Vampire Undone

by Shannon Curtis

  Help him, indeed. She pounded her pillow into a comfortable pulp and lay down. She brushed away the tears trailing down her cheek as she glared at the wall.

  No, damn it. She refused to care.

  * * *

  Lucien eased back along the branch toward the trunk of the tree.

  I hate you.

  He settled himself in the crook of the tree, staring at the darkened, covered window. He couldn’t quite close his mouth, although his fingers clenched around the branches above and to the side of him. Shock. Annoyance. Frustration. Pain. Shock. The emotions tore through him.

  He was still trying to process everything. Nina—no, Natalie—was alive. He could barely believe it. He’d suspected it was her when she’d slammed the door in his face. Not because she’d slammed the door, or because she’d resisted his compulsion—he still didn’t know how that worked—but because of the way she’d said his name in such a familiar manner. It had sparked memories of a younger, happier woman.

  Who currently hated him.

  She was so angry, so bitter—nothing like the young woman he’d once known, the woman whose memory he’d cherished. She also awakened a pain he’d buried deep.

  He sagged against the tree. When he’d come looking for Professor Segova, he’d expected a quick, easy, polite discussion with a stranger. After all, he could simply compel the woman to tell him everything he needed to know. She was his last resort, though.

  Vivianne had been languishing in her coffin for eight months. The witch, Dave Carter, had placed her under a suspension spell when she’d been bitten by a stray lycan, in an effort to give himself enough time to find something that everybody else didn’t believe existed—a vampire’s cure against the lycan toxin. Eight months, and he’d exhausted every option, had visited every elder, witch, monk, shaman—hell, he’d even tried the mundane human doctors. Nothing. Now, though, Dave had learned of a woman well-versed in ancient lore, who could possibly search through the dusty records for an oblique reference to the cure. Well, that was the plan. And he’d anticipated finding an older woman who would succumb to his compulsion and tell him everything he needed to know.

  But, no. Instead he’d found a woman who could not only resist compulsion, but now showed no inclination whatsoever to help him save his sister.

  She was right, though. He hadn’t been there when she’d needed him. He’d promised and he’d let her down, and she’d paid the ultimate price. He shifted, guilt and shame weighing uncomfortably on his shoulders. He still couldn’t quite believe it. Nin—no, Natalie. Natalie... He repeated the name over and over in his mind, trying to get it to stick, despite the shock. What the hell was he supposed to do now? His sister’s body was slowly being eaten by the poison. His father would blame him for this death, too. He would lose the only family he knew.

  He looked up at the sky. Already the dark was giving way to gray. He’d have to move soon, find someplace dark and protected from sunlight. He eyed the window. He didn’t want to leave her.

  She could be the key to saving his sister. She was also the only real friend he’d ever had. His eyes narrowed. He’d twisted himself inside out when he’d heard of her death. And here she was, looking remarkably healthy for a corpse. All those years—decades—he’d tortured himself with remorse for not being there for her, his regret for a treasured life lost had ripped him apart. He’d done dark deeds as a result of that pain, that desolation.

  And it had all been for nothing. She lived. Anger tasted like ash in his mouth.

  He hadn’t been lying when he’d told her she was his last resort. Failure was not an option. Natalie Segova would help him save his sister.

  He just needed the right leverage.

  * * *

  Natalie glanced around as she lifted her suitcase into the trunk of her compact car. She’d waited until the sun was truly overhead before stepping out of the house. There was no sign of Lucien. Not that she expected to see him. He was a blood-sucking vampire who sizzled to ash in the sunlight. She hoped he’d crawled back into whatever dark place he’d lived in for the past forty years.

  Still, it was a relief he’d finally left. She wasn’t sure when, though. She’d stayed awake all night, listening. Hadn’t slept a wink.

  That was probably his evil plan, darn it. She’d had to wait for sunrise, though, before she could start packing. She hadn’t wanted to clue him in to her plans for a speedy departure. It had taken her most of the day to get things sorted.

