The Better to Eat You With: The Red Journals

by Cara Villar

  “Nummy-nummy.” I plopped down on my elbows in front of him and watched with avid anticipation as the rest of the kitchen finished cleaning up. Must have been a busy night, they were usually done by now, the scent of garlic and red wine steaks was still strong as hell, indicating they’d been at it until just recently.

  Maybe I’m onto something with this bottling smells thing. Although, I’d probably be starving all the time. Good thing they can’t bottle it, then, eh? Otherwise, I’d see random women walking down the street, one whiff, and they’d be a juicy rump steak on legs. Beef Baguette to go?

  Clearing my throat, I peered up at Gray as he piled on lettuce, red onion, gherkins and cheese—the spicy kind—drool—and wondered why he did this each night I came in. He plays it all rough and cranky, but deep down he has such a warm heart.

  “Bet your wife don’t know how you cater to strays, huh?” I smiled warmly as his brow arched up.

  His dark eyes flashed up to mine, sparkling. “If I don’t feed you, she’ll hit me with a newspaper again.” He grumbled, and I barked a laugh.

  According to Belinda, Gray’s wife, I was far too scrawny and obviously under-nourished, but then she was a curvy Greek goddess. Gray was under strict instructions to pile me high with calories whenever I came in. Probably why he slid the steak baguette over to me then went straight to the fridge, lifting out the three-tiered chocolate fudge cake and slicing off a hefty portion before adding a dollop of cream.

  My mouth, poised around my first bite of the baguette, watered. He caught me gazing hungrily and grinned, mumbling something that sounded distinctly like “cow-eyes for chocolate, but never a man.”

  What’s that supposed to mean?

  After demolishing the juicy steak baguette, I gave Gray the customary hug he hated, listened to him bitch about it before I told him we couldn’t mess with tradition or I’d tell his wife. I left him shaking his head and wandered back out into the night, checking the time.

  A quarter to three, and a text message from Jade—the Shifter best friend I never see, but is always there like unicorns and multiple orgasms.

  Jade: Yo chic!

  Me: Yo Puddytat. Working. Why? Miss me?

  As if she was waiting for me, the reply was instantaneous.

  Jade: Duh! You’re like my favorite doll, if only you wouldn’t wonder off!

  Always picking on my height! Freaking glamazon.

  Me: Ha-ha. Where are you?

  Jade: Chicago. Overseeing new club opening

  What? Ah okay.

  Me: Is the windy city mighty pretty?

  I was grinning. Jade and her brother, Fletch, owned paranormal bars all over the country, and after making a name for themselves, just kept on opening them. Female’s worth more than I am!

  Jade: You’ve been watching Calamity Jane again! What have I told you about that crap?

  I snickered.

  Me: Doris Day is epic. You swinging by to see me when you’re done?

  Jade: Doris Day is not epic. And duh. I will let you know when. Love you, chic!

  Me: Love you, puddytat.

  Sighing, I slipped my phone back in my pocket, and glanced around the empty street. Kicking my heels, I wandered around, doing another sweep of my territory before dawn, and then headed home as the sky started to glow pink.

  I didn’t get even a whiff of the guy from the booth. His trail just…stopped at the door of the bar. I’d wandered up and down the streets for an hour looking for any trace of him. Even after topping up my scent boxes with a sniff at the rim of the tumbler, I still couldn’t find him. I went bouncing to a couple rooftops and sniffed around, wondering if maybe he went hopping too.

  Nope.

  Nothing.

  Nada.

  Was I disappointed? Maybe a little, but it had nothing to do with how good he smelled. Really.

  Sighing, I trekked the few miles back to my truck—a Dodge Ram fifteen-hundred in a pretty blue with chrome trim, and yes, it makes me purr. Hopping—literally—into the cab, I started her up, and began the silent drive on to route twenty-six to Goose Creek.

  The neighborhood is good, quiet and private. I used to live in the busier part of town for convenience, but I couldn’t take the noise. Even for a small city, it kept waking me. Add to that, the scents during the day that were muted at night were too much to bear. When my clothes, hair and even bath towels started to smell like greasy food and car fumes, I knew it was time to consider moving. The constant scowl from scent and sound was making me cranky.

