The Better to Eat You With: The Red Journals

by Cara Villar

  My lips twitching with amusement, I watched him scoop up his tumbler of amber liquid and amble through the crowd, moving with the graceful prowl of a jungle cat as he approached the booth. He stopped before the table and looked down at me, his bright jade gaze seeming to cut the shadows away from him. His power pulsated against my body like the crash of waves on rock.

  No, he didn't know I was immortal, otherwise he would have reigned in his energy, not used it to push his desires on another. As it was, if I wasn't careful, I could drown in it.

  "Can I help you?" I asked, making my voice a little high-pitched and jittery, adding a little southern twang. Not all-together faked on the jittery—his energy made gooseflesh break out all over.

  "Yes," his voice rumbled. "You can move."

  Obviously, he was never a Neanderthal. My brows shot up. Not because of what he said, but because of his accent.

  Do I hear traces of my own British roots there? Let's see.

  "I'm sorry?" I laughed nervously, fingers clutching my glass for effect, curbing my accent and enhancing the slight southern drawl.

  "I said, you can move."

  Ding! Ding! Ding! East-end London, if I do say so myself. I wonder if he'll call me ‘poppet’.

  I shook my head at him, all wide-eyes and lip-biting. "My friends are meeting me here. If I move, I might lose them." I glanced past him, pretending to look for them.

  He pointed to the next booth, "That one is vacant."

  Shit. I let my lip tremble slightly as I stared up at him. "But they told me to wait here?" My voice was high-pitched and breathy, like I was about to burst into tears. Nothing discomforts a more than the threat of a weepy female, and yes, I was snickering in my head.

  Sighing loudly, he rubbed his eyes and slid into the booth, flicking his fingers at me to move over. Staring at him in wide-eyed innocence, I scooted, trying to inwardly shove down the instinctive urge to reach up and slide my fingers through his hair.

  "Look, pet—"

  Aww, not poppet? And did he just double-take my legs?

  "You can sit here ‘till your friends find you." He raised a finger when I beamed and attempted to express my girlish thanks. "Just stay quiet."

  I snapped my mouth shut and slumped as I looked away from him. Damn, this guy is broody. Come on, Red, what were you expecting? Cute and cuddly?

  We sat in silence for an hour. I, keeping to character, fidgeted, sighed, and cast curious glances his way. He, in return, seemingly stared into space, sipped his drink, and occasionally casts irritated glances my way—or rather, down at my bare thighs. But neither of us said anything.

  I really didn't have a clue as to how to engage in conversation with him when he'd already stated the demands of me sitting there. If I spoke, he might just get up and leave, and that would be a total blow-out for me. I needed to get him out of the bar, so I could find out what he is doing in my territory. No Vampire wanders into someone else's territory without some kind of agenda. Whether by force or by…who am I kidding? Of course, by force, I was going to find out what his agenda was.

  Finally, at about a quarter to one, I made a show of glancing at my watch, biting my lip, and then tapping my empty glass with a nail, sighing dejectedly. I gave him a furtive glance. "Um? Could you?" He looked at me, and for a moment I just stared back at him, mouth slightly open. It wasn't my character acting, was me. For a brief instant, I couldn’t take my eyes off his, too engrossed in watching the intensely deep green swirl and hum as it sucked me in like a strong current to a weak swimmer.

  Hot damn this guy is pretty! I wonder if I could mount him up and just look at him. ‘Mount him’, Red? Nice word choice.

  Shuddup.

  I shook it off with a jerk. "Could you, uh, maybe, walk me to my truck?" I cringed.

  "Friends not coming?" He asked, a smile tugging at the corner of his lush mouth as if he knew what I was thinking.

  I let my bottom lip and chin tremble and shook my head, looking down at my hands in my lap, sniffling pathetically. Looking lost and innocent, fragile and alone —something my pretty little face pulls off without even a hint of effort—made him sigh and twist for his jacket.

  "Come on, pet. I'll walk you to your truck."

  Pulling on my red coat, I slid from the booth, tugging at my super-mini skirt, and headed for the door, weaving through the mass of bodies until we got outside. The sudden quiet left my ears ringing after listening to loud pulsing music for two hours. My heart started to pound as I glanced at the chap striding beside me around the block to the parking lot. He was tall. Taller than he looked from when I had been sitting in the booth.