  She lifted her sunglasses to rest on the top of her head as she strode through her kitchen and picked up a box from the table. She’d hastily packed her most prized possessions—whatever she could fit into her car. She’d lived as Natalie Segova for eight years, the longest she’d held on to an identity for decades, so she’d accrued quite a few things. Some old books that were dated pre-Troubles era—before humans realized the shadow breeds existed, and were quite telling of the time—some art, her tools, just in case she ever got close to a dig again. She eyed the contents, then gave a satisfied nod when she spied the small jewelry box tucked inside.

  She peeled off her gloves and set them on the table, then reached for the velvet jewelry box. She lifted the lid and gently clasped the locket inside. She closed her eyes, trying to focus on the object in her hand, opening her senses. All she could sense, all she could feel, hear and see was a black void. Nothing. She closed up the velvet box and sighed softly in frustration. Still nothing.

  She glanced around the room and made a face. She’d been here for so long. It was comfortable. Familiar. She liked it. She liked her work, she liked her students. Heck, she even liked Terry, and good old Rupert who haunted her office. She liked her name, too.

  Damn it, she was two years too early. People started to notice after ten years the lack of aging, so she generally made it a practice to move on before folks started to ask questions. But here—she liked here. Now she’d have to create a new name, a new identity. Where was she going to go? What was she going to do? It wasn’t like job opportunities for historians came up regularly.

  She tugged on her gloves and lifted the box. She had so much access to information here, information she needed to figure out what the hell was going on with her. Even now she struggled to think of a destination that would help her with her quest. She stomped to her car. She didn’t like moving house. Had done more than her fair share of it. And why was her life in such a state of upheaval?

  Lucien. It was all his fault. She dumped the box unceremoniously into the trunk and slammed the lid closed. She clapped her hands together, trying to dislodge as much dust as possible from her gloves. Why should she let another vampire ruin her life?

  The thought brought her up short. Maybe she could just ignore him? She snorted. Like anyone could ignore Lucien Marchetta. The man was too good-looking, and too damn determined, to be ignored. She started to drift back toward the house. Send him on his way? Maybe she could get on with her life and to hell with Lucien Marchetta? Just go on living as Natalie Segova...? Her shoulders sagged. No. She couldn’t risk it. If word got out about who—or what—she really was, she wouldn’t have much of a life left, if any.

  Being in this position, subject to the whims of a bloodsucker, was damn annoying.

  She growled softly as she jogged back into the house to get her bag and keys. It was late afternoon and shadows were creeping across her yard. Dusk came early this close to the mountains. She had to get out of here before Lucien came back. And he would. If there was one thing she remembered about the man, it was how ruthless he could be when his family was threatened.

  Her mouth turned down. What she would have given to have that fierce protection pointed in her direction. Well, obviously his regard for her hadn’t cut as deep as hers had for him. She straightened her shoulders. If wishes were horses, there would be no shadow breeds, damn it.

  She returned to
her car, slid into the driver’s seat and turned the key in the ignition.

  Nothing.

  She frowned, turned the key back to its original position and then tried again. Still nothing. She checked the fuel gauge. She still had a half tank of gas. Her eyes narrowed as she popped the hood and climbed out of the car. She lifted the hood, propping it open with the car rod, then rested her hands on the rim of the engine bay as she surveyed inside. It didn’t take her long to notice the distributor cap was missing.

  Son. Of. A. Bitch.

  She heaved back off the car, her hands fisting as she took a few steps in one direction, then turned and stalked a few steps in another direction.

  That weaselly, sneaky, clever bloodsucker. How had he known? She knocked the rod down and slammed the hood back into place. Well played, Lucien. Well played. She took a deep breath. Now what?

