Biting Oz: Biting Love, Book 5

by Mary Hughes

  “Shee-it. Glynn, you have to hide!”

  “I know. Pretend to be sleeping.” Tossing me under the covers, he paused long enough to kiss my forehead and give the room one last scan before snapping off the light.

  My door opened just as he disappeared under the bed.

  I curled on my side, clamped my eyes shut and thought blank thoughts, putting myself half-under in two seconds. When you deal with parents like mine, you learn to power-nap.

  The door cracked. “Junior?” called a soft mezzo. Well, soft as operatic sopranos went. They probably only heard her a block away.

  Mom leading meant they were worried instead of angry. Pop first meant a lecture.

  I breathed deeply, regularly. Emanated narcoleptic vibes. Junior’s asleep, fast asleep. Nothing’s wrong, go back to bed.

  Silence, but I knew better than to relax.

  “I don’t like this, Gunter. I know I heard the bed squeak.”

  Oh please. Don’t let my mom say what she’s thinking.

  She didn’t. My dad did, at ninety decibels. “She is having sex?”

  I clamped my eyes harder, honk-shued louder. Junior’s asleep. Go away.

  Then, because the whole neighborhood hadn’t heard it, my mother said at a airport levels, “If she’s having sex, where is her young man?”

  To my utter horror, I heard Pop drop heavily to his knees and felt the bed skirt lift.

  My eyes sprang open. Glynn was rolling across the floor. I choked on a gasp. He scrunched into a corner of the room, put a finger to his lips.

  I clamped eyes again. My head hurt.

  “Nothing under here, Rosalinda.” The scrape of my father getting to his feet and the slap of him removing nonexistent dust evened my breathing. Then, thankfully, I heard the shuffle of his feet toward the door.

  “I still don’t like this, Gunter.”

  Dammit.

  “What would you have me do, Rosalinda?”

  “You check the bathroom. I’ll search the room.”

  Which, postage-stamp size that it was, would give her all of two seconds to find Glynn in his corner. Then there’d be worse than hell to pay. Worse than a lecture. There’d be I-told-you-so.

  My mother’s brisk stride around the room told me she’d started her search. Fearful, I cracked an eye.

  Glynn’s corner was empty.

  I checked out the second corner. Where the hell was he? Hiding my desperation with a big stretch, I rolled onto my other side. Checked out the other two corners.

  No Glynn.

  “No man in the bathroom, Rosalinda.”

  “And none in the room, Gunter.”

  WTF? If Glynn wasn’t in the corners, or under the bed, or in the bathroom, he must be in…

  “I will check the closet, Gunter.”

  I jerked up to stop her—just as she snapped open the door.

  Their backs were to me. Two heads peered in, one silver, one black as mine. “I do not see anything, Rosalinda.”

  I lay back down, pronto. If Glynn wasn’t in the bathroom or the room or the closet… My gaze landed on the ceiling.

  Where he braced like Spiderman.

  I blinked. Fecking freak-my-nomics, he was wedged between the ceiling fan and the wall, obvious as a prom day zit. If my folks had been any taller, they’d have hit heads on his belt buckle as they went by.

  I beat my lids frantically in SOS. Get out of here now.

  He took the cue better than the folks had. While they were head-deep in the closet, he jumped down. He landed silently, all strength and agility, and filtered out the door.

  I curled up around my frantically beating heart, hoping my parents didn’t hear it. Talk about Poe’s tell-tale. That was too damned close.

  On the bright side, at least they hadn’t caught us bumping happy nuggets. That would’ve been as bad or worse than the kidnapper catching me…

  I barely avoided swearing out loud. I’d had Glynn in the perfect position to “convince” him about our plan to trap the kidnapper, and all I’d done was orgasm. Now how would I make that sale?

  Entr’acte

  Glynn glided through the night shadows, like the dangerous beast that he was—mostly. His shirt was drying and starting to stiffen, an uncomfortable reminder that he was three kinds of fool.

  She’d said no. After giving him a taste of her luscious skin, her sweet sex, she’d said stop.

  He’d honored that the only way he could, by getting the hell out of there.

  He should have stayed away, but then she’d have fallen from the roof window and perhaps died. Although the explosion of desire had nearly killed them both. It had certainly burned him to cinders.

