Bite Me: A Vampire Anthology

by Cain, Addison

  Another lie.

  Tucking his phone in his pocket, Ethan bent down to press a kiss to my shoulder. “You sure you don’t want to call him? It’s going to be a fun party, you’ll see. The president’s coming.”

  And that was disgusting for a very different reason.

  Not all of my former companions had been as sweet or as horribly selfish as Ethan.

  He was a treat compared to men I was duty-bound to air kiss upon greeting. Aging men who had no memory of our long-ago, fumbling trysts, their tempers rattling my ear, or their slaps to my cheek.

  One could write off such behavior as belonging to a different time with different rules, but I’d lived long enough to know better. Some men were just lesser than their gentler peers.

  The current leader of this great nation, for example, had been just as disgusting, insecure, and chauvinistic in the 1980s as he was sitting on his fat ass in the oval office scarfing down Big Macs.

  In less than an hour I’d float past him; I’d stomach the feel of his paunch pressing against my body as he leaned forward to smear his fleshy lips across my cheek. A shudder would run through him at a whiff of my perfume, and somewhere deep down, ugly old feelings would stir.

  Desire, covetousness… fear.

  I looked so young, so fresh, how could shadow memories of my face flicker in the darker corners of his mind? The sensation of someone walking over his grave would be brushed off, ego stepping in to answer with an affable, “I knew your mother,” or “I loved you in that film.”

  Though I’d graciously say thank you, I’m not an actress.

  Not of the paid variety, anyhow.

  And I don’t have a mother.

  But the human mind had to reconcile; it had to bend.

  Weaker intellects made up the best stories.

  So I would smile, I would laugh, I would make him feel important. And then I would drift away on the night air.

  “It’s past five o’clock. You know it’s too late for me to call Papa, Ethan. He’s very old. He’s already in bed, and I can’t imagine his night nurse would be willing to poke the viper. He needs his rest.” And the sun was still up. Even if my father was awake during daylight hours, he’d be feeding at the trough of captives stored in the Cathedral, not pulling on a tux to mingle with cattle. If I were to even mention such a thing, his laughter would rail down the phone line until my ears bled.

  That is not an exaggeration.

  Puppy dog eyes in a face that had graced GQ, Ethan begged. “For me?”

  Smiling as if I’d fallen for his charm, my freshly painted red lips smiled back. “I’m happy to write a check on his behalf. How much would the senator like?”

  Before Ethan might do the unthinkable and mention a figure out loud, the pouting spectator who sat naked on the corner of my sex-mussed bed piped in. “I don’t understand why I can’t go.”

  Ethan’s latest bleached blonde’s timing was both perfect and awful.

  Adjusting his bowtie, Ethan colored. I sighed—both of us having forgotten she was in the room.

  And there was pity to be had for her. It was never pleasant to be excluded—knowing one was lesser than their peers, cut—that I understood intimately. But the three of us going through the paces knew why she couldn’t attend Senator Rothschild’s birthday party. Not that I, or Ethan, or even she would say so.

  Low class mistresses were condoned only behind closed doors, more of a light joke than treated as living flesh and bone. They were not tolerated, or heaven forbid, acknowledged publicly. Even with MTV and feminism.

  It was a mercy when we left her home.

  Where we might give her gifts and pleasure, others would eat her alive.

  Speaking of food, my stomach rumbled.

  But I refused to dine tonight; habit led me to wait, the need to feed ignored as long as my body might comply.

  I still had two days.

  Forty-nine hours to be exact.

  So, now was the time for perfume, and parties, and stolen moments with old friends who had no true recollection who I’d been in their lives.

  Now was the time to mock terrible presidents with artfully applied smiles, and know, for a fact, that they had the world’s truly smallest, most pathetic penis.

  Artfully applying a final sweep of black mascara, eyes currently a shade of blue, unlike my father’s glowing red, stared back at me. Lids dusted gold, painted to entice.