  A cranky Red is a total bitch, not even I like her.

  Hopping back out of the truck in a cloud of the new blueberry scented air-freshener I had bought, I shuffled quietly across the circular, gravel drive. I followed the path to the quaint, two-tone, red brick sprawling bungalow porch while digging my keys from my pocket.

  Entering my home is a mission in disabling my custom security system. I have a sensor around the door that was designed by a very special friend of mine who happens to be a technological god. A genius who is a cutesy, purring wrapper of hot-damn!

  Anywhoo, I digress. The sensors are spread throughout my home like a grid, and detect all supernatural beings, be they big enough to walk through my walls or small enough to crawl up my drain. Unless I’ve cleared them, of course. Can’t have guests’ brains turned to mulch in my entryway. The key pad beside the door is deactivated only by my hand print and a twelve digit code known only to me. I also have a retinal scanner, but only use it when my house is on total lock-down.

  When set to maximum, every surface shimmers with a shield sensor, burning anything that tries to pass through it. When set to minimum, cross-hatched laser-lights beam around the rooms, constantly moving. If, by some miracle, someone does get past the windows, doors, or walls, a screeching alarm goes off. I then have thirty seconds to get into my ‘command room’—or get whoever I don’t want in there out, before the rooms go into lockdown, effectively shutting anyone inside in, and anyone outside out. From there, I have complete coverage of the entire house and whoever entered. All I have to do is wait for the reinforcements notified by my alarms.

  Cue evil-witch cackle.

  My cutesy, purring genius person made me some pretty epic toys to play with if ever someone was stupid enough to try to get into my house. I will always love him for these personalized, toys.

  Setting the alarm to active neutral—set, but don’t kill the owner—I tossed my keys in my little, deep blue china bowl and scanned the shadows of my home.

  I’d bought the house on a whim, if I was honest. I had checked size, condition, location and price, but that was it. I had my priorities and good-looks weren’t one of them. Yet, in the last few months I’d lived here, I’ve come to think of it as mine, and had even started putting my own little signature on the place: fresh paint, new couch, revived the kitchen, knocked down a wall and expanded the bathroom.

  What can I say? Bounty hunting paid well, and I have a terrible nesting habit.

  The only thing missing was pictures. Photos. Life.

  I had vases from Syria and wall hangings from India. I had bed spreads from France and a ceremonial mask or two from Africa. Hell, I even have a pale, opalescent silk kimono with cherry blossom trees lovingly etched into it from a very grateful Japanese Ghoul Goshuujin, after I had returned his wayward, newly-made Ghoul child.

  Creepy, yet appreciated.

  The main thing that was all me in the house was the extensive kitchen, baking equipment and the floating shelves in the lounge filled with small carved animals. The knickknacks were pieces of my heart, lined up on a shelf, polished and cared for lovingly, despite the painful memories they held.

  Anything else about my life was all but buried in a two-century old trunk at the bottom of my bed, containing too many memories that made my heart ache with raw need. It was a trunk I never opened. I wasn’t going to open it up for anything or anyone.

  Flipping on the study light, I headed straight for the laptop and popped
it open, setting the tumbler down to the side as I slouched into the smooth, cool leather chair. The fan fired away as the screen lit up. Pulling up my inbox, I rifled through the latest emails on my just-disposed-of-bounty, and replied with a brisk, business-like note about the success of the job and where the bounty was located. Once they found the unfortunate fellow in the ravine, I’d get paid the other half of my fee.

  Woohoo!

  Hitting send, I watched the little animation flutter the envelop away and then checked the inbox for any more jobs. Only two really caught my eye. One was a mass request for information, and possible apprehension, of a Vampire going by the name of Ambrose. I snorted. Presumptuous much? Ambrose means ‘immortal’ in Greek. I shook my head, Vampires are so arrogant. This Ambrose was wanted for murder, suspected kidnapping of multiple races and inciting rebellion amidst the clans. He was last seen in Illinois.

  I mentally shrugged. No harm in keeping an eye out.

