He had her on her feet before the last syllable left her lips. Nearly pulling her arm from its socket, he dragged her toward the cedar plank gate at the back of the small, neatly manicured yard. “We have to move before anyone knows we were here. It won’t keep Lambert satisfied for long, but if he thinks I died in the explosion, even for an hour, I can use that time to my advantage.”
“Right…” Why that seemed so logical, Zoe couldn’t say, but she followed him, half limping, half tripping along in one shoe, through the gate to an alley behind the debris-strewn back yard.
Dumpsters and garbage cans lined the alley, along with pieces of house. Behind them, the flames leapt higher, and the sirens grew closer, lending a displaced sense of urgency to their flight.
The alley disgorged onto Miller Street, and they ran its oak-lined length to the intersection of MacKenzie, where the street lights had just flickered on.
Breathless, Zoe tried to slip her fingers from his grip, but he wouldn’t let her go. She tried to pant out a question, hoping to slow him down a little. “How did…how…did you know the…the…”
“Apparently, hearing is the last vampire sense to go,” he replied between deep, labored breaths of his own. At least he had the decency to look as tired as she felt. “I heard the detonator of the explosive engage. It was on a five-second timer, apparently set to give me time to come through the door and get farther into the house. I suspect every above-ground entrance was rigged the same way and probably linked in serial to blow once one of the others had been triggered.”
“Are you with the mob?”
His laugh was a breathless bark. “No. We went over this. I’m a vampire. Was a vampire, until two hours ago.”
“Right… Now what?”
He loosened his grip on her hand for a split second, and Zoe yanked her arm back. She didn’t have the energy to run, nor would she have known which way to go, so she merely stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and gasped in cleansing breaths.
“We need to get off the street,” he said, his tone wary.
“I need to get off my feet. I think I popped a lung back there.”
His dark gaze fell to the vicinity of her lungs, as if he could validate her claim by simply looking, then flicked away again before she had a chance to protest.
“There’s a cab. Get in it and go home. Forget any of this happened.” Even as he spoke, he turned and raised his hand to signal the cab.
Zoe’s jaw dropped. The back of his jacket was tattered and scorched in some areas, and ribbons of his white dress shirt shown through, some edged with smears of dark red. “You’re hurt.”
“I’ll heal…eventually.” He dismissed her with a wave when the cab pulled up, then opened the door and tossed some wadded bills to the driver.
“Where will you go?” she asked.
“This should get the lady home,” he said to the driver, then turned to her. “Stay away from your shop for a day or two also, in case they come back asking questions.”
Zoe grabbed his wrist. “Wait! Come with me. You need to get off the street too, and you need some medical attention.”
“No.”
“Come on. I know first aid. Come to my place, and I’ll see what I can do. I owe you, I guess. I’d be dead if you hadn’t…” Zoe transferred her gaze from her dark-eyed companion to the cabbie and back again. “Come home with me.”
He hesitated just long enough to draw an impatient sound from the driver, then he climbed into the cab.
The glow of streetlights and passing traffic illuminated her dirt-smudged face to varying degrees as the cab glided through the Inner Harbor area. She held her chin high and chewed pensively at her lower lip, scanning the streets from beneath long, dark lashes.
Her golden hair and clear, wide-set eyes made her pretty in an uncomplicated way. Fresh, despite the grime and soot. A morsel.
His vampire instincts kicked in, guiltily squashing the dangerous thought that the longer he remained in her company, the more danger she would be in from Lambert.
It shouldn’t have mattered to him. She was the type of woman—girl, rather—he used and discarded. She couldn’t have been more than twenty-two, judging from the creamy skin and lack of wrinkles around her eyes and mouth.
Young blood. Supple body. But she possessed a strength that surprised him. With a low growl, he tore his gaze away from her and concentrated on the route the cabbie had chosen. The expensive town houses of his trendy neighborhood fell away, replaced by the middle class homes, capes and ranches, then converted cottages and bungalows of the lower income section of town. Here, the cab stopped before a two-story brownstone sandwiched between an oriental tea shop and what appeared to be a flop house.
