Bait and Bleed

by Elizabeth Blake

  The doorknob slowly turned, hesitant, and finally clicked open. I was weak, punch-drunk, and too exhausted to manage more than a flicker of alarm. The door crept open and Svetlana stood there, leaning somewhat heavily on the handle. Her hair swayed in a ponytail. She wore a thin green sweater, jeans, and heavy boots.

  Her smile didn’t bother being sheepish. Not an ounce of guilt in her. She watched the parts of my body visible above the tub, despite my wet hair plastered down my neck, shoulders, and chest.

  My light-hearted breath hesitated to pass my lips as if she might disappear with the slightest waft of air. Like a figment of a dream. While I’d been in a medically-induced coma for aggressive cosmetic surgery, she had recovered from the bomb blast enough to stand on her own, without the slightest hint of a duct tape girdle. Her knuckles turned white on the doorknob, and I realized we hadn’t been talking, simply staring at each other.

  “Excuse you,” I said.

  She cleared her throat and came in, a few steps, heavy enough to appear convincingly mortal. Closed the door and leaned against it, staring. The steam made me flush.

  “Appears we are both alive and well,” I said.

  “So it seems.” Her voice came rough and slick at once, friction oozing down my spine, the deep roll and echo of an impossibly rich sound.

  I wanted to pounce on her but luckily didn’t have the energy.

  Her teeth caught her lower lip for an instant, and she stared, thinking potentially dirty thoughts. I felt like a target twice over: once for the murky sensuality lurking in her eyes, again because I was a wounded lamb in the presence of a hungry wolf. She pushed away from the door, cords of muscle slinking in her forearms. I thought briefly about weapons and their potential use, then I watched the way her nipples beaded under the sweater despite the cloying warmth of the room.

  I cleared my throat. She sat on the rim of the tub, hip balanced over the side, and dropped a hand in the water. Her fingers dangled near my calf. Her perfume slipped into me like a rising cloud of honey smoke. She’d been near a wood-burning fire, a primitive ashen cologne, which served to remind me of the fire at her house and the quagmire of violence that haunted our every waking moment.

  “How are things?” I said.

  “Things,” she cooed, “are fine.”

  My throat tightened as her eyes slipped from mine, veering down my body and surveying the landscape. My thighs clenched together while the dwindling logical portion of my brain tried to remind me that she was a predator who ate body parts when she was upset. Moreover, the nearest firearm was behind her, stashed under the sink, and I’d never get to it in time.

  Yet her eyes held nothing but dark mischief, a seductive glint, and, dare I suspect, a glimmer of concern for my wellbeing. The sun-loved skin of her wrist bumped against the porcelain tub. Her short nails wavered in the water, a scant inch from my skin. Was she about to touch me or did the water create an optical illusion? Did I want her to feel me? Did I dare reach out and touch her? The sharp smoke tangled my nerves, sparking my concern.

  “What’s going on, Svetlana?”

  She smirked, whispered bits of something in Russian, and splashed me with a dainty wave of her fingers. Avoidance, utterly and entirely, but it was hard to care given the way she stared at me. Like I was reborn. Had I been so awful before, so scarred, that this was such an improvement? Resentful and self-conscious, I crossed my arms over my chest, covering at least that much. I was in the bath, after all, but couldn’t muster the appropriate indignation. Swore the water was getting hotter, though.

  I was afraid of her, but not. A mixture of wariness, curiosity, affection, and revulsion. Talk about screwed up. And then she did it: her fingers touched down on my knee, a kiss of flesh, and I felt it. Through the old knots and new skin, the subtle friction of her fingertips danced down my flesh, somehow tying my entire body into a livewire.

  My body became far too aware of her hand traveling north from my knee. I cleared my throat, tried to think of words. “Umm…”

  “When they told me about your…sabbatical, I thought, what are they hiding? Maybe you are dying, and no one will say.”

  “I’m not dying.”

  She brushed and errant hair behind her ear. “I worried you had been black-bagged, stuffed in a terrorist cell and water-boarded for fun.” Her hand flitted from my leg and flicked more water on me. “Would not have thought you could peel years off your life while shortening mine with worry.”

  “I don’t need a lecture from you, too.”

  “Maybe you do.”

  “Go screw yourself.”

  She smiled. “You and your head.”

  “My head, what?”

  “You act like you’re never going to die.”

  “I won’t. I mean, not over anything silly.”

  “Silly. Like pipe bombs and assassins?”

  “You might be immortal, but I refuse to die,” I said. “Nothing’s going to kill me until I don’t have a choice in the matter. Kinda puts us in the same boat.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “I do.”

  “Davey was worried.”

  “He has Peter.”

  “Yes, he has Peter.”

  Did I detect a hint of disdain in her voice? She reached and took a portion of my hair in her palm, sniffing it. Self-conscious, I wondered how it smelled to her heightened senses. Her face revealed nothing, and I wanted to kiss her.

  “Svetlana?”

  “Kaidlyn.”