  Jeepers, this bloke had to be at least six-four!

  Hell, he made Gray look positively dinky.

  As we walked, I pulled up my hood and glanced at him. I'm pretty sure I saw him do a double-take on my legs again. I have good legs, I know. Toned and shapely from years of walking, and then honed with immortality. Granted, the little black skirt and over-the-knee black socks aren't my usual attire, but I have plenty of both at home, and I liked them. His brief show of appreciation warmed my skin, and pleased me beyond sensibility to know that I could have an effect on him just like he did on me—however small.

  The parking lot was lit by random pools of orange light. Only about four cars remained, scattered around, and thankfully, none near my truck. My heart was still flying in my chest, adrenaline pumping so hard my head felt giddy from the rush. He could probably hear it, and I hoped he was just putting my accelerated blood flow down to being alone with him. Something, I was sure, he was used to from women. I blinked at the irrational flare of irritation the idea of this stranger and other women caused. I mean, he was a stranger, albeit a pretty one.

  For a brief moment, I thanked my lucky stars that I had chosen to wear my DC's and not some silly high-heels. Heels could seriously detriment my up-swing. His power pulsated from his skin, so it had to be perfect. I briefly wondered if I ever touched his pale flesh, would it shock me like a live wire.

  "That's mine." I meekly gestured to the truck and he headed over, not at all surprised that the timid, shaky sound of my voice wasn't faked. I dropped back slightly, letting him stride ahead.

  The blood rushing past my ears drowned out almost everything, but the wild pounding of my heart. I dropped my arms to my sides, and casually slid my hand up the back of my top to collect the custom-made silver, titanium and iron baton pressing flush to my spine. A normal baton wouldn't do more than annoy an immortal, but the silver and titanium in this one packs a bit more of a punch for our kind. Luckily, it doesn't have much of an effect on me and was now warm from my body heat. I knew it wouldn’t take too long.

  He arrived at the driver's side of my truck and turned to face me.

  Bam!

  I swung the baton and caught him hard on the side of the head. The force of the swing and the momentum of his turn sent him spinning sideways, bashing his head on the side of my truck and denting it. I sucked in an outraged breath, as he sprawled out cold on the ground.

  "Mother F!" What is his head made of? Marble?

  Inspecting the cranium-sized dent in my truck, I turned and scowled down at the unconscious figure on the ground. "Scurvy knob jockey. Granite skull much?" I kicked his leg before pushing back the truck bed cover and tossing in the silver baton.

  Lifting him up on my shoulder—not easy with a tall bloke but I have a knack for it—I walked around to the end, and dropped his backside on the edge. His body slumped back, a satisfying thump sounding when his head hit the carpeted bed. Snickering, I hefted his feet in after him, slammed up the end, covered him up, and hopped into the driver's seat. Confident my hybrid strength would keep him out cold, I drove off to my little personalized lock-up for some questioning.

  "Encroach on my territory, will ya? Not on my watch, bitch."

  Somewhere between Summerville airport and Pine Forest Country Club, is a little industrial estate where you can rent or buy garages. Of course, for privacy
sake, I own one. After much redecorating—by way of sound proofing, reinforcing, and installing silver flecked, iron laced, titanium steel cages—I now have a wonderful little prison going on. When on the rare occasion my quarry was wanted alive, this is where my employer collected, if they were so inclined. Some just like their property escorted to a private jet. For me, personally, I much prefer an outside place for the meet-and-greet. The idea of some other Immortal knowing where I live gives me the heebie-jeebies!

  Parking the truck outside my garage in the empty lot, I hopped out and unlocked the doors, swinging them wide. Flicking on the light switch, I watched the halogen lights flicker and then pool light over each cell. I have four, all in a row down the left hand side of the garage. I smiled faintly as I narrowed my gaze and checked, as was habit, the sparkly silver and copper-colored flecks in the bars.

  Spinning on my heel, I pulled a thin hair-tie from my coat pocket, and scraped my hair back into a ponytail. No need for it to be down and lovely now, eh? I headed over to the truck and flipped down the back, shoving back the cover on the bed. The deep gouge left from the baton when I'd hit him had already healed, but the bruising and swelling was still pretty evident. However satisfying that was, it didn't compare to the distaste at having to haul his ass into the garage. Sighing—I never did like manual labor —I pulled his legs to the edge of the bed, and tapped down his jean pockets.