Julian raised a brow. “Here?”
Her challenging look amused him. “Take it or leave it, pal.”
What choice did he have? “It’s charming. Keep the change.” He dismissed the driver as they climbed out, and the cab trundled away, belching exhaust—something it would not have dared do in the tonier section of town, but here it seemed to fit.
“I’m on the second floor.” She led him through an awning-covered screen door and up a narrow flight of stairs covered in a substance that might have been carpet or a spongy bed of moss. Julian couldn’t be sure which. The place smelled like pierogi and beef stew, and Julian’s stomach clenched at the memory of home-cooked meals. How long had it been since he’d fed? Barely a day—but he hadn’t eaten in over a century.
His head swam, and he gripped the time-worn banister until his knuckles went white.
Her voice floated down from above him while he struggled to remain upright. “Don’t look, okay? I have to get my spare key.”
Look? He could barely keep his eyes open. “Fine.” Nevertheless, he stole a glance as she reached above the frame of the door at the top of the stairs and retrieved her “hidden” key.
This girl had “victim” written all over her. If Lambert’s men caught them together, discovered she was helping him—helping him!—they’d tear her into pretty, multicolored ribbons.
He shouldn’t have cared.
“Wait.” Once he regained his equilibrium, he held up a hand as she reached for the tarnished door knob. “Let me.”
“Paranoid much? The vampires don’t know me.” Even as she complained, though, she stepped back and allowed him to open the door.
“They can trace you from the store, if they’re so inclined. Don’t underestimate Lambert’s people. I trained most of them myself.”
“Trained them to do what?”
He held her gaze for a heartbeat. “You don’t want to know.”
It disturbed him how quickly the momentary apprehension faded from her luminous eyes. “Zoe,” she said, offering her hand. “Just in case you were wondering. I’m Zoe Boyd.”
Julian didn’t touch her. Instead he pushed open the door of her apartment, straining his muddled senses for any sign that his enemies had somehow anticipated their next move.
Nothing seemed unusual, but nevertheless, not trusting his humanness, he edged over the threshold into the dark room beyond. The place smelled like her—vanilla and cinnamon with a trace of…something he should have been able to identify. Tea rose, perhaps?
Before he could get his bearings, warm light flooded the room. Julian blinked at the hodge-podge of second-hand furniture. “Does it always look like this?”
Her response was a blank stare. Gossamer scarves in shades of orange, purple and pink draped a trio of small lamps set on low tables around the room. The beige couch sported dozens of pillows, some covered in faux fur in nauseatingly unnatural colors. Bright, abstract paintings competed for dominance on the walls and a collection of quartz crystals glittered on a shelf above an ancient-looking recliner.
Garish. A witch’s whorehouse.
“Make yourself at home,” she said with a faintly sarcastic lilt.
Never. Not if he lived for a thousand years could he make himself at home in this psychedelic ni
ghtmare. Resigned to suffer at the moment, though, he sat on the edge of the couch, careful not to touch a fringed bolster that sported candy stripes of pink and acid green.
“I’ll get my first aid kit.” She closed the front door and swirled across the room through another doorway that probably led to a bedroom.
Julian couldn’t imagine what that might look like, though judging from the living room décor, he’d have guessed early neon migraine.
In an effort to keep his mind off the disturbing color scheme, he scanned the room with a professional eye. Two windows behind the couch opened onto a wrought-iron fire escape, and another door in the right hand wall probably led to a kitchen.
His stomach begged him to investigate, and he would have, but she returned then with a round wicker basket full of bottles and bandages and swabs. He wished it wasn’t necessary. He hadn’t needed to tend a wound in over a hundred years, but he still recalled the sharp smell of antiseptic and the relentless sting of disinfectant on raw flesh.
She moved to the low table that sat before the couch and set the basket down. “Don’t you think it’s time you told me your name?”
