by Donya Lynne
Still, it didn't make the after-effects of every shift any easier.
Her keys jingled in her hands as she approached her car then suddenly she heard an outburst of laughter coming from inside the parking garage across the street. But this wasn't normal laughter. This was the raucous laughter of men doing bad things to someone.
Looking around to see if anyone else was near, she found herself alone. Of course, it was nearly four o'clock in the morning. Who would be out at this hour besides an exotic dancer and a group of thugs engaged in what sounded like one hell of a beat-down?
A voice in her head told her to just get in her car and leave – to forget what she heard and go. But the ex-military veteran who had been beaten by her husband for eight years cold-cocked that voice into silence and then gave her a shove as if to ask what in the hell she was waiting for. Before she knew what she was doing, she had grabbed her Beretta out of her bag, along with the extra clip, and rushed across the street.
Flat-backing herself against the wall with her gun held close, she peeked around the wall to see what was going on. Damn! Five men – well, she thought they were men, but they looked a bit…off – beating a sixth man. The sixth wasn't resisting, even though something about him made Sam think he could easily take all of them, despite his inferior size. Not that he was small. He just looked…well, he was too thin, like he was sick or hadn't eaten in a while. The five beating him had long, black hair and their skin had an odd bluish color. Something seemed strange about them, but maybe it was just the lighting.
"Hey!" She jumped into the open and pointed her gun at them. "Get away from him."
Five sets of eyes turned on her as the sixth man fell to his knees under one of the garage's overhead lights.
Not backing down an inch, Sam stepped closer, poised to open her own can of whoop-ass if they didn't walk away.
As one of the men started to approach her with a nightstick gripped in his fist, his eyes flashed red. What the fuck? Fear rattled her spine and she shot off a round.
"NO!" The sixth man held up one hand, trying to stop her as he crumpled in on himself.
Stop her? What the hell was going on here? Was this some kind of gang initiation?
"Like hell I will!" She stepped forward and fired again, hitting the one coming toward her in the shoulder.
He flew backward from the impact and threw his head back as an ear-splitting shriek broke the air. Was that him? Sam clamped her free hand over her ear and winced, shying away briefly before glancing back at the sixth man who now lay motionless on the pavement. She had to help him. Resisting the ear-splitting screech, Sam forced herself to stand her ground, her gun trained on the asshole doing a banshee impersonation.
Suddenly, the devil-man's scream stopped and his mouth snapped shut. He fixed Sam with an icy glare that looked abnormally blue, just like the rest of him, then the five attackers turned as one and fled, disappearing so fast Sam actually entertained the thought that she had only imagined them. Until she looked back and found the dark-haired man still lying face-up, deathly still. Shoving the Beretta into the waist of her jeans, she rushed toward him.
* * *
Micah lay on the ground, looking up at the light shining down like a mockery of the light he had hoped to see as he entered the afterlife and took his final walk into Heaven, or whatever awaited a vampire when he died.
Noooo…nooooo! He was still alive. Someone had saved him. Why? Why had someone interfered? All he wanted was to die. Just die and be done with his horrible, wretched life.
The scent of lilacs, subtle and feminine, wafted over him like angelic perfume as the woman who had saved him against his will knelt beside him.
"Hey…hey, can you hear me? Can you move? What's your name? Can you tell me your name?"
Her intoxicating voice soothed him instantly, but Micah couldn't see her as he blinked against the bright light.
"Who are you?" He groaned, his entire body protesting his attempt to talk.
"I'm going to save you."
As she bent over him, the overhead light formed a halo around her head as it shone through her spiky blond hair and shadowed her face. The smell of lilacs grew even stronger, pleasing Micah's senses.
Whoever she was, she looked, smelled, and sounded like an angel.
CHAPTER FIVE
John Apostle glared down at the blue, seeping hole in his shoulder. His four companions hovered nearby, looking on.
"That bitch fucking shot me," he said, poking a finger through his sweatshirt. The bluish hue of his skin looked pale against the darker blue blood that flowed from the wound.
