The Last Vampire: Book Two

by R. A. Steffan

  He seemed pretty far out of it. His stillness was kind of disconcerting until I realized that I was expecting his chest to rise and fall beneath me. Which, of course, it wasn’t doing because he was a vampire, and didn’t need to breathe.

  No breathing, no heartbeat. And yet, I knew exactly how much life resided inside that still form. I’d felt it. Several times now, in fact.

  True, it was borrowed life—taken from those whose blood he drank. And I probably should have pressed the issue of him drinking from me harder last night. It was pretty obvious that without the turbo boost from my succubus blood to offset it, sex with me had drained him pretty badly.

  Or maybe that was what he’d wanted? After all, here he was—completely relaxed and seemingly oblivious to the world, long hours after we’d finished. I wasn’t about to begrudge him that.

  It was still early, judging by the golden light slanting through the window. Now that I was conscious, though, reality was starting to clamor for my attention again. I was wide awake now, practically brimming with the energy I’d stolen from the man beneath me. With slow movements, I extricated my body from his, pausing to press a kiss to his lips when he stirred.

  “Shh,” I whispered. “I’m just going for a shower. It’s still early.”

  He settled back, and I slid off the bed. The spaghetti straps of my ripped nightgown were still looped around my shoulders, leaving the ruined garment hanging down my back like some sort of bizarre cape.

  Super Slut, I thought, a flush of giddy heat rising at the memory. But, shit, I was apparently the granddaughter of a sex demon and I’d somehow bagged a seven-hundred-year-old vampire as a fuck buddy.

  I was damn well going to own it.

  I let the silky fabric slide down my arms and grabbed it in one hand. Totally ruined, as I’d suspected… and still worth every penny. I debated the merits of dragging the ripped nightgown around in my single piece of luggage, versus throwing it away in a stranger’s house for them to find and wonder about later.

  I shoved it in the suitcase. Apparently Super Slut still had a few issues to work through before flying her freak flag for the entire world to see.

  To make up for it, I grabbed Rans’ discarded shirt from yesterday off a chair in the corner of the room where he’d placed it. Fair was fair. He’d been responsible for the cruel and unusual treatment of my lingerie; his punishment was the loss of a shirt. I slipped it on, only bothering with a couple of buttons, and went to take that much-needed shower.

  I returned dressed the same way—with the addition of clean underwear—to find Rans still asleep, although he had at least shifted position. Filled with the need to do something even though it was stupidly early in the morning, I staked out an area of carpet between the bed and the door. The yoga routine relaxed my muscles and kept thoughts of my father and the danger we were facing from completely taking over my mind.

  “Wait. You’re wearing knickers?” came a rough, freshly woken voice from behind me. “Seriously? And things were shaping up so promisingly there for a few minutes.”

  I broke position, twisting out of my textbook downward dog to face him. He was leaning on an elbow, looking rumpled and thoroughly fucked. And… yeah, okay. It was a really, really good look for him.

  “Are you ogling my ass while I’m trying to do yoga?” I asked, crossing my arms and playing at being offended.

  He laughed. “Your arse is smashing, luv, but I was ogling the whole package.” His expression grew proprietary. “Along with the fact that your package is currently wrapped in one of my shirts.”

  I gave him a sugary sweet smile. “Yes, well—someone seems to have destroyed the perfectly nice nightgown that I only bought a few days ago. With Guthrie’s money, I might add.”

  “It was in my way,” Rans said carelessly. He looked me up and down, a speculative expression crossing his face. “Tell me… were you ever trained in dance?”

  My eyebrows drew together in confusion. “Not unless you count ballet when I was, like, seven,” I said. “Why?”

  “I’m trying to decide the best way to teach you to fight,” he said, as though that wasn’t a completely off-the-wall statement. “You have a dancer’s build, and good flexibility. Classical dance is one possible avenue into the martial arts.”

  Were we really having this conversation? I stopped myself before saying something dismissive… or disbelieving. It would have been hella-useful to know how to fight when Caspian’s goons had tried to drag me into his car. True, I’d already been near collapse that evening—but given what my life had become now, who was to say that I wouldn’t need better self-defense skills in the future?