  From my bed, our blonde wrinkled her nose at our refusal to acknowledge her complaint.

  Ignoring her huff, Ethan—exactly how his grandfather Gerard had done decades before—placed his hands on my shoulders, smiling over me while I completed my toilette. In the soft light of the vanity, it seemed a tender moment, the way his thumb caressed the side of my throat sweetly as he chided, “We’re going to be late.”

  “You look very handsome in your tux.”

  How he fed on praise. That grin, those dimples, I could eat him alive.

  Not literally. Humans were vile on the tongue.

  And vampires shouldn’t be able to walk in the sun.

  Those two anomalies in my life were the very reason there were hidden cameras catching every angle of my perfectly applied smoky eye. They caught the facets of metal glinting off extremely expensive Agent Provocateur underthings. Why the gown draped over my massive bed, picked at by our resident pet, was flawless as she pouted and whined that she was not included… again.

  Lips painted the perfect shade of red. Eyes blue as the Mediterranean Sea. Skin pale but carrying the undercurrent of a long-ago bronzed people. I was alluring enough to reel any hapless mortal to an early grave.

  Yet I knew that no matter this soul-solid reality, beauty never mattered.

  Standing so Ethan might help me into my couture dress, I meant the smile I threw his way. The slip of a satin-lined gown, the cold clasp of diamonds circling my throat.

  He was perfection at preparing a woman for the slaughter.

  And I… I was perfection at leading the room by the nose.

  Knowing better than to kiss me once my lips were smeared with rouge, instead, my darling ran his fingers from my shoulder to my wrists, surprising me with a gift.

  I loved presents.

  The cuff was weighty, immaculate, and worth a small fortune.

  His grandfather, before he’d died in World War I, had given me one just the same.

  “I love you, Jade.” Brushing a stray lock of hair behind my ear, ignoring our huffing blonde, he did something a man of his station never dared. He carefully kissed my red lips.

  And was all the cuter for smearing my favorite color on his grin.

  Chapter 3

  Sipping a third glass of champagne, my red lips quirked at whatever politician’s wife Ethan was buttering up. The charm of a peacock, that one—all bright feathers and squawking.

  Spell woven, he’d fully enraptured the woman to his cause with little more than dimples and a practiced swagger.

  It was a ploy to aid the Rothschild family’s political agenda. Trying to swing a senate vote in his uncle’s favor would determine how far Ethan might take the night’s seduction.

  “Are you enjoying yourself, Miss King?” Watching the same choreographed dance across the city’s chicest hotel’s rooftop, Ethan’s powerful uncle—the mercenary and corruptible Senator Randal Rothschild himself—planted his bulk by my side.

  I was not there to enjoy myself; I was there to overhear softly whispered conspiracy. Still I offered a smile to the man of the hour. “Happy birthday, Senator. It’s a lovely party.”

  View immaculate: the glittering evening skyline of the financial district’s skyscrapers, the celebrity guest list, even the pot-bellied, bleating president holding court over the country’s greediest misers, was pageantry serving a solitary purpose.

  Clout.

  It took more than designer garments, a pedigree, fine schools, or even contacts to rule this world. The key was in the small moments of ruthlessness.

  Such as
watching my lover seduce another woman and encouraging him with a sly wink.

  “A pity your father couldn’t join us.” Pompous, fleshy cheeks reddened by bourbon and the night’s chilled air, Senator Rothschild fisted his lapel.

  I gave the unspoken complaint no weight, sipping from a coupe of champagne as I answered, “He sends his regrets.”

  “I was hoping we might discuss…”

  Money. He was hoping he might discuss my father’s money and how much Senator Rothschild might jam into his blood-drenched pockets.

  “You should marry that boy.”

  Now he had my attention. Skating my glance from Ethan’s antics to the scheming politician at my side, I quirked a brow.

  Once upon a time the senator had been handsome and charismatic like his nephew. Now aged, and powerful enough to ignore the crutch of vigor, he’d entered his twilight years, morphing more and more into a jowly blobfish. It had been an interesting transformation to behold.