  She whipped her phone out of the back pocket of her jeans and sent a text to her research assistant, Ned Henderson, asking to borrow his truck tomorrow. When the sun came up, Lucien would be forced to find cover, and she’d be able to flee. She nodded. That was the safest course of action. Sure, she hated delaying her escape, but it was better to be thorough and alive than impulsive and dead. She’d learned that lesson the hard way.

  Great. Now she just needed to make it through the night. She grabbed her bag and keys, hesitated, then removed her suitcase from the trunk. She may as well be comfortable tonight. She hurried to her back door and had just opened it when she heard footfalls on the porch steps behind her. She whirled, surprised.

  Lucien leaned against the porch railing, his eyes looking so startlingly blue with his dark hair. His black shirt was open at the collar and he was wearing a black coat that fell halfway to his knees. She frowned. She’d always thought he was handsome. Dreamy, even. Now, though, all these years later, she was aware of him in a way that was new and...unwelcome. She let go of her suitcase and subtly adjusted her grip on her tote, her hand sliding inside. She kept her gaze on him as she grasped the handle of her blade.

  Despite the brisk breeze, his coat was open, revealing the dark shirt beneath. He folded his arms, the fabric pulling taut against his shoulders as he smiled. A slow, seductive curve of his lips. His gaze traveled from the top of her head to the tip of her sneakers, lingering on her curves. She swallowed. She wasn’t used to him looking at her like that. Not for forty years. Not ever. It wasn’t friendly, or exasperated, or even angry. No, it was provocative. She swallowed again and the corners of his mouth kicked up in a knowing smile.

  She dropped her suitcase and bag and then whirled, stepping toward her doorway, to safety. She needed to get inside. He moved in a blur, slipping between her and escape. She gasped and jerked back, raising her hand. He caught her wrist and he slid his other hand up the doorjamb, skillfully using his body to crowd her back against the external wall of her home.

  He eyed the silver blade in her hand with mild interest and squeezed just enough for her to wince at the pins and needles. Her grip relaxed. The dagger fell, its blade burying itself in the wooden slat of the decking. He let go of her wrist and brought his hand up to brace it against the clapboard at the side of her head.

  He met her gaze intently as he leaned forward, effectively cornering her against her home. He tilted his head to glance at the suitcase at her feet and arched an eyebrow.

  “Going somewhere?”

  Chapter 3

  Lucien inhaled. God, she smelled so sweet. So different to the way he remembered. She’d smelled of innocence and illness, a little sunshine mixed with poison. Sweet, but with a playful, daring sense of mischief. She’d definitely changed, though. He’d first met her when she was nine years old and had last seen her on her nineteenth birthday. Six years later, she was dead. Or supposed to be.

  He shifted even closer. He could feel her warmth, her heat, could smell her, something floral with a spicy edge. Today she wore a denim jacket, a shirt revealing that enticing glint of silver at her neck and jeans that looked real damn good on her. He stared into her brown eyes, saw the startled fear morph into something darker, warmer. She definitely wasn’t dead. Her gaze flickered briefly to his lips then back to his eyes.

  He raised a hand to smooth her hair back behind her ear. “You weren’t thinking of leaving, were you?” Annoyance edged with disappointment washed over him, confusing him amid a rising tide of attraction. Her intentions were obvious. He’d watched her briefly from the lengthening shadows. She’d crammed pretty much everything barring the kitchen sink into her car. Thank God, he’d thought to disable the car. If she’d left...

  Well, she had. She’d been ready to turn her back on him and walk away without a backward glance, and that probably hurt more than last night’s realization. He narrowed his eyes. Time for a different approach.

  She lifted her chin. “I don’t want to talk to you,” she said. Her voice came out all soft and husky, and he could see the pulse fluttering in her neck, could hear the soft whisper of her breath and could almost feel the rise and fall of her breasts against his chest. If he leaned forward just a little more... He couldn’t help the flare of curiosity—what would she feel like, her body pressed against his? Her eyes darkened, just a little, but he couldn’t smell fear on her. No, there was something else, something innately familiar that his body recognized before his mind could.

