When Blood Calls

by J. K. Beck

  "Leave," she said, forcing her chin up. "Leave now."

  "No."

  "No?"

  "You don't want me gone."

  "Yes." The word came out weak, so she tried again. "Yes, I do."

  "And yet here I stand, when you need only push one small button to summon the power of the PEC to drag me off." His eyes dipped down to the control box in her hand, and then back to her face. "If you wanted me gone, I wouldn't still be standing here."

  "No," she whispered, but there was little conviction in the word. "I'll do it. I'll push the panic button."

  "No, you won't."

  "Why not?"

  "Because you're not panicking." And to prove it, he brushed his palm softly over 101

  her nipple, sending fingers of fire shooting through her. Making her even more wet. Making her crazy.

  She squirmed, her back against the wall, trapped between it and this man. She needed to get away, to get free. Because this wasn't right. He was everything she despised. A killer. A liar. A criminal.

  A vampire.

  And yet he was there, touching her, wanting her. And damn her all to hell, she wanted him, too.

  "Go," she said, because if she didn't say it, she would truly be lost. He only grinned, then brought his mouth in close to hers. "No," he whispered, the single word barely more than a brush of air across his lips. She felt her body tremble, and she stifled the little moan of pleasure that bubbled up when his lips grazed her cheek, her ear, her hair.

  "Sara," he whispered, and pulled her close, his large hands splayed out against her back, his erection pressed hard against her.

  Ready, so ready.

  "Luke," she managed. "No."

  But he merely smiled. "Quiet now. My time is ticking away." Before her sluggish mind could process, he took her mouth in his. And though she knew she shouldn't--knew she would kick herself black and blue later--she lost herself in the kiss, her pulse tripping as his busy hands slipped inside her shirt and over her bare back. Her breath hitched as his lips danced down along her neck even as he murmured soft words that seemed to shoot straight through her, making her warm and wet and ready.

  "Sara," he murmured. "By the gods, Sara." She melted beneath his words, her mind knowing only a desperate, urgent desire. She let the control box tumble to the ground, then thrust her hands into the back pocket of his jeans and urged him closer, until she was trapped tight between the wall and this man who wanted to consume her.

  So help her, she wanted him to.

  His hand grasped the hem of her shirt, tugging it upward, and she lifted her hands in assistance. As soon as the shirt was tossed aside, he grabbed her wrists, holding them above her head as his mouth dipped to her breast. His tongue teased her nipple before pulling away, the sensation of cool air on damp flesh intensely erotic, and she writhed with need, silently begging him to touch her, to finish what he started. He needed very little encouragement. She wore only panties now, and he bent low, dropping to his knees in front of her.

  As she gasped, he pressed his hands to the inside of her thighs, the pads of his thumbs playing with the elastic of her panties, teasing her mercilessly. His mouth soon joined in the torment, his fingertips drawing her panties down so that his tongue could lave.

  She buried her fingers in his hair, clutching him for support as her legs trembled and her knees threatened to no longer hold her. "Luke," she murmured, wanting to feel the press of his body against hers. Wanting to feel his lips, his tongue. Wanting to taste him and tease him. "Luke, please."

  She eased him up, then took his mouth hungrily in hers. She hooked one leg around his waist, locking him in place, wanting him, all of him. 102

  "Please," she whispered, fumbling for his fly. Beneath her hand, his erection strained, and he growled low in his throat, the desire she heard making her even more wet. More ready.

  "Sara," he whispered, his voice raw, and yet still soft. Still tender. And then, suddenly, it wasn't.

  She felt the change in him instantly. A stiffness in his back. His hands holding her rather than caressing her. He'd shut down, and she didn't understand why. Alarmed, she pushed back against the wall, a thousand recriminations running through her head. What was she thinking? Was she insane? Had the craziness of the day fried her brain?

  But all those thoughts vanished when she saw his face.

  When she saw his fangs.

  Her hand flew to her mouth and she fell to the ground as her feet slid out from under her, her hand closing over the control box.

  "Sara," he said, moving away, his hand held out in supplication. "No. I wouldn't. I didn't--"

  It didn't matter. She looked at him, and she saw the beast that had killed her father.