  "Hmmm, what do we have here?" From his front right-side pocket, I managed to slip free a rectangular shaped bit of black plastic. It felt pretty hefty, and had ridges down one side that looked like it was meant to be held in a big hand. This was one serious switchblade, if I've ever seen one.

  "This looks military," I murmured softly, glancing up at his face. "You might be built like a brick shit house, mate, but you ain't military." Shaking my head, I twisted to slide the switchblade in my back pocket and missed, because I was wearing a skirt, not jeans! "Shoot." I swooped down to grab it.

  "Bad kitty."

  My head whipped up at the sound of his deep, rumbling voice. "Sonofa—"

  His hand flew out, a flash of silver, an explosion of pain in my temple—Right before everything went dark, I managed to think, Was that my baton?

  It was a savage ache in my shoulders that awakened me, as well as a pounding in my head. It felt as if a bunch of tin cans were having a party in my skull, using my eyes as disco balls. Groaning, I went to grip my head, only to realize I couldn't. Frowning, I blinked open my eyes, squinting past bright lights, and instantly noticed I was upright with my arms were stretched above my head.

  Where's my favorite red coat?

  I was dangling from a pair of cuffs linked over the bar at the front of one of my cells. No wonder my shoulders were aching, my feet dangled at least a foot above the ground. Damn being short. Instantly, I jerked my whole body, trying to either break the cell bar, or the cuffs—both of which I knew weren't possible, because blow me, they were my cuffs and cell.

  "'Bout time, love."

  I jerked my head around, and hissed in a breath when it throbbed sickeningly. I think this guy hits harder than I do. No shit, Sherlock.

  "Thought you were gonna sleep all day!"

  "All,” I croaked and swallowed, “day?" I peered up at the dark-haired vamp, my stomach lurching into my throat when he grabbed a chair, dragged it screeching across the cement floor, and dumped it in front of the cell. His head was completely healed now, no bruising at all.

  All day?

  He dropped down into the chair, my cell phone in his hand, his heady aroma making my head swim even worse. "Yeah. I obviously didn't hit you hard enough because it’s only been a few hours. But don't worry," he sneered. “I won't make that mistake again."

  I swallowed again, this time less from a dry throat and more from the fact that I might actually be in trouble.

  "Now," he clapped his hands remarkably loud, making me wince, and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, "who do you work for?"

  I scowled at him before plastering a distinctly haughty, blank look on my face. "No one." And it was the truth…technically. I hadn't agreed to hunt anyone, yet.

  He snorted and came to his feet. "Really? Because I escorted a girl to her car and woke to find a woman. So,” he fixed steely eyes on mine, “who…do you work for?" he repeated, like I was dippy or something.

  I blinked, very slowly, enunciating, "Me-e-e."

  "That's a shame," he sighed as if I'd refused to go to prom with him. And before I could even form a frown, he backhanded me across the face.

  To say the least, it stung, made my head spin like a bitch and I could taste blood. Joy.

  "Tell me who sired you, then," he said. "That's got to be an easier subject for a pretty little thing like you."

  What was he implying? That I traded myself for a shot at forever, or that I really was so dippy I couldn't remember my employers’ name? Either way, it didn't matter. I almost sighed in resignation of my next hit. I didn't know my sire —neither of them. I never knew the wolf that had bitten me and hadn’t given him a chance to introduce himself before I tried to box him with the sharp end of an axe. I didn't know the Vampire either. I had hit him with the blunt end of the same axe.

  "Hmm?" I made a show of thinking about it as I tongued my split lip. "Oh, I know!" Pause for effect. "Bob Schroeder." Bam! Bitch slap to the other side.

  Matching set! Like shoes, underwear or stationary. My mind, I swear, carried on, going long after my head had stopped its rotation. Oh, hey, look! You have got matching bruises on your cheeks—just not the ones you thought!

  "Why did you attack me?"

  Well, now, that one I could answer. "You are in my territory," I replied, tonguing my lip again.