  Desire. It was like a shock, but a warm shock, as his body reacted before his brain could engage. This wasn’t the little girl he’d once befriended.

  He trailed his hand from her shoulder down her arm to slide in and rest on the indent of her waist. Soft curves. Warm heat. Blood pooled in his groin, his breathing quickened.

  “Then let’s not talk,” he murmured and dipped his head. She gasped at the move and his lips took hers.

  There was no slow familiarization, no tentative movements. Instant arousal, hard and sharp, gripped his body as his tongue slid against hers. Her hands rose to his chest and, for a moment, her palms flattened against his shirt and he thought she was going to push him away. He leaned his hips against hers, knew she could feel the effect she had on him. Her hands clutched at the fabric, pulling him closer, and she opened her mouth to him.

  He crowded her back against the wall, sighing as his body pressed fully against hers, feeling the soft swell of her breasts against his chest, her pants as his hand slid from her waist to her butt, pulling her closer, tighter. And all the time, their lips and tongues played.

  God, it was so hot, so fierce, this need to have her. She felt so damn good in his arms. His attraction to her last night paled in comparison to the rushing heat and desire swamping him now. He angled his head, deepening the kiss, feeling her breath mingle with his as she panted against him.

  He wanted her. Now.

  He shifted slightly, pulling her toward the door, and again encountered that impenetrable wall of resistance from the house.

  He growled, bending low and clasping her around the thighs, lifting her up against his rock-hard arousal. God, she felt so warm there. His cock swelled and all he could think about was her, surrounding him. Her arms slid around his shoulders and she thrust her breasts against him as he wrapped her legs around his waist, his coat enveloping them both.

  “Let me in,” he whispered and rocked her against his hips.

  She shuddered in his arms. Her nipples were tight little nubs against his chest. “Yes,” she moaned before dipping her head to catch his lips.

  He felt the invisible wall in her doorway disappear and he stumbled inside her home.

  With one hand cupping her butt, he trailed the other one up her body, pulling her shirt along with it. Her skin—God, it felt so good, so smooth and warm. He could feel her stomach muscles shift under his touch, and they both moaned when his hand found her lace-covered breast.

  He strode into the room, angling his head briefly to peer beyo
nd her, although she kept distracting him with those soft little pants and those sexy little hip rolls that she did against him. He tried to find some place, anywhere—The kitchen table caught his eye and he carried her over to it.

  The surface was clear—not that he cared—and he kicked a chair away, ignoring the clatter it made as it skidded across the floor. His senses were preoccupied by the smoking-hot, writhing woman in his arms. His own arousal was at fever pitch, clenching his body in a tight grip. He was so hard, so ready, stunned with the force of it, but willing to let it take control.

  He kissed her hard and long, tongue lashing against hers as he rested her butt on the edge. He took hold of her ponytail and lowered her down on to the table, their lips and tongues tangling.

  She moaned as he stepped into the juncture of her thighs and he could sense her heat, her dampness, right where he wanted to feel it most.

  His lips left hers, trailing across her jaw and partway down to her neck. He stopped short of the chain. Her pulse was hammering away in her throat, matching his in a frenzied beat. He kissed her behind her ear, gently raking his teeth against the sensitive curve of her neck. She flinched. Tensed. Then shoved him with enough force that he flew across the room until he hit the kitchen island and fell to the floor.

  She sat up on the table, her eyes glowing silver, as she clutched her neck.

  “You bastard,” she hissed.

  * * *

  How. Dare. He.

  Natalie slid off the table, trying to calm her thumping heart, to wrestle her body under control. Her knees were like jelly and she had to lean back against the table for support. Tension gripped her; she couldn’t identify whether it was fear or desire that made her feel weak. Probably both. She pushed the memories from her mind. That wasn’t now. She wanted to run. She wanted to fight. She wanted to purr. She didn’t know what she wanted.