  Her own scream ripped from her throat as she fell back into her memories, her last coherent thought to press her finger down--hard--and trigger the alarm. 103

  Chapter 17

  She shivered, couldn't stop shaking, the cold threatening to consume her. He'd changed, become a monster.

  Right before her very eyes, he'd become the thing she most despised. Then he'd run, ripping open the patio door, leaping from the balcony into the thick, black Los Angeles night.

  A gray mist filled the room, and even as her foggy brain registered that the mist must be the security team, Sara scrambled to her feet and stumbled toward the patio. Hands on the railing, she breathed deep and looked out over the dark, empty night, her eyes searching futilely for Luke. He deserved it. Whatever happened to him, he deserved it.

  He'd been playing her. Manipulating her.

  And if he was dead, well, she told herself that was absolutely fine with her. She told herself that, but she didn't entirely believe it. Not when she remembered the way he'd held her and calmed her. And not when she remembered the shock on his face when he'd bared his fangs. The horror and self-loathing in his eyes. She wanted to trust him. Dear God, how she wanted to believe he'd come for no ill purpose. Her mind was in a jumble, though, and right then she didn't know what to believe.

  "Constantine." The deep voice held a hint of a Slavic accent, and she cringed as someone draped her favorite afghan over her shoulders. She pulled it tight around her, suddenly realizing she was clad only in panties, then turned to face a creature--a man?-that seemed to be formed entirely of pitch-black smoke beneath a filthy gray cloak. She looked into the creature's face, into the dark pits that served as eyes, and knew that nothing Luke ever did could spook her as much as this being, whatever it was.

  "The dwelling is clean," it said, in a voice that chilled her to the bone. Behind it, three similar creatures, all clad in the same monklike robes, glided through her apartment.

  "For what purpose did you summon the Shade?"

  If she'd known what she was summoning, she certainly wouldn't have. As it was, though, all she could do was shake her head. The Shade studied her, the inspection leaving her so cold she was certain she would never feel warm again. Then it passed by her, gliding to the balcony railing. Its hand, she noticed, sat not on the stone railing, but instead settled inside it. A specter. A ghost. Formless. And, she was certain, desperately dangerous.

  Once again it turned, and she trembled as small creatures--specters themselves-skittered through the depths of smoke inside the Shade's robes. Maggots, rats. The scavengers of death.

  "It fled," the Shade said. "That which scared you. It slipped back into the night."

  "I--" She licked her lips, then swallowed. Wanting to answer, but not knowing what to say.

  The truth? That was certainly her usual MO. But then why weren't the words 104

  tumbling out?

  He'd attacked her, after all. Almost bitten her. Almost ripped her neck out the same way that bastard Crouch had attacked her father, draining the life from him and leaving him in a heap in the mud while an eight-year-old girl whimpered. So why wasn't she pointing in the direction he'd jumped and screaming for these creatures to find him and drag him back to hell where he belonged?

  Because whe
n he broke away, Luke had been in hell already. She'd seen it in his eyes. Crouch had killed, but Luke had pulled away rather than harm her. More than that, she'd seen the expression on his face. Horror. Absolute horror.

  "Sara Constantine." The Shade's deep voice thrummed within her, like a heavy bass beat. "I ask again. For what purpose did you summon us?" She didn't answer. Couldn't answer. Couldn't condemn Luke with the truth. And yet despite the pain in her heart, she knew that she couldn't completely trust him, either. Something was prodding him.

  Luke blinked, then sputtered, surprised to find himself floating in inky black waters. Surprised even more to find himself looking into two concerned brown eyes.

  "Oh, wow. Holy crap. Hold on. Hold on." The woman couldn't be more than twenty-three, her wild mass of blond curls pushed back with a headband, the panic coming off her in waves. She wore bright blue workout clothes and held a pool skimmer on a long handle. The pool. He remembered the elevator panel: Fitness Center/Pool Deck. Fourth Floor.

  He'd jumped. Thirty-two stories down to the pool deck.

  No wonder his head was throbbing.