  "Your territory?" His brows shot up. "A tiny scrap of feminine indignation like you?" He snorted.

  I scowled. Don't dis the shortness!

  "This is my territory."

  "If it is, then your sire must have given it to you. So, again, we're back to who sired you?"

  Because I obviously couldn't take it on my own? Bastard!

  "It is mine, and I already told you Bob. He's a real neat guy. Likes baseball, d’ya know that?" I told him louder, nearly yelling as I turned my gaze back to him, wishing like hell I could reach the chains around wrapped my wrists and strangle him. Damn cuffs made it impossible!

  He backhanded me again, his face a cold, furious mask. "Tell me!" he spat, his eyes beginning to spark a golden yellow.

  "No!" I spat back with such force I swayed, cheeks flaming.

  "Who is it?"

  "Oh, for goodness—"

  "Who is it?"

  "Seriously—"

  "Who is it?"

  "I don't know—"

  "Liar!"

  "I don't!"

  "Answer my questions!" he demanded.

  Is he dense?

  "I already have! I'm self-employed, and I don't know my sires, so quit hitting—"

  "Sires?" He stared at me.

  I closed my eyes as the realization of what I had just said sunk in. Shit…how hard did this guy hit me?

  "What did you mean, sires?" He shifted closer, eyeing me with an intensity that tightened my gut like lead weight. His scent wafted around me like a sea of fragrant bubbles, caressing my skin, making me fight not to shiver. I pressed my lips together in a thin line, refusing to speak again, however many times he hit me.

  Dammit, Red, nice going. Where the hell did your brain go tonight? Your main brain is obviously in your metaphorical dick, because it sure as hell ain't in your head. Some spy you'd make, losing your cool after two minutes! Jeepers!

  I blinked, and suddenly, he was right in front of me, his bright green eyes consuming everything in sight and swirling with golden tendrils of lightning flickering through the iris. It was really quite beautiful, this one particular trait of vampirism, especially when framed by thick dark lashes and creamy pale skin, and a scent that was sharp, intoxicating and potent. But the power radiating off him mad
e my skin tingle and crackle.

  I shuddered out a breath, finally saying, "Yeah, you can't mind-control me." The gold lightning stopped abruptly and he blinked, and on went my bravado. "Although, you are pretty hot. Maybe if you strip, I'll be more co-operative." I grinned and wagged my brows, praying my heart would stop pounding, because I knew he could hear it.

  A target had taunted me like that before, using sexual innuendo and the fact that I was female against me. He had assumed wrongly. Just because I was a woman, didn't mean I got offended by everything sexually disgusting or provocative. At first, it had been funny, but after a while, it was just repetitive. I remembered being so irritated I'd ended up just knocking him out to shut him up.

  Maybe vamp guy here will do the same with me, so I won't have to worry about answering his questions?

  "What are you?" he breathed, leaning in close again.

  His power was pounding me from head to toe, tingling across my skin and making me think things highly inappropriate for the circumstances. What was my game plan? His scent wrapped around me like a thick blanket, making my thoughts fragment under a barrage of naughty images before I could answer. Oh yeah! That was it?

  "Uh, take your shirt off, and I'll give you a hint," I leered, or I tried to. I've never leered before, and it felt kind of like a cringe on my face.

  His lips curved in amusement confirmed it. "You smell like Vampire, but your heart pounds so fast."

  Vampires’ hearts beat, but only after heavy exertion, and even then it’s, like, only one or two thuds. Mine was like a butterfly on amphetamines.

  He leaned in then, his lips brushing my neck, his hands brushing the bare skin at my waist beneath my top. "But there's so much more, isn't there?" His mouth whispered over my neck as he spoke, and my senses zoomed in on the sensation sparking under them. The hint of teeth grazed, and my whole body tensed as I fought the shiver of gooseflesh and the pains in my chest spreading outwards with every frantic beat of my heart.

  My attraction was swiftly turning to panic. "Are you going to bite me?" I asked, my voice shaky, the scent of my own fear acrid and insulting as it fragranced the air around us. The very thought of being bitten suddenly became clear and precise, frozen and bitter cold in its clarity. I didn’t want to be bitten. I had been bitten twice before, and still had the scars. I didn’t ever want to be bitten again. Not ever. By anything.