  I clasped her hand as it clutched my hair and pushed it away. I felt bones and iron strength and warmth and utterly unbreakable flesh. Couldn’t bear it, and yet I struggled to let go. I abandoned her hand and crossed my arms over my chest once again. Defensive. Small. Exposed.

  “Why are you here, Svetlana?”

  “To see you.”

  “I mean, what for?”

  “For the sake of seeing you.”

  “Don’t talk in riddles.”

  “Don’t ask silly questions.”

  I huffed. She grinned and picked up a loofah. “Shall I bathe you, princess?”

  “Don’t you dare!”

  Her throaty chuckle filled the room, mysteriously doubling the amount of steam. Good god, the woman was going to kill me. Literally and figuratively.

  “I’m tired,” I said, both a lie and the truth.

  She smiled again, a left bound twist of her lips. “Yes, I’m sure. Shall I call you tomorrow, then?”

  “Okay.”

  She stood slowly, stiff and reluctant. Her green sweater was stained at her side, made brown with something wet.

  “Svetlana, what is that?”

  A strand of blood leaked from under her sweater and met her hip, where a drop fell loose and plummeted into the tub. Ruby red in hot water, a viable contaminant. Faster than my next thought, she seized me and dragged me from the tub, her inhuman strength clearing me from the danger zone. Whirling and breathless, I slammed against her, clumsy as all hell. She winced. Nauseated even more, I reached for the sink, trying to hold myself up without the aid of her frightfully solid arm around my waist. I leaned against the sink, naked, and reached for a robe.

  Cursing in Russian, she pulled the plug on the tub, watching the condemning drop disappear. She blushed as if embarrassed and scoured for any other leaks. I opened the medicine cabinet and passed her a thick helping of gauze.

  “What happened?” I said.

  “A mere tussle, nothing more.”

  “A fight with a mutt?”

  She sighed, stuffing the gauze under her sweater. “Ms. Durant, not every creature with teeth is a wolf.”

  “A vampire?”

  She winked and walked toward the door. I didn’t try to follow and certainly didn’t watch her backside as if I was interested in chasing her and touching her. While I had slumbered through a leisurely two-week pity-party, she waged war on multiple fronts. She only wanted my help in one thing, but I had tucked tail.

  Why would she bother
to come and see if I was okay while she was oozing blood? Maybe it was a manipulative tactic: showing up wounded, exhibiting concern, and tweaking any heartstring that may have survived my callous life.

  Or maybe she actually cared?

  She wasn’t beyond using diplomacy to position herself at a more favorable angle, and I was too scared to imagine she might have visited out of pure concern for my welfare.

  The lady had me in a tizzy of confusion.

  I turned and faced the mirror. The tail end of a damaged tattoo on my hip had all but disappeared. Once, I had loved that ink, and now it was gone. I felt slimmer, less like an aquatic sponge, more like a real human shell on my bones. Still queasy. I needed to get in touch with my body again. To reclaim my machinery.

  I dragged ass to the treadmill. Dust covered her buttons. I stepped on, barefoot. I meant to start at a walk and work my way through a nice, responsible progression, but within a few paces I was sprinting clumsily, heaving like an elephant in labor, burning and aching and nearly choking on my breath.

  The impact of my bare feet, the burn of my lungs, the tremble up my thighs, and the cramps in my calves were all good things. Hamstrings started to tweak in a dangerous manner. Knees threatened to cave. Only survived forty seconds before I puked into the nearest trash can. Afterward, I surrendered, lurched to bed, and collapsed on the familiar blanket.

  Then I was walking through the woods while the moon rose above the trees. Zelda strolled by my side. Her white summer dress swirled with pink and blue flowers, white shoes protected her feet. Together, we gathered stones by the light of the moon. Her pockets were full and mine were empty. The trees pointed out the best stones, sweeping their long twiggy appendages toward the pearly rocks. Zelda bent and picked up a stone so large she needed both hands. Smiling, she lifted it toward me. I reached for it but I couldn't get a grip. The stone fell, and Zelda disappeared. I spun in a circle but she wasn't there.

  A shadow moved. Svetlana posed by a tree as blood blossomed on her sweater. She turned, and I saw past the ribs. Where the heart used to be, a hole tunneled to the other side. Moonlight came through.

  I reached for her, but like with the stone, I couldn’t get a grip. She fell. Disappeared. I was alone. A wolf howled in the distance. I reached for my gun, but the holster was empty. My hand ran across my body for a weapon. As the bedside .45 slipped into my hand, I came fully awake.

  I journeyed to the kitchen, turned on the gentle light over the stove, and started to heat milk for hot chocolate. Glancing at the clock, I wanted to shrivel up and hide. Truly, was a good night's sleep too much to ask for? Davey came quietly to the kitchen, wearing pajama bottoms but no shirt. His pale skin was reflective. I could see individual ribs. I made an oath to fatten him up.

  I quietly portioned marshmallows into two mugs and topped it with hot chocolate. When I handed him the mug, he whispered, “It's been a while since we've done this in the middle of the night.”

  We used to have simultaneous nightmares, but he was coping better.