  Sex had never been so good, so…sweet. So fresh and new.

  He didn’t understand why. Normally sex was no big deal. He had it when he needed it, with vampires because humans were fragile and the few he’d slept with in the early days had the annoying tendency to become enthralled.

  Junior not only had not become enthralled, she’d stopped him. It confused him. Intrigued him. Made him wonder about things he’d heard but had dismissed as impossible.

  It was still impossible. He was leaving when the show closed. Even if he weren’t, he was centuries old to her twenty-five years. He might live millennia more. If she took care of herself, Junior might live a single century.

  There was absolutely no future for him and her.

  Why was he thinking about Junior, anyway? His job was to protect Mishela. Not from rabid fans, as most thought, but to prevent her from being used as a bargaining chip between the two most powerful groups of vampires in the Midwest, the Iowa Alliance and the Chicago Coterie.

  His cell rang. He barely suppressed a jump. When had he changed it from vibrate? He was damned lucky the caller hadn’t phoned earlier when Junior’s parents were in the room and he was on the ceiling.

  He dug the phone from his pocket and checked the number. Elias. Not luck, then. The ancient vampire’s timing bordered on eerie. “Sir.”

  “I have new intel, Rhys-Jenkins. The opposition will make an attempt on Meiers Corners within the week.”

  Glynn snorted. “Nosferatu’s already tried to annex the city, undermine the Alliance protector here and invade the city’s blood center. We’ve beaten him back every time. Hasn’t he learned anything from his failures?”

  “Strictly speaking, it was his lieutenant who failed. Now that my lieutenant has destroyed his, making him look weak, it’s forced him to take a more direct hand.”

  Glynn thought that over. “Should I be worried about Mishela, sir?” Or Junior.

  “No more than before. Although things might turn uncomfortable for you.”

  “How do you mean, sir?”

  “There are only indications…ah, but perhaps I’m being overly pessimistic. I will say this. When the right one comes along, all others fade away.”

  At the Ancient One’s words, Junior’s taste rang on Glynn’s nose and tongue, clear as a bell, individual as a fingerprint. He could even sense her from here, as if she was a part of him.

  He shook himself. All vampires could locate a donor by the unique blood-taste/blood-scent. Though the distance varied by vampire age, Elias and his infernal training had made Glynn one of the best. Of course he could sense Junior. He’d tasted her. It was nothing special. And Elias’s words meant nothing special.

  Glynn gritted his teeth. Sometimes Elias played his Wise Ancient persona to annoying perfection. “I’m sorry, sir. I don’t understand.”

  “Never mind. I really called to let you know I’ll be offline for a few days.”

  “Still working to keep vampire households from going bankrupt, sir?”

  “The economy’s hitting us all hard. I’m infusing what liquid cash I can, but we’re hemorrhaging money.” He made a deep sound of disgust. “I’d rather be funding Mishela’s musical, but I suppose vampire civilization takes precedence.”

  “Yes, sir. Good luck, sir.”

  “Luck. We all ne
ed it, but especially… Well, good luck to you as well, Rhys-Jenkins.”

  Glynn hoped he was imagining the pity he heard in Elias’s voice.

  Chapter Eight

  The sheer terror of nearly getting caught with a man in my room (even at my age—my parents guilted me early and often, and like an inoculation it’s become part of me) gave me a brain-popping burst of adrenaline. As my parents clumped out of the room, everything—Dirk’s vampires, the howling, the attacks, Julian and Glynn’s unnatural handsomeness, and especially Glynn’s teeth at my throat—everything came together with a bang.

  Vampires were real. And Glynn, who’d sunk fangs into my throat, was one.

  I should have been afraid. A vampire had bitten me. I should worry that it would turn me into a minion.

  But hadn’t it triggered a kickass climax?

  No, no. I needed to be frightened. Glynn was an evil, blood-drinking creature of legends. He’d bitten me.

  Yet when I put fingers to neck, my skin was smooth and whole. No blood, no holes. And he’d wiped his climax off my belly with his own T-shirt.

  Kinda tidy for an evil creature.

