You're So Vein

by Christine Warren

  Dima reared back and scowled down at the woman’s legs, still covered by columns of dark silk.

  Ebyona mat’ [I’ll be damned], he thought, and possibly meant it literally.

  Of all the human women in Manhattan, the rogue had to pick the last living one who still wore a garter belt with her stockings?

  Unbidden, sharp images of white skin and black stockings, curved thighs and dark folds, invaded his mind and filled his vision. His senses rioted at the possibility of satin skin and woven silk catching on the harsh stubble on his cheeks. He saw his own head bent, his shoulders holding her long legs open as he feasted on the sweetness between them …

  Pizdets! [Fuck!]

  He was losing his goddamn mind. There was no other excuse for this line of thought. He couldn’t even say he’d been too long without a woman. Sure, he was in the middle of a mission and it had been a few weeks, but he’d gone much longer without sex before. Frankly, after seven centuries, sex could no longer be called one of his top priorities. He’d had plenty of time over the many years of his life to do just about everything and everyone who had piqued his curiosity. At this point in his immortality, he gave sex approximately the same amount of attention that he gave to scratching an itch and less than he gave to personal grooming or finding a good bottle of vodka. When he needed it, he got it, but he never spent much time worrying about it. He certainly never spent time thinking about it when he should be focusing on what needed to be done, as opposed to what his dick might be suggesting they do.

  Gritting his teeth, Dima clenched his hands into fists, blew out a deep breath, and stripped the woman of her garter belt and stockings so fast, he had to duck to avoid the backlash of her left foot, which was aimed at his head when it sprang free of the confining silk. Then he had to work very, very hard to ignore the fact that in his haste to see the deed done, he’d unintentionally stripped off her panties along with the garter belt.

  Dermo. [Shit.] He’d fallen into a perverse comedy of errors.

  A few quick tugs freed the stockings from the garter fasteners. Dima worked quickly to use the lengths of silk to bind her ankles together and secure them to the bed frame. Tying them apart was decidedly not an option. When his fingers inevitably brushed against her ankles, he gritted his teeth and tried to think of England, but neither the cold and rainy weather nor the cold and reigning queen managed to dampen the spark that leapt between the woman’s bare skin and his. All he could do was rush through it and step back from the bed as soon as possible. When he did so and he got a glimpse of her long, luscious body stretched out and bound across his bed, he swore again and turned quickly for the kitchen.

  The woman would need more blood, and soon, which meant that Dima himself would have to eat for two for the next few days. Thankfully, he kept bagged blood in his refrigerator in case of emergency. If the current situation didn’t qualify him to break into that stash, nothing ever would.

  He retrieved two bags quickly and returned to the bedroom with them in hand. Even with her bound, he didn’t like the idea of leaving the woman alone for any longer than he had to. With a little mental sleight of hand, he could almost convince himself the only reason for that was because he was afraid of her harming herself, not because she had legs like a dancer and skin like a courtesan.

  Dragging a straight-backed chair to the side of the bed, he settled his long frame into the seat and bit through the first packet of plastic. He swallowed reflexively, draining the liquid in record time and reaching for another.

  Dima fed like a man doing chores, experiencing none of the enjoyment he usually felt while feeding, but then, bagged blood offered none of the allure of a meal from a living donor. Live blood coursed hot into the mouth, rich with the energy and vitality of the human who gave it. It trickled thick down the throat, coated the stomach with the fire of aged whisky, and sent pulses of electricity through the body. When a vampire fed from a live donor, it felt almost as if he consumed blood and spirit in equal measure.

  Bagged blood, by contrast, tasted flat and cold in ways that had nothing to do with refrigerated storage. It had more to do with needles and distance and anonymity, not to mention preservatives. It would keep a vampire alive, but not even a confirmed ascetic would care to consume only bagged blood for long.