  The other was a warning as well as a request. Immortals were going missing around the globe; specifically individuals of unique heritage or species, and half-breeds of unusual mixes, like me. I’d never met another Vampire-wolf hybrid since my turning. But the email expressly noted a young female Nymph with the fascinating—and thought to be extinct—gift of Enlivening; bringing living things on the cusp of death back to life. A set of Gryphon twins, when Gryphons tended to only birth one pup every two or three centuries, a Jaguar Shifter turned Incubi, and multiple other Immortals and hybrids. The list went on.

  Could this be the suspected kidnapping Mr. Immortal from the previous emails was wanted for? Hmm, something to ponder...or not.

  I cringed. I was steering well-clear of that one. Being a hybrid tended to make you a target at the best of times. Being out-right hunted was no longer on my funnest-things-to-do list. I’d been the hunter too long by then.

  Trudging through the remaining mundane requests, my mind started to wander, and somehow ended up fixating on the tumbler and the power signature of the man in the booth from earlier in the night. His scent was still clear and enticing in my mind as I lifted the cool glass towards me.

  I won’t lie and say my inability to track him didn’t eat at me, because it did. A scent like that doesn’t just disappear into thin air. Even a strong wind couldn’t disperse something that strong; there would still be remnants on the ground. There was also no clear sign, from what I could recall, as to what the man was. Vampire? Were? Ghoul? Nymph? Could be anything. If I were gonna hazard a guess, I’d say Vampire, but purely because of the paleness of that hand. However, I couldn’t be sure. I’d met pale Weres from Siberia before. Skin color doesn’t mean anything in any world. The only thing I could say about the signature for sure was that the guy was old. Maybe even older than me.

  Shocking. Although…hmm…a challenge, for a change.

  I can’t say I was not looking forward to a bit of a break in the long, long line of easy prey. The Were in me likes to hunt. Hell, so does the vamp in me, but there’s nothing quite like the anticipation of it all. I know from experience that the older the prey, the stronger they are and the more of a fight they put up. Oh, my inner-duo was purring in sync with anticipation, all glowy-eyes and fangy-grins.

  So, where the hell did he go?

  Frowning hard at my screen, not really seeing the emails anymore, I determined that I’d look again tomorrow, probably check the bar again a little earlier. Gray said the guy had been there the last few nights. Maybe I’d catch him, and not lose him.

  Scowling, I inhaled one last tantalizing trace of the ice and anise aroma on the glass before setting it away. The lingering enticement of it whirled around my mind, and I knew it was going to follow me into my dreams. My scowl turned wicked as my lips curved. A smoky little dream wouldn’t be a bad thing I supposed, and I always believed one should know one’s prey. As the scent is all I knew….

  I leaned back in my seat and extended my arms up, my shoulders and spine crunching. The yawn that bloomed as I stretched was my single, obvious hint that some downtime was due. Gotta clean my chain yet…sigh. Closing the laptop, I wandered off to the kitchen to clean my weapons, and then to bed to rest. Hopefully, I’d catch the sucker the next night.

  2

  The next night, I went back to Montreux's around eleven o'clock. I dressed the part of young little hot-thing, stinking of small-town girl, complete with ridiculously short black skirt that sat perfectly just below my butt, unless you were sitting down. A long sleeved black top with a neckline that plunged right down past my cleavage to play peek-a-boo with my bra, and over the knee black socks completed the ensemble. I was, of course, wearing my pink and black DC's.

  Call me alternative.

  Lucky for me, Gray wasn't in, so approaching the stranger wasn't gonna get me any killing glares from a pissy barman that could blow my cover. However, Mr. Mysterious-power-signature-lovely-smelling-dude wasn't there either. I ordered a double white Russian with ice at the bar, and headed straight for the booth Gray had said Mr. Mysterious always sat in, sliding into the shadowed back.

  I could instantly see why he sat here. You could see the front door, the entire bar, the surrounding floor, and the fire exits. Clever prey.

  Half of an hour later, Mr. M turned up.

  I sucked in a sharp breath laced with the taste of anise, ice and potent power. Hot-damn, that stuff was like a sniff of aphrodisiac. And, oh, what a surprise he was. Even if his power-signature and anise-flavored scent hadn't preceded him, I could have easily picked him out of a line-up for being supernatural. His hair was a dark, thick, caramel-streaked sweep up from his forehead, seeming to stick out in chunky spikes from his face in an intentionally messy style that, I'm sure, was designed to make girls want to run their fingers through it.