  Ugly and terrible as he was, very few men could hold a stare like a cold-blooded Rothschild.

  This offer of marriage… he wasn’t flattering me. He was trying to buy my father with the gilded Rothschild’s name. Which meant he knew something I didn’t.

  Mistakes, oversights, plain fucking up, led to unspeakable punishments I had no interest in enduring. Senators didn’t throw their nephews at heiresses, no matter what the movies portrayed. “You anticipate my father will change factions.”

  “He mentioned—”

  Slipping at the mention of my father for the second time that night, I demanded an answer from a man I’d been commanded to flatter. “What did he say?”

  My eyes were blue, my dress was green, and my dark hair had been spun into classic elegance. I was everything memorable and forgettable all at once. I smelled of whale vomit and dead wood.

  A born vampire who could walk in the sun—the weakest of my kind and also the most valuable.

  Daywalker.

  The only offspring of our king.

  And I was afraid of my daddy.

  For good reason.

  When the senator went glassy-eyed under my influence, I demanded, “Tell me what he said to you.”

  “We have not spoken yet. But, immigration… he expects open borders. My platform… my base. I need to sell hate to secure the vote.”

  I didn’t give a shit about politics, and my father didn’t give a shit about people. Humans were a food source, nothing more. He demanded open borders because he wanted undocumented targets to harvest.

  I did mention that he was the devil…

  Angry, hating being caught off guard, I used the slight influence I possessed. Touching my hand to Rothschild’s fluttering fingers, I planted a seed. “You’re senate majority leader. Lying to your constituents is your only vocation. Promise them whatever they want, deliver what he wants. You don’t want to disappoint Darius King, now do you?”

  As I lacked the skill to fully enthrall, Senator Rothschild had already begun shaking off my pathetic mental influence. Ready to put a little miss in her place, he narrowed his eyes. “Well, you see, child. This is all above your pretty head.”

  I was older than him by decades. Hell, I’d fucked his grandfather! But that was neither here nor there. “Of course, sir. I apologize. It’s just that I adore Ethan.”

  “Then marry him.”

  And that, in this era of internet and images that even my people could not scrub out of existence, a marriage would grant me more time with my Ethan. I would not be easy to wash away. “I’ll mention the idea to Daddy.”

  Sauntering away, the old man crowed, “You do that.”

  Thirty years prior I might have let the thin glass of my champagne’s coupe shatter in my hand. I might have hurt that man. But I already carried enough regrets and grasped that I’d have to pay for America’s uglier desires once my father heard this… despite my obedience.

  The devil knew how to extract his due no matter how hard I’d tried to obey.

  Draining the glass in my grip, I set it on a passing waiter’s tray, reaching for another.

  Effervescent bubbles danced down my throat, everything gulped in a single swallow. Bubbly champagne spun in my belly, warmed me, but did nothing to slake the thirst I had ignored for the past week.

  Having worked my pathetic resources on that flabby prick, working to squash the impending sense of doom, I was starving.

  And no soul here could feed me.

  Often I’d flung away feeling of any sort that would not keep me breathing. Loneliness, depression, the need to run as far as I might from this horrible place. Engaging, handsome distractions had served. Obedience served.

  Alcohol served.

  I snatched another glass from another white-coated server, Cristal running down my throat.

  Next I’d marched toward the food. Caviar, candied bacon, delicacies too difficult to pronounce. I picked at the offered fare, smiling and making small talk with anyone and everyone nearby. Because that was my job.

  That’s what I was.

  A showpiece that existed only to overhear gossip and have my mind stripped at my father’s leisure.

  A fallible disappointment.

  The devil would see me crucified for the slip I’d made that night. So why not exasperate it?

  Act a fool before the masses.

  Pretend I loved it all, that I was friends with everyone. That I mattered.

  Most of my act was for the single interloper who’d invaded my stage.