  “Okay,” I said slowly. “Well, I don’t know that Mrs. Pepperdyne’s beginning barre exercises are going to help much at this point, but I did take a couple of self-defense classes when I was a teenager.”

  Rans nodded, thoughtful. “That could be useful. Let me think about logistics. You should at least know some basic moves. That, combined with the power you demonstrated when you thought Alby was going to hurt us will keep you from being completely helpless the next time the Fae catch up to us.”

  My eyes widened. “I am not sucking sex energy out of random people who try to attack me!” I said, appalled.

  He scoffed. “Oh, yes—much better to let yourself be taken by your enemies than to risk offending your delicate human sensibilities.”

  At that, I bristled. “I never asked to be involved in periodic fights for my life, Rans.”

  His face softened. “No. I don’t suppose you did.”

  “Besides,” I added, trying to lighten the mood, “Fae energy makes me feel itchy.”

  He let the argument go, and stretched. “Yes, they are a rather prickly lot, aren’t they? But you should still learn to fight.”

  I let my eyes roam over lean muscle and sinew before reluctantly acknowledging reality. “I’ll think about it. So, when can we go talk to these people who might be able to help find Dad?” I asked.

  Rans cast a jaundiced eye at the sun outside, and covered a yawn. “I imagine they’ll be available in an hour or two. I’ll go take a shower and try to wake up.”

  He still looked pretty wiped out, and a twinge of guilt hit me.

  “I drained you too much last night,” I said. “You should have stopped me.”

  He snorted. “Stopped you? Are you mental? Don’t fret, luv. It was… good. Dawn’s just not a great time for vampires. I’ll grab a bite when we’re out and about later. It’ll be fine.”

  “Grab a bite?” I echoed. “You’re a real comedian, you know.”

  Rans flashed a crooked grin and rolled out of bed, pausing to drop a kiss on my forehead. “I’ve had centuries to perfect my act.” He headed toward the door, shameless in his nakedness, only to pause at the threshold and look back at me. “And a word to the wise—unless you want me even more drained than I am now, you should probably be wearing something other than my shirt when I get back,” he threw over his shoulder.

  I hid my grin until after he’d disappeared into the hallway. A few moments later, the shower turned on. It was all so… domestic. I shook my head and returned to my yoga routine.

  By the time Rans wandered into the kitchen some twenty minutes later, I was seated at the table with a bowl of cereal and milk. I gestured at him with my spoon.

  “You know,” I said, pausing to swallow, “I’m still half-expecting to have a massive food allergy reaction, but I’m doing this anyway based on your say-so. Do you have any idea how long it’s been since I’ve had a bowl of cornflakes with milk?”

  “I wasn’t aware it was the sort of thing one marked on the calendar,” he said, “but I seriously doubt any common human foods have the power to do you much damage when you’re topped off on sexual energy.”

  “I’m going to eat cheesecake,” I enthused, still pointing at him with the spoon. “Chocolate cheesecake. Just as soon as I can find some. That, and pizza. With ham and pineapple.”

  He looked
mildly queasy. “Not at the same time, I hope.”

  I raised an eyebrow, suddenly curious. “Can you eat normal food?” I asked. “Or just blood and the occasional glass of merlot?”

  He shrugged. “I can. That is to say, nothing horrible happens if I do. Not much point, though. It mostly tastes like sawdust to me now.”

  My face fell. “I’m sorry. That sucks.”

  A half-smile twitched at his mouth. “‘Sucks’? And you call me the comedian. Really… more vampire jokes at this ungodly hour of the morning?”

  I winced a bit and shook my head. “Purely unintentional, I assure you.”

  “As all the best puns are. Now, finish your frosted sawdust flakes and cow juice, so we can get going.”

  I nodded. “Okay. Going where, exactly?” I asked before returning to the bowl of sugarcoated cereal.

  “To talk to the conspiracy theorists who run the Weekly Oracle,” he said.