  Dima had never claimed to be an ascetic. It would have been a hard thing to accomplish, growing up as he had, the son of a rich warrior-merchant who had made a fortune trading in exotic spices from the South, rich silks from the East, and thick, plush furs from the North. Even in a world before electricity and modern comforts, when a wise man slept with a sword by his bed and a friend at his back, Dima’s people had taken their luxuries seriously. What they had the technology to produce, they produced, and what they had the fortune to consume, his wealthy family had consumed. Dima could admit to having grown accustomed to the modern luxuries of the twenty-first century, but something inside him still longed for the days when a man could sleep buried in a pile of thick winter pelts without hearing the cries of animal rights activists echoing in his dreams.

  A glance at his guest’s face told Dima that whatever currently haunted her dreams must be equally unpleasant. Her brow had furrowed, her lips drawn back in a grimace of pain, and he could see where two sharp new canine teeth had begun to emerge from inflamed pink gums. Her breath sawed out of her chest in hoarse, pain-filled moans like those of a trapped animal, and her flesh seemed to ripple over her bones as if something inside her struggled vainly to escape. The change was riding her hard, and even though Dima couldn’t cure the agony completely, he could at least ease it a bit.

  Tossing aside the second empty blood bag, Dima leaned forward and snagged the tip of his knife on the skin inside his thick wrist. Blood welled almost immediately, dark and shining like garnets against the gold of his skin. Shifting from his chair to sit on the side of the bed, he moved closer to the unconscious woman and used his free hand to grasp the back of her head and guide her mouth to the nourishment he offered.

  She latched on like a barnacle, her entire body arching and twisting as she tried to curl around the source of the blood. The ropes around her wrists quivered but held. Thankfully, she still hadn’t come into her strength, or he would have been picking splinters of metal out of his skin when the bed frame shattered under the pressure. As it was, she drew strongly at his wound, urging the blood to course faster down her slim throat. She almost reminded him of a newborn kitten rooting at its mother’s nipple, whimpering and straining, frantic to fill its belly and dull the unfamiliar pangs of hunger.

  His feelings for her, however, were far from maternal.

  If he hadn’t known better, hadn’t been able to feel the slick slide of liquid from his veins to her mouth, he’d have wondered when she planned to begin drinking. What he didn’t have to wonder about was whether he had sufficient blood to nourish her, since he apparently had enough to let her suck it down even while a not-insignificant volume of the stuff began to pool behind the zipper of his trousers. The damned woman had brought him fully erect without a word exchanged between them, without him even knowing her name. Normally, he could claim a bit more restraint than that.

  Then again, what about the current situation could be called normal?

  Clamping down on the lust that surged through him with every pull of her mouth, Dima let her feed for a few more minutes. Not until he could feel some of the rigidity of her body ease did he begin to pull away. His blood had begun to do its work. Already it would be coursing through her, easing the pain of her transformation, healing the violent damage her unwelcome crossing had produced.

  She should slip into a more restful sleep now, he judged as he drew his wrist from her lips and closed the wound with his own saliva. Less pain would allow her mind to rest while her body underwent a kind of internal nanosurgery. When she woke—maybe tomorrow night, maybe the morning after—she would be fully vampire, stronger, faster, and more powerful than she had ever imagined. His old blood, seven cen
turies old, would ensure it.

  She was lucky, really, he mused. Dima guessed that the rogue who attacked her had been no more than twenty or thirty. Probably even younger. If he had followed through on her siring, he would have created a vampire even weaker than himself, and compared to Dima, a thirty-year-old equaled a veritable babe in arms, barely able to control his strength, let alone read the thoughts of strangers or influence weaker minds. With Dima as her sire, this woman might very well be her attacker’s equal within a few days of waking.

  Lucky, indeed.

  Of course, she would need time to adjust, Dima acknowledged, especially since her crossing had not been of her own choosing. When she first woke, she would likely be confused, even angry. If she remembered the attack, fear would be there as well. Dima would need to make sure he stayed close so that he could talk her through it, gently explain to her what had happened, what she had become, what she could expect of her new life.