  I gave myself a mental slap. Vampire. Monster. Not Mr. Clean with an overbite. I needed to be scared, to report him to the authorities. Glynn, and all the vampires, like Julian…

  Although what about Julian? If he was a vampire, shouldn’t Nixie be paler? More zombielike, less sassy? Infinitely less pregnant? Fear started to fade.

  I gave myself another slap. Glynn was a predator. Vampire. When he drank ginger ale, he used real Ginger.

  But I wasn’t named Ginger, wasn’t even a redheaded Brit. And compared to abusive boyfriends, axe-murdering husbands, SOs who picked their noses in public… So my boyfriend was a vampire, so what?

  I brain-slapped myself so hard I nearly gave myself a concussion.

  My boyfriend?

  Vampires were not suitable for boyfriends. The whole biting thing, though extremely sexy, was dangerous, especially neck bites. The brain’s blood highway ran close to the surface. One wrong poke and I’d be headed to the great Sausage Store in the Sky.

  So, okay. I needed to stay out of Glynn’s bed.

  But both he and I were stuck in Meiers Corners for the moment, me in the pit until Mr. Big Broadway Backer hit us with his money wand and sent us to New York, and Glynn guarding Mishela. Business Truth #3 was “If you can’t run, gut it out.” I’d just have to suck it up and deal.

  Although Business Truth #6 said “Keep your eyes open and on the customer.” Being stuck here didn’t mean I couldn’t keep alert. My eyes were definitely staying on Glynn. On his square jaw and miles-broad shoulders and tight butt…

  Maybe I should have stuck Business Truth #2 in there. Focus, Junior.

  Business Truth #4 was “All’s well that ends well”. Glynn might be a bloodsucking creature of the night, but so far all he’d done was protect me, comfort me and give me the best orgasms of my life. Things could have been worse (with a nervous finger-wave to Murphy). Glynn stopped when I said no. He was considerate of my parents. If that didn’t prove his self-control, nothing did.

  So maybe the bed thing could work after all?

  No, no. This was what was most dangerous about vampires. I wanted Glynn so badly I was talking myself into believing he was harmless. Which he definitely was not. Even if his bite didn’t bleed me out, a couple more might make me a minion or worse.

  So no going to bed with Glynn anymore, despite Mishela’s and my plan.

  Our plan. Crap-ay diem, crap the day. Without a bed, how was I going to convince Glynn to go along with our plan? He’d never leave Mishela open for snatching. Not the guy who was Mr. Protector Universe.

  But how else were we going to flush such an unusually strong, fast kidnapper from hiding?

  Unnaturally strong and fast, almost faster than Glynn…wait. If Glynn was a vampire, didn’t that argue the kidnapper was too?

  Well, phooey. With all these vampires in Meiers Corners, how would we plain humans defend ourselves?

  My mind started wandering, the way it does before falling asleep. Glynn could rescue me, but I’d rather rescue myself. Superstrong, superfast vampires were not the usual enemy, but maybe there were special techniques.

  Hmm. Maybe ask Mr. Miyagi. Tae kwon do, hapkido and vampido.

  Somewhere between wondering if it would feature kicks, punches or stakes, I fell asleep.

  Thursday was the VIP opening, but I didn’t remember that when I got my carcass up at the usual half-past ohcrap. My brain was freewheeling on vampires and orgasms, and the gray, drizzly day didn’t help. I taped my numb toes, drank a full mug of coffee on autopilot and stumbled downstairs, hazier than a fog machine set on stupid.

  No sooner had I turned the sign to geöffnet than Rocky Hrbek ran in, sans flute, shockingly enough. But she said, “Junior, quick. I need a pound of blood sausage to go.”

  “But…but you’re a vegetarian.”

  “It’s not for me.” She wiped hands on her neat slacks, streaking them a little. “It’s for my supervisor at CIC. She goes nuts for the stuff. You know I wouldn’t ask just for me, and I certainly wouldn’t disturb you before your second cup of coffee.”

  “How did you know…?”

  “Your eyes are cracked open a third. They raise a third for each cup.”

  Either she was more observant than I knew or I seriously had to consider twelve-stepping caffeine. “I think I have some blutwurst left.” I did, but not much. I dug it out, weighed off a pound and wrapped it. Made automatic customer service small talk. “So how’s the new job?”