  My brow furrowed. “What’s the Weekly Oracle?” I asked, making a half-assed attempt to cover my full mouth with one hand as I spoke.

  “Underground newspaper,” he replied. “We’ll visit their office for a chat.”

  I swallowed and cleared my throat. “And how does an underground newspaper help with finding where my dad’s been taken?”

  “The thing about conspiracy theorists is that they often stumble onto valuable information without having the faintest clue what it really means,” he said.

  I hesitated. “I was one, you know. All my life, really.”

  He looked interested. “A conspiracy theorist?”

  “Yes. In fact, I guess I’ve recently become even more of one, although it’s faeries and demons now, rather than Illuminati and freemasons.”

  He huffed a breath that might have been a chuckle. “It hardly counts as a conspiracy theory when it’s true.”

  I gave him a sour look. “And it’s not paranoia when they really are out to get you,” I shot back. “I’ve been telling myself that all week.”

  “Indeed it isn’t,” he agreed.

  I spooned up the last of the soggy cornflakes and drained my glass of juice. “Right. So, are we coming back here afterward?”

  “As it stands now, we will,” he said. “It’s a good base of operations.”

  “But that could change if someone notices us while we’re out and about,” I hazarded. “Got it.”

  Rans nodded agreement. “Exactly. Shall we go?”

  I looked at my dirty dishes, not wanting to risk Tom and Glynda returning to find someone else’s milk dregs congealing in their sink if we ended up having to bug out. “Let me clean up first. No reason to be the worst house sitters ever.”

  He turned an amused eye on me. “When it comes to house sitters, you get what you pay for. And we’re not being paid.”

  “We also hypnotized the homeowners into needing house sitters in the first place,” I pointed out. “Come on—it’s only a juice glass and a cereal bowl. I’ll wash. You can dry.”

  * * *

  The offices of the Weekly Oracle were about what you’d expect for an underground conspiracy rag. Rans parked Glynda’s Ford Focus a few blocks away. We walked along the breezy Chicago streets, discarded plastic bags and other trash blowing around us in a dizzying aerial ballet.

  The building that housed the newspaper wasn’t derelict, precisely, but it was pretty obvious that the objects of our interest weren’t paying high-dollar rent on the place, either. Some of the windows on the ground level were boarded up, and efforts to paint over the ubiquitous graffiti tags on the walls appeared to be few and far between.

  There was a small sign hanging over the only door that didn’t have a “No Entry” sign plastered across it. An arrow indicated that the paper’s offices were in the basement.

  “Underground newspaper,” I quipped. “Right.”

  “Some clichés are clichés for a reason,” Rans said, opening the door and ushering me inside.

  I was more than a little skeptical of what these people were likely to be able to do for us, but I also knew painfully well that I was out of my depth. It wasn’t as though I had a ready-made list of suspects to question about my father’s whereabouts.

  The usual avenues—the normal things you were supposed to do when someone went missing—were no longer available to me. Calling the cops would be the same as standing under a flashing neon arrow saying, ‘Come and get me, faeries!’ I could try hiring a private investigator, but if I told them the truth about what was happening, they’d probably laugh in my face.

  So, conspiracy theorists it was.

  We trekked down a utilitarian stairwell that opened into a cavernous, mostly unfinished space. Some effort had been made to divide it into different areas using battered beige screens of the type designed for cubicle walls. The part that made up the front office area had a large receptionist desk acting as a symbolic barrier to keep walk-ins from wandering further back. From the depths of the basement space, the sounds of a printing press could be heard.

  At first, I thought no one was around, but then I saw movement in the back.

  “Just a second!” someone yelled, the words nearly drowned out by the noise of machinery.

  Rans wandered over and leaned his elbows on the reception desk, while I looked around with interest. It really was exactly what I would have pictured if someone had asked me to imagine such a place. Empty takeout boxes littered many of the available surfaces, fighting for space with computer monitors, keyboards, and PC towers that looked like they’d been picked up cheap from a university rummage sale. Cables twisted through the irregularly lit space like spaghetti.