  Sighing, he stood and gazed down at her. Wasn’t there an old Eastern adage that once you saved a person’s life, you became responsible for it? Maybe he should have thought of that before he had jumped into that alley. He had enough responsibilities already and a mission that was both personal and professional to worry about. He should be devoting all his time and energy to that, but instead, he would be playing mentor to a newborn vampire who would have to learn an entire life from scratch—how to eat, how to find food, how to stay out of the spotlight and offend neither the human population nor the reigning vampire authorities.

  That last thought made him wince. Technically the vampire authorities in Europe would be less than pleased if they discovered what Dima had done. This woman’s turning had not been approved. For aiding her Dima could find himself with a great deal of trouble from his employers.

  What on earth had he been thinking?

  He hadn’t been, of course. He’d been reacting. After seeing the woman struggling to cling to life in that alley, Dima couldn’t imagine leaving her there. While her turning had not been approved, neither had it been requested. She had been victimized by the rogue, but Dima would need to find a way to satisfy the ECV if he wanted to prevent her further harassment. Fortunately, he had not turned anyone else during his nearly eight centuries, and that might weigh in his favor. It would weigh more heavily, he was sure, if he presented the entire matter to a council already softened up by his successful completion of the mission to which he’d been assigned.

  Giving himself a mental kick in the ass, Dima turned away from the bed and stalked back toward the living room and his laptop. It was too late for regrets now. He was stuck with the woman, at least for a few more days, so he should take advantage of her unconsciousness while it lasted. A few hours in front of the computer might not be as effective a hunting tactic as patrolling the streets and shaking down random rogues for information, but it was better than nothing.

  He’d try reminding himself of that every few minutes, he decided, settling into the desk chair. If he was lucky, he might start to believe it.

  Chapter Six

  Ava woke from the nightmare, her heart pounding, her brow covered in cold sweat. She hadn’t dreamed that vividly in years, not since she’d taught herself to step back from her nightmares and will them away. This one had been a doozy, all dark shadows and sharp pain and something cold and powerful staring down at her with eyes the color of an arctic sky. It was almost enough to make her reconsider her true need for beauty sleep. Blowing out a deplorably unsteady breath, she reached out to preemptively silence her alarm clock.

  Or she tried to.

  She couldn’t move her hands.

  Her eyes snapped open and presented her with the unwelcome view of an unfamiliar ceiling, high, pale, and crisscrossed with the exposed steel beam work of an urban loft. She had never seen this place before in her life. And she couldn’t move.

  Panic began to well. She tugged sharply on her hands and attempted to sit up, only to find her feet similarly secured. Aghast, disbelieving, she craned her head around to confirm what her instincts had been trying to tell her even while she’d been asleep: She was a prisoner, bound hand and foot to a strange bed in a strange apartment in what she hoped to God and all his angels was not a strange city.

  She’d been kidnapped.

  Every synapse in her brain seemed to fire at once, attacking her with an explosion of pain and confusion more intense than anything she had ever experienced. Memory flooded back, dearly drowning her. She felt like she was watching a movie montage—seeing herself at the girls’ night party at Reggie’s house, staring into the powder room mirror, walking home with her anger keeping her company, passing by an alley she’d walked in front of a million times before …

  Then the film went cockeyed, a handheld camera tumbling to its side. She saw the flash of movement on her right, felt the stirring of air and the overwhelming, inhuman strength of the thing that had grabbed her, grabbed her and dragged her deeper into the alley. She saw the slick, dark brick, smelled blood and rot and sick coming from the body that lay in a lifeless pile against the alley wall, smelled it on the breath and the skin and the empty soulless void of the monster holding her. She felt its arm around her neck, corded with muscle and hatred, cutting off her air, leaving her choking and gasping for breath. She felt its hot, fetid breath against her skin, felt the sharp tear of fangs against flesh, and her welling panic took the freeway exit straight to the blind, instinctual, animal imperative to escape.