  I saw him before he’d dared speak to me. Slurping down an oyster, assuring he had a clear view of how I sucked the shell as if human food were ambrosia, I sneered.

  Of course, night had fallen. My kind had arrived.

  Undying, gorgeous, and the last thing on earth I desired, he pushed through the crowd to approach. “Your father granted me rights tonight.”

  “Have we met?” I could never be sure, because I made no effort to engage with my food.

  “I’ll be careful of your fragile state.” Beautiful chocolate eyes in a Nordic face. That man had been a warrior ages ago, bore the years and experience I lacked.

  Pointing out my inferiority and documented physical weakness let me know exactly what type of male my father had sent to seed my womb. “How kind.”

  Leaning closer, the most beautiful male in attendance dared run his nose near my neck. “You smell of sunshine.”

  And he’d forgotten sunshine centuries ago. No born vampire would notice such a thing. “Let’s get this over with.”

  “I have a fine room prepared.” Smiling, thinking he might seduce by flashing the tips of his fangs, he beckoned me inside.

  “I know someplace better.” Weaving my arm through his, daughter of the king of evil, I edged him toward the exit.

  Chapter 4

  Arm in arm I led my father’s chosen stud through the city’s finest five-star hotel, down halls meant for employees, round corners no patron should see. Escorting him out the side exit where the kitchens tossed their garbage.

  A stinking alley infused with rats.

  Stiffening, the male seemed to catch on to my game. But it was too late. I had already slighted him and shown the stranger exactly what my father meant when he offered me up for the night.

  Dumpster to my right, some poor soul’s vomit to my left, I hiked up my skirt and placed my forehead against aged brick. “I’m ready.”

  No panties. Dry as a desert.

  Ass up like a cheap whore, I waited for the inevitable complaint.

  “I earned this right! There is a room upstairs where you will serve me.”

  This old speech I’d heard thousands of times. “You were told you had the right to seed me. That you’d been honored with the opportunity to potentially father the next in my bloodline.” And that was a fucking fact. “Not that I was to entertain your pleasure or cum. Get to it. I have laundry to do.”

  He wasn’t the first to enact violence when I failed to live up to the fantasy.

&n
bsp; Sexy daywalker reeking of bad perfume and the heat of sunshine. A poor vampire weakling who failed to thrive within the hive and bedded down with humans.

  How lucky I was to be granted their old cocks.

  It was the nose that always broke first. Smashed into my chosen wall as they hissed and tore down their flies.

  Not once had my father ordered they be gentle with his weakling offspring. After all, I was immortal. It might take my body time to stitch itself back together, but very few things could actually kill me.

  A violent lover certainly wouldn’t.

  And if he truly wanted the honor of fathering my child, no vampire male would take it too far. The womb must remain intact, after all. Otherwise, where would their little spawn implant?

  But before my father’s chosen might get underway, the air rippled with the chill of magic. Cursing at the interruption, the man dropped fang and hissed.

  A portal opened in our special space.

  Fuck.

  At my back, my paramour stiffened, but wisely withheld acting out further once he beheld who walked through the gate.

  “She’s been summoned. Finish your business and go.” Melodic, wondrous. I hated that voice with a passion.

  The blunt head of a half-hard cock prodded my entrance. “I slaved for this honor!”

  Blasé, cold, the perfect soldier… my despised guardian folded his arms over his chest. “Enter her, seed the womb, and make offerings to our god. Perhaps he will deem you worthy to try her again.”

  Under the Viking’s breath the slander, “Bastard,” paired with a forward thrust.

  I didn’t recognize entry, or pay any attention to the animal rutting. It’s not as if this situation were unique. All vampire-kind were consistently ordered to fuck in an effort to keep the bloodlines strong. Even the pretty asshole trying to spend his cum in me must have been forced to mate hundreds of times, considering his age.

  But I? Over and over, those who didn’t know better assumed my pussy was some prize worth having. It wasn’t.

  A sleeve to slake lust within. A potential garden for the next life.