He could have lied. Probably should have, but a weariness he’d hoped to never feel again had begun to settle over him. It wouldn’t matter anyway, if she knew his name. She’d die just the same when Lambert’s men caught up to her.
“Devlin. My name is Julian Devlin.”
A flicker of recognition lit her eyes. “I think I’ve heard of you. Don’t you have an import business or something?”
“Or something.”
“Well, Julian. Let’s get started. Take off your shirt.”
It had been a while since Zoe had a man in her place, other than Bryan when everybody came over for pizza and Project Runway. Even longer since she’d had the pleasure of commanding one to strip. In fact…well, now wasn’t the time to rhapsodize about the dismal state of her love life.
After a moment’s hesitation, Julian Devlin—the devastatingly sexy name matched the man quite well—shrugged out of the remains of his jacket and the formerly expensive business shirt underneath.
He winced as he moved and gritted straight, white teeth that were thankfully devoid of sharp points at the moment. He’d have made a decent vampire, though, with that dark hair, the hypnotic, piercing gaze and the faint hint of stubble on his jaw. Everything about him screamed dangerous…in a good way. Except for his belief in vampires, he would have been quite a catch.
He removed his shirt and jacket, bundled up the torn fabric and tucked it next to him. Muscles rippled beneath his skin as he moved, and Zoe merely stared at his smooth chest, well-defined abdominals and the swirl of dark hair that arrowed beneath his belt. A white scar crossed his collar bone. About two inches long, it looked like the remnant of a nasty wound that hadn’t healed well.
“Turn…uh…around,” she said without a shred of authority. Her mouth had gone as dry as the Sahara.
He shifted, twisting at the waist to offer her his back, and she gasped. Some burning debris must have torn his clothes and left a fist-sized patch of raw flesh between his shoulder blades. That’s what he’d spared her by throwing himself on top of her in the courtyard.
“It only hurts when I move,” he said, uncharacteristic humor in his voice. “And when the air touches it.”
Translation: Get on with it. Zoe dragged her eyes away from the broad expanse of his back and searched her basket for Neosporin and a small pair of scissors to cut a swatch of padded gauze.
With the lightest touch she could manage, she applied the cream, noting a slight but unmistakable easing of the tension in his shoulders as it soothed the burn. Good. At least she’d helped a little. The application of the bandage didn’t go as smoothly, though. She applied pressure to adhere strips of surgical tape to his skin, and he cursed at the pain. “I’m sorry. I know it hurts, but it needs to be covered, for a while anyway.”
“Good enough.” He turned back toward her, and perhaps she imagined a shadow of gratitude in his eyes. “Once I’m a vampire again, it will heal overnight.”
Zoe sat back and began replacing her supplies in the basket. “So how do you plan to get…revamped?”
“Well, not the same way I got vamped to begin with. I don’t think I can trust anyone to turn me without killing me outright. Now that I’m human, no vampire will help me.”
“How do you know? Don’t you have some vampire friends who could turn you back?” Certainly a man who looked like he did wouldn’t have trouble finding friends. What female vampire, after all, wouldn’t want to take a bite out of him?
“It’s not as simple as having someone bite me. Whoever turned me would become my sire, and I’d have an unconditional loyalty to them. They could assume my power.”
“And what power is that exactly?”
He quirked his lips as if the answer to her impertinent question was obvious. “I control the vampire hierarchy here in Baltimore. No new vampires are turned without my permission, and feeding is kept to a minimum to maintain the food supply. Without someone in charge, things would get out of hand.”
Zoe nodded, though she really didn’t understand. It certainly sounded like the mob to her. “So no one can bite you back to being a vampire?”
He shook his head. “Not unless I want them to own me. The only other way is to get Lambert’s spell reversed somehow.” He cast a skeptical glance around her living room. “You don’t happen to be a real gypsy?”
“A real gypsy? As opposed to a fake one?” This guy had a way about him; unfortunately he came off sounding a bit like an American Simon Cowell. Did he mean to be rude or was it just natural for him to make snide remarks?
She grabbed her basket and cradled it in her lap. “Have you ever heard of shabby chic?”