Exchanging glances, the others remained silent for a moment until one asked, "Do you think the vampire set us up?"
Apostle eye-rolled at the guy, his icy-blues filled with a lot of don't-be-stupid.
"I was just asking." The other dreck backed away.
Apostle tossed his long, blue-black hair over his shoulder so he could probe the bullet-hole with his finger. He grimaced then said, "No, Tormin, that fuck-face wanted to die. If it had been a trap, he would have had more than some human bitch with a pansy-assed nine-mil waiting for us."
With a pained grunt, he pulled the slug out of his shoulder and threw it aside. When was the last time he had been shot? It had been a while, he knew that. And here he had let some weak, human female shoot him. Damn her. And he had been in such a good mood up until then. That bitch had robbed him of the joy of killing a vampire. Well, she would pay for that little misstep once he got better. "I need to heal, goddamn it, but I want that bitch. You guys find her, but do not fucking touch her. I want to do her good personally. Any of you fuck with me on this, and your ass'll make like a boot cover after I shove my foot up it. Got me? Find her. Tell me. Don't. Fucking. Touch her."
The other four drecks nodded cautiously. No one questioned the boss.
"Okay, everyone change back and get outta here," Apostle said.
The five took deep breaths, closing their eyes as the blue tint faded to Caucasian and their long hair receded to the high-and-tight man-cuts required in the police force where they all worked. Their faces filled out, too, no longer taut and hollow. When they opened their eyes, the ice-blue irises had changed to the human color of their choice. Apostle, aka Officer John, had opted for brown eyes in his human visage.
"See you tomorrow," Apostle said, giving each of his men a hard look to ensure they understood his previous order.
As they dispersed, John held his shoulder close to his body, already channeling healing powers to the injury. Blue blood had turned to red, but it was all just an optical illusion.
John Apostle was no more human than a zebra could change its stripes.
* * *
Sam had struggled with the man who was in and out of consciousness, but had finally gotten him to her car, half-dragging him since he could barely stand or move his feet. She couldn't take him to the hospital. They would want her name. And she couldn't give her name to anyone, least of all someone who would put it into an electronic health record for a John Doe. It would just be a matter of time before Steve saw it in the system and tracked her down.
That had left only one other option: Her apartment. Her tiny, closed-in, can't escape, studio apartment. By the time she reached home, Mr. Dark and Mysterious had passed out cold and she had to put on her Army hat to heft him over her shoulder and lug him inside. With a grunt of relief, she unloaded him onto her bed then stood back and caught her breath as she looked at him, all wonked out with his gorgeous head of black hair splayed over her pillow.
Why did I have to get involved?
She grabbed her First Aid kit – which was a little more than your basic First Aid kit, what with her Army history and all – and took another look at the man who still lay unconscious.
Mental note: change the sheets and bedspread before sleeping in the bed again.
He had been horribly beaten, and his face was a mess of cuts and bruises. Sam frowned. She could have sworn his face
had looked worse just half an hour ago. There had been a contusion around his left eye that now looked almost healed. And the laceration to his upper lip looked smaller and more cleanly scabbed.
Shaking off the unusual healing injuries as adrenaline-induced delusions, Sam pulled out a pair of shears and cut away his shirt. God, he looked half-starved despite the air of power that surrounded him. The man's ribs showed plainly through his skin, which was covered with contusions from where those men had kicked and beaten him.
"What the hell were you doing back there?" She spoke softly, talking more to herself than him since he was out cold, anyway. "You should be in worse shape than you are, if you ask me."
Gently palpating his chest and abdomen, Sam felt for broken bones or evidence of internal damage, shaking her head.
"And why didn't you want me to help you? What? Was this some kind of gang thing? You look too old to be in a gang." She studied his face. He looked maybe 29 at the oldest. His shoulder-length, black hair appeared silky soft, and he had what looked like a few days of growth along the sharp angle of his jaw and across his chin and upper lip. It was a comely look. Sam had always been a sucker for a man with facial hair, especially when it was as manicured as this guy's was.