  “Tough. Interesting. Disturbing.”

  I stopped wrapping. Disturbing, like vampires disturbing?

  “They’ve raised the rates.”

  “Oh?” I finished wrapping sausage, hospital-corner neat, no mean feat with unboxed product. “On the insurance policies?”

  “Yes. But only on Meiers Corners business policies.”

  “Can they do that?” I snicked off tape, sealed the package.

  “Yes and no. It’s supposed to be about risk. A car stored in Windowsmash City will cost more than the same car in SafetyRUsburg.”

  “Meiers Corners is high risk?”

  “Well, maybe because it’s near Chicago. But that’s not all. I overheard a couple billing clerks talking.”

  I made tell me more noises as I rang up her sausage.

  “They were ordered to change the premium payment method for all Meiers Corners businesses. Especially the Sparkasse Bank.”

  “Payment method? Like from check to credit card?” While she dug for money, I snapped out a bag, slid the sausage into it and held it out to her.

  “No. Like from monthly to yearly. Due immediately.”

  I nearly dropped the bag. My folks’ insurance was a thousand bucks a month. If we had to fork over a year’s worth right now, we’d have to do without little extras, like food.

  “I’m sure it’s just a mistake.” Rocky grabbed the bag. “That’s what this is for. I’m hoping to sweeten a few dispositions.” She paid and ran off.

  Mulling over Rocky’s info, I wandered back to storage to get more blutwurst. Opening a refrigerator, I stared at empty shelves, my stock sadly depleted. Sure was a lot of blood sausage getting sold, to Twyla and Rocky and Julian…

  Blood sausage. Vampires. It should have scared me, or at least disgusted me. Idiot that I was, I only thought ooh, a new potential market.

  I had my second and third cups of coffee, which helped but not enough. The day was so dreary. Even when the rain finally stopped, it was gray, a fog cloud settled on the street. I wandered to the front windows, thought about being depressed but couldn’t summon up the will to care.

  I wondered if the weather would help us attendance-wise or hurt. Maybe help. If people couldn’t garden or have cookouts, why not go to a show?

  Store traffic was down, but the few times the bell did tinkle my body tensed, still hoping for Big Dark and Dangerous,
I guess. Although he probably wouldn’t show up during the day, since vampires supposedly roasted in the sun. On the other hand, it was cloudy. Probably just a legend anyway.

  Then I remembered the burning scent in the limo last night and nearly spat coffee. Not a legend. That woke me, finally.

  I by-damn didn’t want Glynn hurt, so at six fifteen I tugged on my pink satin jacket (puke pink, and my mother bought it for me when I was in eighth grade, which tells you about the style, but it’s my only spring outerwear that’s waterproofed) and parked self and instruments on the sidewalk. The instant the limo materialized out of the fog, I tossed my sax inside, catching Glynn square in the breadbasket, which stopped him from getting out and frying.

  I didn’t have the proper privacy to promote the kidnapper-trapping plan, and I really didn’t want to discuss last night. So I slid in with a lot of nontalk, empty pleasantries to fill up the space as I sluiced my braid and shucked the damp jacket. Glynn sliced me a look so narrow I nearly bled and Mishela frowned, but I kept it bright and vapid and kept my hands busy pinning the braid in a giant black cinnamon roll on the back of my head until we pulled into the underground lot at six thirty.

  Tonight’s performance was for patrons, complete with posh reception. Since their VIP-y review of the show determined whether seats were filled for the general opening Friday, which in turn determined word-of-mouth to pack seats through closing, which finally determined if the Broadway backer was impressed enough to infuse our show with mega amounts of lovely cash, I’d have thought they’d be pouring champagne and caviar into the patrons before curtain. But the reception was after, and they were going with beer and cheese balls, the Meiers Corners equivalent, I guess.

  The parking lot was already half-full, which was great. Hopefully that’d mean sell-outs for the weekend. Friday and Saturday were especially good for funny shows because precurtain dining and drinking helped make happy crowds.

  Helped, but you never knew. No matter how logically you thought it out, how well you planned, success in the arts always contained an element of luck. That’s why theater people are so superstitious.