  Gathering her breath, Ava opened her mouth to scream and threw every ounce of strength in her body into breaking the bonds that held her. She got out no more than a short, sharp whistle before a large male hand clamped over her mouth and cut off her cry.

  Her gaze shot to an unfamiliar face, one that hardly looked like it could belong to the stink in her memory. This man looked like death, but not the kind of death that snuck up behind a woman in a dark alley and bled her dry—more like the kind of death that knights had once faced on the battlefield, strong and quiet and rigidly calm. He had features as sharp-edged as stone, intensely masculine and far too heavy to admire. Ava worked every day with models who epitomized the modern sensibility of male beauty, and if this man had walked into her office, she’d have turned him around and sent him right back out again.

  Or rather, she’d have called security—and maybe a SWAT team—and had him escorted out again.

  Beautiful he wasn’t, not even with the slightly too-long hair that framed his face in a dozen shades of blond, from warm toffee to cold platinum (Ava had clients—both male and female—who would pay thousands for that hair and never quite be satisfied), but something about him compelled. Maybe it was the eyes—sharp, intent, and the pale blue-gray of an arctic landscape. Or the way those eyes watched her with the quiet, frozen patience of a hawk just waiting for the moment to strike.

  It was that uncanny stillness that tipped her off. His lips were firmly closed, so she couldn’t see any fangs, and experience had taught her that the horns these guys should have sported to clue in the unwary never did show. The outward trappings of evil didn’t matter, though. Ava could tell. Only one kind of man could be so still, so strong, and so bloody silent. He was a vampire.

  Shaking off the spell that seemed to have gripped her at the sight of him, Ava narrowed her eyes and prepared to bite the hand that silenced her.

  He moved too quickly, sliding a broad thumb under her jaw and pressing hard to keep it closed. “I wouldn’t advise it,” he rumbled in a voice deep with gravel and spiced somehow with the hint of a place far from Manhattan. “It’s too soon for you to be able to control your reaction if you draw blood.”

  Ava simply glared at his nonsense and began to tug against her bonds once more. She had absolutely no intention of ending her life as an hors d’oeuvre for a fiend from hell. Or Transylvania. Wherever the bloodsucking bastards came from.

  “That’s not a very good idea, either.” His free hand stretched up and pressed against her joined wrists, his st
rength casual and overwhelming. “You might be strong enough to break free, but I’m afraid it would be a very literal break. The bed is iron and will hold together. Your bones, on the other hand, are less forgiving. They would snap long before the rope did.”

  Her eyes told him to go to hell. And that was only because her mouth was unable to tell him something far fouler. For some reason, she trusted his warning, but that didn’t stop her from trying to get away. Now, instead of pulling against her bonds, she began to run her fingers over the rope, searching for knots or weak points. She had read somewhere that no rope bondage was entirely escape-proof. If that was true, she intended to prove it.

  Those cool, predatory eyes looked down at her. “I can take my hand away, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you not to scream.”

  I’ll be as silent as a howitzer.

  “We’re in a warehouse district and it is three in the morning, so I am not worried about someone hearing you,” he explained, reading her mind with obnoxious ease, “but I have very sensitive ears. I much prefer the quiet.”

  And I much prefer not being tied to a bed and held prisoner by strange vampire perverts with lousy senses of humor. Too bad we can’t always get what we want.

  Ava saw the surprise spark in his eyes and felt a new wave of anger swamp her. The bastard was reading her mind. She hated when they did that! She made a mental note to watch what appeared in his eyes when she planted the pointy toe of her boot in the middle of his scrotum. With excessive force.

  “That seems a bit harsh to me,” he said. Anyone else might have edged the observation with irony, maybe even humor. This one’s expression never changed from its harsh, granite lines. “I did, after all, recently save your life.”

  “Umphd gy mphygph?” Shock made her forget the hand over her mouth, but the garbled noises she made in place of words didn’t seem to faze him.

  “Saved your life,” he repeated, nodding. “You’d been attacked and left for dead. Do you remember any of it?”