His face looked angelic now that his eyes were closed. Earlier, in the parking garage, when his eyes had been open, Sam had seen a lifetime of pain in their depths, a suffering that ran deeper than the beating he had just endured. It was a look she had seen in the eyes of some of the older soldiers she had treated in the Army, and it made her wonder what this guy had been through to hurt so deeply.
Biting her lip, she resisted the urge to run her fingers through his hair to see if it was as soft as it looked. But she did trace the tips of her fingers over his forehead then turned her hand so the backs of her fingers brushed down his cheek. Something about this mysterious man made her want to comfort him.
Suddenly she yanked her hand away. "Stop it, Sam. This isn't time for Florence Nightingale Syndrome." This guy was dangerous. Hell, why else would five thugs want to beat the crap out of him? He must have done something terrible to make them retaliate like that.
A nasty scrape on the man's shoulder seeped blood and he had numerous, angry lashes on both forearms which looked relatively fresh.
She sucked in her breath and frowned. "What the hell are those from?" There was no way those men in the parking garage had done that to him. His clothes hadn't been ripped, for starters, and they had been beating him, not knifing him. She had seen cuttings in the Army, and that's what this looked like. If she was a betting woman, she would lay down a hundred that this guy was cutting himself, which meant he was even more fucked up than she thought.
Sam looked more closely at Mr. Out-Cold's face and sighed. With a shake of her head, she grabbed an antiseptic wipe from her kit. "What have you been doing to yourself, Mister?" She ripped open the wipe's wrapper and the faint smell of alcohol permeated the air. "You're a troubled one, aren't you? Let's get you fixed up so I can be rid of you. You kind of freak me out."
As she touched the antiseptic wipe to the jagged scrape on the man's shoulder, the man's eyes shot open wide, his entire body contracting violently as he growled – growled? Yes, he growled as his head snapped around.
Animalistic, navy blue eyes met hers, full of fear and something else, something dark.
The rest happened so fast, Sam didn't have time to react. His unbelievably strong hands latched onto her arm, pulled her wrist to his mouth, and then fangs – Fangs? – pierced her skin as he bit her.
* * *
Micah had been in a semi-lucid state, aware of everything going on around him but unable to rouse himself. He had felt the woman cut off his shirt, had felt her sure, confident hands ranging his chest and torso before her gentle fingers caressed his face. She had talked to him, too. Well, not really to him, but sort of. Her voice was smooth and low, sultry. He just wanted her to keep talking. The sound of her voice was a balm, an audible salve to soothe his soul.
But then she had grown quiet and sucked in her breath. Micah touched her mind and realized she had seen his self-mutilation. Shame flooded him as his long-absent conscience reappeared, chastising him for what he had done. For some reason, he didn't want this woman seeing the damage he had done to his own arms.
And then everything shattered into white heat as fire stung his shoulder.
Intense hunger raged like wildfire. Micah couldn't recall ever needing to feed this badly. In an instant, his eyes flashed open and shot to the woman tending him. Terror erupted in her expression, but all he could see, think, feel, smell, and breathe was blood. Glorious, life-giving, hunger-sating, Heaven-sent blood. With graceless impropriety, Micah yanked her wrist to his mouth like it was a sandwich and he had gone way too long without food then bit down with unceremonious impatience.
When was the last time he had truly fed?
The woman struggled as he locked his hands around her arm and lurched upright with her wrist clenched in his mouth. Her blood flowed like a river of life into his belly, and he moaned in ecstasy even as he fought to restrain her. He had been too wrapped up in his need to feed to compel her into submission, and she grappled, squirmed, and struggled against him, gasping and protesting for him to stop.
Blood. All he could think about was drinking her blood. She swung at him with her free arm, kicking and trying to pull away, but he stayed with her, using one hand to deflect her haphazard punches, turning his body to avoid her kicks. All the while, his fangs kept her wrist locked in his mouth and her blood spilling down his throat.