“You mean there’s a name for this style?”
“Listen, pal—” Zoe’s choice words caught in her throat when someone pounded on her apartment door.
“Zoe! Are you in there? Open up!”
Her heart hammered. It was Bryan. And did she hear Tanya’s terrified voice in the background entreating him to check for her spare key? “I did. It’s not there. Zoe!” Bam bam bam.
Her eyes locked with Devlin’s for one panicked moment. These were her friends, but would they understand why she had a half-naked—and by God, he was half naked!—former vampire in her living room? “Get in the bedroom, quick,” she whispered, shoving the first aid basket into his arms. He rose from the couch, and she stuffed the bundle of his clothes on top.
“Will you tell them?”
“No. I promise. Just go in there and stay quiet.”
His mouth worked for a moment, as if perhaps he wanted to say thank you. Later, she’d give him the opportunity, but right now she propelled him bodily toward the bedroom. It was like trying to move a granite column—an expertly sculpted, finely muscled granite column.
Bam bam. The door jerked in its frame. Was Bryan trying to kick it in?
Devlin moved.
“I’m coming, Bry! Relax.” Zoe hurried across the room, smoothing her hair and skirt. No time to wonder if she smelled like soot. She flung the door open and her friends spilled in, nearly knocking her over in a tide of concern.
“Where have you been? What happened?” Bryan’s demands accompanied a crushing bear hug. All those nights he’d been spending at the new gym in his office building had begun to pay off, Zoe thought as she gasped for breath. He swung her around and set her back on her feet next to Tanya who assaulted her with a hug of her own.
“Are you hurt? What’s on your clothes? What happened at the shop—”
“One question at a time, please.” Zoe squeezed Tanya’s hand. The pretty brunette looked like she’d been crying, and guilt stabbed at Zoe when she remembered Tanya had been waiting at the club for hours.
“Are you alone?” Bryan’s blue eyes held a sobering question. A single word would have freed her from Devlin’s…companionship. Was he really a threat, though? She
’d promised to protect him, and he had saved her life.
“Yes, Bry. I’m alone. What happened at the store? Was it robbed? Did they trash the place?”
“We thought you’d been kidnapped,” Tanya cut in. She sniffled between words. “When you didn’t show up at Kimono, I called all over looking for you. Thank God Bryan was in the area. He stopped at the shop to check on you, and he found your purse in the basement.” Tanya’s voice hitched, and she broke into fresh sobs. Zoe hugged her again.
“I’m fine. It’s okay.”
“So what happened?” Bryan was casing the place. A head taller than his female friends, he looked like the gander keeping watch over a gaggle of geese. “We called the police. They’ve been looking for you.”
“And then, in the middle of all this, some house over on Terrace Avenue exploded,” Tanya said. “Traffic was stopped dead for an hour. We were stuck trying to cross town.”
Zoe just nodded, her eyes wide. “Wow. Uh…I’m sorry, guys. I’m fine, really. Some…men broke into the shop when I was in the cellar turning down the heat. I ran through that old door—you know the one down there—into another basement, and I got kind of lost looking for a stairway to get back up to the street. I dropped my purse and my cell phone when I ran.”
“They broke a display case, but the police didn’t think anything was missing,” Bryan said. “The cash register wasn’t broken into.”
A kernel of relief formed in Zoe’s mind. She’d expected the worst based on Devlin’s attitude about the enemy “vampires”.
“Come on. I’ll take you to the police station to make a statement.” Bryan’s grip on her arm was firm, and the authoritative tone of his voice left no room for argument as he tugged her toward the door. She wanted to obey because it seemed like the wise thing to do, but she’d made a promise to the man in her bedroom, and she couldn’t bring herself to abandon him just yet.
“No, Bry…I’m exhausted, and look at me. Can I go later? Let me get cleaned up and find another shoe.” She showed off her bare foot. “Then I’ll go to the police. I promise. What happened to my purse and my phone?”
Uncross My Heart Page 3