  "Can you grab it? Come on. Grab it, okay?"

  He did, his fingers screaming with pain as they closed around the cool metal of the pole. She tugged, and he tried to move his limbs, tried to help, but there was no help to be had. His limbs were utterly unwilling to function.

  His mind, however, was firing back to life, the lingering scent of Sara's hair dancing on the edge of his memory, along with the fear he'd seen in her eyes. A terror that had done more damage to him than any stake ever could.

  "Did you jump? Did you fall? God, how high were you? Damn you landed hard! I heard it from all the way in the gym, and then there you were." Her arms were under his, tugging him toward the steps. "God, oh God. You're a mess. I gotta get my phone. Gotta call someone. You need a hospital. Your leg, you know, it really shouldn't look like that." She shifted to leave, but he managed a small sound, and she stopped. "Huh?"

  "Stay." Blood. He needed to heal, and the hunger was on him like a living thing.

  "I'm not gonna leave you. Honest. But I gotta call someone. You need help, and there's no one else here. Never is in the middle of the night."

  "Time," he said, his voice little more than a whispered croak.

  "Huh? Oh." She twisted around to look at a distant clock, revealing a long, taut neck, and he trembled, knowing what he had to do and hating himself for it. She turned back and told him the time, her own words sealing her fate. Because time was running out.

  105

  He had no other choice. No other options.

  He could feed. Or, he could die.

  "Look," he whispered.

  She leaned closer, her brow furrowed. "What?"

  "Look," he repeated, then turned his head to meet her eyes. He was tired, weak. But his will was strong. And this girl had no barriers, no natural defenses. He slid inside-the hunger firing even more as he did--and made her mind his own.

  "Closer," he said. She whispered the word in response, then leaned toward him, turning her head to expose her neck.

  His body tensed, anticipating. His fangs extended as the hunger craned up inside him, sniffing. Marking territory. Moving in for the kill.

  Come to me.

  There was no longer a need to speak. Their minds were one, and she slid into the water, curved herself against him. He could smell her skin, could see her blood pumping in her vein, and though he told himself he did not want this--that he'd forsworn what he was about to take--his senses were primed. Ready. Keening with need. He shut off his mind. Shut off the recriminations.

  Instinct took over. The pure, clean instincts of a predator. The desperate, dark instincts of the beast.

  Her skin was firm and tasted vaguely of salt and chlorine. Then his fangs pierced the dermis and the arterial wall, and the blood began to flow, warm and sweet and full of life.

  He wanted this, this sharing. This connection. Praise the gods, he wanted this desperately--but not with this woman. Sara. He wanted her in his arms, intimately enfolded in them. Their bodies pressed together, his mouth on her neck. He groaned, drinking deep, his cock hardening with need, responding to the woman in Luke's head and not the woman pressed close against him. He'd been so long, so very long, without the intimacy of a true feeding, and as he drank--as he healed--he let his mind linger where it should not. On fantasy and fiction. On Sara, warm and alive beneath him, her blood calling to him, her breath on his skin, her lips whispering his name.

  She healed him. Her blood, making him whole. Bones knitting, bruises fading, strength returning.

  Sara.

  His mind called to her. Sought her- Annie.

  -- and then slammed back when he found not the woman he craved but the woman he'd taken into his arms.

  Annie.

  The thought was weak. Fading. Her strength dissipating even as his own grew. My name is Annie.

  With a jolt, he broke the mental connection, then gasped as he drew away and saw the damage to her neck. To her.

  Her body was fading along with her mind, and he blocked the images. Of Annie. Of Livia. Of Sara.

  He had to act quickly, had to stay in control.

  106

  She looked up at him, eyes wide in her pale, gaunt face. He needed to leave. It was nearly time. He had to get back, for Tasha, for the kyne. He had to leave. And yet, could not.

  "Annie," he said, shaking her shoulders. "Look at me. Look at me. "

  "Sara?" she whispered, the word like air through dry lips that barely moved.

  "Who is Sara?"