He finally overpowered her and bent her back and down to the floor. Crouched like a man kneeling in prayer, his gaze ranged up her arm that stretched between them, linking her to him like an umbilical cord as she continued to struggle. His feral gaze locked onto the pools of clover green in her eyes as his chest and abdomen heaved lustfully. Blood lust. Strong and pure and all-consuming, it gnawed at him like a jackal on a bone.
The woman tried to cry out, but he slapped his hand over her mouth, stifling her scream, taking his fill of her blood as her body finally stilled beneath his.
It was only then that Micah realized she was crying. Tears streamed her cheeks as horrific sobs convulsed her chest. As his senses ebbed back into him, he gently lifted his hand from her mouth, keeping it close in case she tried to scream again.
"Please, please stop. Don't kill me."
Her fear smelled like sulfur as the words clubbed him. Kill her? He didn't want to kill her.
Where was he, anyway?
Micah's eyes flitted around the room and suddenly it was clear he wasn't in Kansas, anymore. What was this place? He had never been here before. Nothing was familiar. How had he gotten here? His eyes darted back to hers.
After releasing her wrist with a gasp, Micah fell back like he had just seen Jesus wagging a judgmental finger at him, and he ass-planted on her generic beige carpeting.
"Where am I?" he said.
The woman trembled in fear, too afraid to move as she clutched her bleeding wrist to her body. In his confusion, he had forgotten to release the dose of venom that would heal the bite.
"Where am I?" Micah's voice rose urgently as he frowned in dazed confusion.
"M-My a-apartment." The woman was shivering.
"What's your name?"
She paused like she was trying to decide whether or not she should tell him.
"Tell me!" He was freaking out.
The woman jumped. "S-Sam."
"Why am I here, Sam?"
The woman frowned at him like his question confused her.
"Why am I here?!" Why did he have to repeat everything to get her to answer?
She flinched. "You were hurt. I helped you. D-don't you remember?"
Everything flooded back into Micah's mind with such force he visibly wobbled as if he was in the ocean and a wave of storm surge had just rolled over him. He even sucked in his breath as if he was sinking underwater.
&
nbsp; He remembered. Jackson, his fall into misery, his death wish, the drecks beating the shit out of him in that parking garage tonight. And then the crack of a gunshot and a woman's voice, followed by an image of…
"It was you." Micah's awed words whispered out of him as he sat back. She was the woman who had saved his life, even though he had only wanted death.
"Yeah. It was me, you asshole. I saved your life." Her fear morphed into anger.
Sam was a tough little doll. Micah approved.
"What the hell are you and what did you do to me?" She held out her bleeding wrist. Her expression was half terror, half outrage, and her mind seemed to be dancing over the question of what in the hell she had sitting on her floor in the middle of her apartment.
Micah had screwed up, but he had been so delirious with agony and hunger he hadn't been thinking clearly. He had failed to compel her, and he could feel dawn's approach. He was never this careless.
"What time is it?" He looked around for a clock, knowing he needed to get home. Fast.
"What?" Sam shook her head as if she couldn't keep up with him. "Are you on drugs? Are you one of those weirdos with a vampire fantasy who went and got his teeth altered?"
Finding a clock and seeing he only had 15 minutes before daybreak, Micah had to move fast. Sam's blood was already making him stronger, and he could feel his injuries healing quickly.
"Look at me," he said.
She refused, but when he tenderly lifted her wrist to his mouth and licked her skin to coat the bite mark with his venom, her eyes snapped to his. Just as quickly, she sucked in her breath as the euphoria entered her bloodstream. It wasn't enough venom to harm her, just enough to take away the pain of his bite and heal the punctures. Normally, he would have released the venom during the bite so that when he broke away, the mark would heal instantly. Being that he had been so clumsy, this was the best he could do.
He captured her gaze and she fell limp as he locked her into compulsion. Filtering through her memories, he was about to pull the plug on everything that had to do with him when his heart skipped a beat at the way she had reacted to the touch of his tongue on her wrist. The subtle intake of breath and the surprised look in her eyes, as if she couldn't deny her attraction to him, awakened him.