beast."

  "You'd kill him," she said, her voice flat.

  "I would," he admitted. "With no hesitation, and no regrets. Does that offend you?"

  Once again, she licked her lips, her gaze drifting from him to the table beside her bed. "It offends the law," she said simply.

  "Your system isn't a panacea, Sara. Sometimes the law is insufficient to render justice."

  She tilted her head, looking at him with grave intensity. "Is that why you killed Braddock?"

  "What? Have I so quickly been tried and convicted?"

  "Luke." Her voice was hard.

  He shook his head. "I would not deny you the pleasure of doing your job."

  "Dammit, Luke--"

  "But let me ask you this," he said. "Did the system find justice for your father?

  For the wife and daughter he left behind?"

  She paused, her expression darkening, and he feared she wouldn't answer. "No," she finally admitted. "But the system isn't perfect."

  "Then why live within its strictures?"

  "Because there are lines, Luke. And someone has to draw those lines. The courts do that. Not me. Not you."

  On the contrary, he had drawn that line on many occasions, and still believed 99

  himself justified in doing so. That wasn't a debate for tonight, however. Still ...

  "Your father's killer," he began, "was found dead not long after he was released?"

  "Left for dead in a park," she said.

  "And does that offend you?"

  "No," she said, without hesitation. "He took my father from me. Whoever killed Jacob Crouch is a goddamn hero."

  He suppressed a smile. "Perhaps we are not so far apart after all." She shook her head. "Just because I celebrated doesn't make it right. He was my father," she said with a hitch in her breath. "I'm not supposed to see clearly."

  "Tell me about him," Luke said gently, both because he wanted to soothe her and because he wanted to know her history, wanted to know from where she'd come. She met his eyes, but did not speak. He held his breath, longing to hear her words. To know that she had moved past fear and hurt and had, if only for a moment, found the place where it was only Luke and Sara.

  "He used to tell me stories when I got scared," she said. Her expression remained flat, fixed. And just when he was about to give up hope, a soft smile touched her lips.

  "He'd hold me and spin tales about anything that came to mind." She relaxed as she spoke. "Since he was a history professor, what came to mind was usually an obscure story about a forgotten Roman general. When I was little, the stories lulled me back to sleep. When I was older, I'd pretend to have bad dreams just so I could stay up late and listen to him."

  "I had a daughter once," Luke said. "I would do the same for her. Soothe her with stories until she fell asleep in my arms." Automatically, he reached into his pocket, his fingers seeking the gold-coiled serpent ring he'd given Livia on her fifth birthday. Even through his daemonic haze, he'd thought to keep it, a reminder of the family he'd once had and a talisman from which he could draw strength to soothe the daemon. He had not been without it since that fateful day, but it was gone now, wrenched from him and put into an envelope with his other personal effects.

  The softness in Sara's eyes worked like a balm against the sadness that had welled in his heart. "I bet she was very pretty."

  "That she was," he said. "And with the sweetest disposition." She started to ease toward him, then stopped, carefully planting herself on the far side of the bed from him. "Luke--"

  He lifted the tulip, wanting to silence her, not wanting to hear that he needed to leave, especially since all he wanted to do was stay. "I'm sorry you didn't like the flowers."

  Her cheeks bloomed pink. "I liked them."

  He glanced at the wastebasket.

  She lifted an eyebrow, amused. "That? That's because I didn't much like you. "

  "And now?"

  She swallowed, hesitated. "Don't press your luck," she said, but there was no way she could hide the scent of her arousal or the way her nipples peaked beneath the thin Tshirt. He inched closer to her, a single pill
ow the only barrier between them. He took it and tossed it onto the floor.

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  "You can't be here," she said, but she didn't retreat.

  "But I am." He reached out, wanting to touch her. Knowing this was why he'd come, this sweet seduction. This wasn't about plans or plots or exit strategies. It was about Sara. The woman kneeling before him. The woman leaning in, ever so slightly, but enough to fill his heart with hope.

  "You touch me, Sara, in ways that it would be better that you did not. I know I should leave--know even that you should push me away. And yet I cannot stop." He reached out, brushing a hand to her cheek. He'd planned this, yet there was no lie in his movements, no deceit in his desire.

  The tempo of her heartbeat increased beneath his fingers, and he thought of the blood that flowed in her veins. Sweet, delicious, like the woman herself. He thought, and he wanted, and the hunger that he had been fighting for hours surged within, the daemon crying for release.

  He beat both back down, subordinating them to his desire, now a living, breathing thing. "Sara," he said, voicing the only word that came to mind. "Please." Luke eased closer, and now he was right in front of her, mere inches away. So close she could reach out and touch him, if only she wanted to. She told herself she didn't want to.

  Since she didn't seem to be listening to herself, she scooted off the bed, taking the control box with her as she stalked into her living room.

  "Sara." He was right behind her.

  She moved her lips, managed to form words. "I can't."

  "You can," he said. She saw her own lust reflected in the hard planes of his face. Lust, and something else. A hunger that both frightened and excited her. She swallowed, fever gripping her body as he moved closer still. "You need to go."

  His smile was slow and full of promise. "I still have time."

  "I won't risk my job for you." Her mouth was dry and she wanted to put her hand on his chest and push him back a step, if only so that her mind would clear of the buzz he was generating. Her body might not care what he was, but she did. He was the defendant. He was a murderer; she was certain of it. And she was the one who would seal his prison cell tight.