  A red-haired guy in his early twenties made his way up to the front where we were waiting. He was clean-cut and well built. Frankly, I thought he would have looked more at home playing college football somewhere than rattling around in this place. Still, it was clear enough that he belonged here, based on the practiced way he avoided the bundles of computer cords snaking along the floor.

  “Sorry about that,” he said when he reached us. “What can I do for you?”

  “I spoke with Derrick yesterday about getting some EMF readings from local hotspots,” Rans said, and I perked up with interest.

  “Oh, sure,” the redhead replied. “You’re that guy. Hang on a sec, I’ll get him for you. In fact, why don’t you come on back and sit down. He’s just finishing up with replacing a busted piston on the inserter. Watch your step…”

  We followed the guy as he gestured us to come around the reception desk. He led us to a desk that was more or less free of empty Chinese food containers, probably because the antiquated cathode ray computer monitor that was sitting on it took up most of the available space. There were a couple of cheap office chairs next to it. I sat down, while Rans continued to stand.

  When the guy left to retrieve his friend, I leaned toward Rans and spoke out of the side of my mouth. “EMF readings? Like ghost-hunters use? Why?” I asked.

  “You’ll see soon enough,” he replied unhelpfully.

  I looked around the echoing basement full of outdated tech and rumbling machinery. “How on earth did you even find these guys?”

  “Paranormal and conspiracy forums online, of course,” Rans said, as if it were obvious. “Where else?”

  FIVE

  ANYTHING I MIGHT have said was cut off by the arrival of a blond guy with thick-rimmed glasses and a smudge of grease on his cheek. He was attractive in a geeky sort of way—probably about my age, with gray eyes and a slender frame. He tilted his chin in greeting as he approached, wiping his hands on a dirty rag before tossing it onto the corner of the desk.

  “Hey, man,” he said. “I wasn’t sure when to expect you back. Got those readings for you last night, though.” His eyes flickered to me, an awkward smile tilting the corners of his broad mouth for only an instant before his gaze darted away.

  Shy, I diagnosed. It was honestly a bit charming.

  “Wonderful,” Rans replied. “But where are my manne
rs? JoAnne Reynolds, this is Derrick Nicolaev, better known in online circles as Hypnos. Derrick, JoAnne.”

  No doubt I should have been focusing on the fact that we were using the fake identities Guthrie had obtained for us, but my thoughts had crashed to a standstill.

  “Wait, what?” I asked, aware that my eyes were about to pop out of my head. “You’re Hypnos? Oh my god—I read all of your papers about government cover-ups of paranormal encounters on the Third Eye forum before it shut down!”

  Rans was giving me a look somewhere between curiosity and bewilderment, probably because I was enthusiastically fangirling a geeky guy I’d just met in the basement of a boarded-up office building. It wasn’t enough to stop me, though, as memories of those late night online forum discussions flooded me with nostalgia for a simpler time, before my life had turned into a bad SyFy Channel made-for-TV movie.

  “You might not remember it, but we chatted a couple of times,” I blathered, my mouth flapping onward without stopping to check in with my brain first. “About the connection between political violence and instances of paranormal sightings?” I gestured to myself. “I’m TeamEdward4eva. That was my username, I mean.”

  Hypnos—or rather, Derrick—looked a bit dazed by my outpouring, but to his credit he paused, obviously thinking back to that time several years ago when Third Eye had been a huge deal in online circles. Meanwhile, Rans looked like he was trying very hard not to collapse into screaming fits of laughter, so I glared at him.

  “Oh, hang on.” Derrick pointed a finger at me. “You were the girl whose mother got shot, right? The… state senator, wasn’t it?”

  Close. I didn’t correct him, realizing now that it might not be a great idea for him to know exactly who he was talking to. Especially since Rans had just given him a fake name.

  “Yeah,” I said, glossing it over and moving on. “Wow. Small world, huh? So, you run a newspaper now?”

  Derrick looked around and gave a self-deprecating little shrug. “If you can call it that. We have a pretty decent online presence, but we keep the lights on with advertising revenue from the dead-tree version. Enough about me, though. You’re getting into the ghost-hunting business these days, huh?”