  Grip-me-tight-and-I'll-go-faster.

  His skin was pale like cream and just as flawlessly smooth, marred by nothing but a faint pink blush in his cheeks. He was almost...opalescent, shimmering, making fairy wings and pixie-dust come to mind. The fairness of it only enhanced the dark arc of lashes that, even from the booth, I could see framed a shocking set of bright green eyes, shadowed by the dark slashes of his brows. His nose was straight and pointed, his cheekbones sharp, as if carved from granite, and his jaw was lightly shadowed, square and stubborn looking. His lips were full, the lower one slightly more so, and almost heart-shaped, even with the tense attempt at thinning them, defining his teeth beneath the kissable flesh. And therein lay the give-away.

  Vampire.

  The instant knowing trickled across my senses like a caress at the sight of him, wrapping me in a cocoon of his scent, power and sheer presence. If last night’s bounty had half-as much pull as this guy, I’d have caved to his seduction in an instant. I felt a draw to this Vampire in the stutter of my heartbeat and the ragged exhale of my sigh. The urge to fling myself at him like an excited mutt dry-humping it's owner was near over-powering, and my flesh tingled once more as it rose up in gooseflesh as if reaching for him and making me shiver.

  Damn predatory Vampires.

  His tall frame was decked out in a pair of dark blue faded jeans and a dark grey V-neck shirt, highlighting his pale pearlescent gleam. As he shrugged his old-school red and black leather bike jacket off his wide shoulders, I suddenly wanted one just like it. I arched a brow at the lean, muscular lines hinted at under his dark clothes. The bloke was cut! No doubt about it. Practically the poster-boy for I'm-bad-and you-know-it with a whole load of come-be-wicked-with-me-for-a-night backing it right up, no woman could turn that gaze down once it was trained on them. I glanced around, noticing a few female heads were already turned, lighting this place up with a whole lot of spicy, musky scents.

  Yeah...irresistible to women. Good thing I'm immune. Cue the self-derisive snort.

  Immortals were more inclined to be attractive to their prey. It was part of the being-a-predator thing. Make the prey come to you, and hunting was that much easier. I'd grown accustomed to the altered image of my
self over the years, mostly because it became more and more defined as the decades passed, the familiar, yet unfamiliar, face staring back at me every evening in the mirror.

  My once-poker-straight, dull, red-tinted, blonde hair wasn't so flat or unmanageable and didn't really need washing half as much for it to be glossy and rich. Falling like temptation down my back, it curled beguilingly at the ends in a hue of radiant dark strawberry-blonde. My skin had a pale flawlessness, as opalescent as his, not a blemish in sight. Unless you considered freckles a blemish, which I did. Blah! My lips were a glossy, rosy hue, my lashes longer, darker, thicker, framing eyes that had once been a pale blue but were now an unusual bright teal color. Even my body, once soft and feminine, was now lean and supple; every curve had been enhanced for maximum effect. Everything about me screamed 'otherworlder', whether I liked it or not.

  However, despite my Vampire counterpart hitting front and center on my appearance, my wolfy side was ace at camouflage. If I willed it so, my skin toned down, my hair shined less, my eyes gleamed softer making me look more human, right down to the scent in my skin. I smell deliciously edible and predators love me, but I have no idea what exactly my scent is. Alas, I cannot smell myself. I was perfect at luring in my prey with the impression of harmlessness, and in most males, bringing out the Neanderthal need to protect.

  Mr. M's eyes scanned the crowd as he leaned on the bar and waited for his drink. His eyes locked on me and his booth almost instantly, and his head cocked to the side. I tried to gauge his reaction, wondering if my immortal status screamed at him as strongly as his did to me. His brows shot up in surprise, and then a deep scowl tightened his handsome features.

  I rolled my eyes in the shadows. That's it, ignore the pretty girl and get territorial over your seat. I'd picked his booth because I wanted to see his reaction and get him to talk to me. I was planning on playing small-town-girl-a-little-drunk-and-gasp!-i-can't-find-my-friends. Easy prey, it really didn’t get much more inviting than that.