  "Only you," he said, meeting her eyes. "Right now, it's only you." He brought his own wrist up to his mouth, then bit down, opening a vein. He pressed the wound to her mouth. "Drink," he said, then held her head as she suckled him, stroked her hair as one might a child nursing from its mother. "That's the way. Not too much, you must be careful."

  Too much blood, and she would not simply heal, but would fall in tune with him, giving him access to her fears, her hopes, her desires. Even more, and the curse vampyre would embrace her. He would have neither for her, so he watched her carefully, and the moment a hint of strength returned--the moment he was certain she would last at least as long as it took for help to arrive--he pulled his wrist away.

  "More," she said.

  He didn't answer. Instead, he rose up out of the water, the girl in his arms, and carried her to a deck chair. He took a towel from a nearby trunk and spread it over her, gratified by the steady, strong beat of her heart. He brushed his fingertips over her cheek.

  "Sleep now. Sleep, and heal."

  She drifted off, and he stood, saw the time, and swore.

  Think, dammit, think.

  He tilted his head, looking up toward Sara's balcony.

  Perhaps, he thought, there was hope after all.

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  Chapter 18

  Nick woke in the dark with a raging headache and a boiling anger. It had been one hell of a long time since he'd been clocked--longer still since he'd been taken by surprise--and he wasn't sure who he was angrier with, himself or Luke. His head pounded and he amended that thought. Luke. He was most definitely angrier with Luke.

  He shifted, trying to get his bearings, his vampiric eyes adjusting to the pitch black of the tight receptacle into which he'd been dumped.

  "Damn the bastard," he murmured as he kicked up, the bones of some human cracking beneath him as he used the strength in his legs to push the top off the sarcophagus. It fell to the floor, the reverberating crash of stone against stone cathartic. His friend had put him in one hell of a sticky situation. "Goddamn arrogant fool."

  "I'm guessing you're referring to Dragos, and not whoever you're sharing that sarcophagus with." Ryan Doyle's gritty voice greeted Nick as he grabbed the sides of the coffin and pulled himself up. He tightened his grip, forcing himself not to leap out and close his hands around Doyle's neck.

  "Get the fuck out of here," he said, with
admirable calm. "You've got no right to intrude on an advocate-escorted furlough."

  "Got a point," Doyle said, then made a show of looking around. "'Cept I don't see you escorting anyone. You see anybody else in here, Sev?"

  "Not unless dem bones gonna rise again." Agent Tucker took a step toward Nick, then flashed a smug smile as he peered down into the coffin. He looked back at Doyle.

  "Nah. They don't look the type."

  "Nice job, Counselor," Doyle said. "Lost your client, and now the sorry SOB's going down." He punctuated the remark with a shit-eating smile that had Nick leaping from the coffin to land a rock-solid punch on Doyle's smug, sorry-ass face.

  "Motherfucker!" Doyle said, flying right back on Nick, eyes red, veins bulging, skin shifting to a slightly greenish hue.

  And every ounce of that famous temper pumping right beneath the surface.

  "Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Strong arms grabbed Nick's from behind, tugging him away from Doyle, who looked about to explode. "Let's settle down, boys."

  "Let. Me. Go." Nick could break away, no question about that. Tucker was strong, but he was only human.

  "Don't even think about it," Doyle growled, those red eyes tight on Nick's face.

  "Maybe you can take my boy, and maybe you can't, but I know you can't take me. Think you learned that lesson years ago."

  Nick shook his arms free from Tucker's grip, stood tall, his hands fisted at his sides. "Things can change over the centuries, Doyle."

  "Things, maybe. Not people. Not vampires." He flipped open his phone, pressed a speed-dial number. "And certainly not Dragos. Learned that centuries ago, too." The phone was set on speaker, and Nick heard the electronic buzz as it rang at the other end, 108

  then the computerized voice requesting identification.

  "This is Agent Ryan Doyle, badge number 1026C, reporting violation of furlough by suspect Lucius Dragos. Requesting activation of mobile detention measures and immediate termination of subject Dragos."

  "Goddammit, no!" Nick yelled, leaping forward again.

  "Acknowledged and analyzing. Please hold for verification of subject termination."

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  Chapter 19