  When I had bad dreams as a child, my mother would make cocoa half-stuffed with miniature marshmallows, plus all the hugs I could handle. That was forever ago. Hugs were weird, but I made a sufficient cup of cocoa. He peered over the marshmallows. I may have overdone it. We held our cups and felt steam rise against our faces. The cocoa was too hot to drink, but we sniffed in anticipation. Davey took his first sip and offered me a smile.

  We drank our cocoa in slow sips, using spoons on the melted, gooey marshmallows. Standing in my dark kitchen with my boy, drinking cocoa, being sleep deprived, one accident from bankrupt, on the verge of war with a career on the rocks, suddenly life was good. We would be okay.

  When everything was broken, I fixed something. Anything. Simply one piece set right, a mere morsel of sanity and rightness to grasp, a parachute, a lifeline.

  I knew precisely what I needed to do. We finished the cocoa and quietly returned to our beds, where I slept peacefully until the clock sounded.

  Chapter 7

  Volunteering to question a vampire fell into the same category of stupid as conspiring with mutts and terrorists, but there I stood, curiosity burning a hole in my common sense.

  I preferred to avoid the creatures altogether. The world didn't know much about them, even though the Church claimed to be the presiding expert. A decade ago, the creatures went public, championed by popular religion. Most vamps stayed out of public venues and off the radar. I met three live vampires in my lifetime, which was more than enough. Two had inspired deep, gut-wrenching revulsion and the desire to stomp on their heads. The other was entirely different, and I never wanted to see him again.

  If only.

  I called his office to make an appointment and suffered through a labyrinth of automated options, none of which resulted in speaking to an actual person. So I went while the sun shone hotly in the sky, hoping to avoid a face-to-face encounter.

  Sigurd, the most famous vampire on the planet, had become the spokesperson of his species and mutated into a religious icon. People sainted him and tagged his name next to the Virgin Mary in their prayers. Some said he was an angel, some speculated he was a brother of Christ. Whatever.

  His vampy, reclusive ass remained virtually unseen. Which suited me fine: I didn’t actually want to see him. A phone interview would be good enough.

  The outside of his estate operated very much like the perimeter of the FBHS building. A standard office skyscraper with all the windows blacked, tall iron fence protecting his front door, an impressive security detail. The vampire even hung a big Do Not Disturb sign, which plenty of people ignored. I navigated a swarm of paparazzi, vampire-loving church-goers, and panty-tossing groupies.

  My RFID clearance caught the security's attention. I waited while they verified my identity, and then they let me through the gate where I had to wait at the bullet-proof barrier. A trio of security guards eventually let me in and closed the door, trapping me between two panes of bulletproof glass.

  Rumor said Sigurd's lobby was guarded by a creature who never slept and never left, something not human and not vampire. A watchdog and attendant, lawyer and publicist, it was his only confirmed companion. She appeared human. Classically beautiful. Her hair gleamed the color of Sedona soil, parted on the side and drawn into a chignon. Her high-waisted skirt started below her ribs and hugged all the way to her knees, topped with a wrinkle-free blouse.

  “Ms. Durant, how can we help you?” She held a sleek, transparent tablet.

  “I would like to make an appointment to speak with Sigurd. When he has time, I mean. I can leave my phone number.”

  She tapped her finger on her tablet and gave me a stern look. “In regard to official business of the Federal Bureau of Human Safety, please understand we do not wish to be associated with any organizations.”

  “My inquiry is more of a personal nature.”

  She cocked her head. Her eyes glazed over. Hollowed-out eyes, absent of light. Her pupils pulsed like a throbbing heart. Was she high? She gave me the creeps.

  “I can see you’re all very busy,” I said. “I don’t need face time with Mr. Sigurd. A few minutes on the phone will do. I'll gladly wait for a call, you know, in the comfort of my own home.”

  “We will see you now.” A switch flipped and she smiled as if she was bursting with faith, hope, and love. Scared the crap out of me. An earpiece rested in her ear. Someone spoke to her through electronic means. No telepathic nonsense. I was officially being a ninny.

  Why would Sigurd actually agree to see me? Our last interaction hadn’t exactly been civil.

  “Wait, right now?”

  Daylight shone into the lobby, warm on my neck. High noon. The assistant typed a security code onto a panel and the glass slid away. Reluctantly, I entered the lobby. Her desk was centered in the large sparse room. The floor was made of polished blue stone, the walls were matte gray. Various treasures sat on pedestals, bragging wealth. Centuries of vampire junk must be worth a fortune.
Sigurd wouldn't run out of wealth if he lived for another thousand years.

  She said, “Go to the eleventh floor. Take the stairs. We do not like elevators, and they have been turned off.”

  Eleven flights of stairs: plenty of time to make the smart decision and turn around. Yeah, right. I can do this. It's only one vampire. I came armed with my Jerichos and the Glock, plus a small blade, but I didn’t feel safer. As far as monsters went, Sigurd was out of my league.

  What the hell was I thinking? I had no backup plan.

  Soon, I didn’t think of the vamp at all. My muscles ached from crossing the parking lot, and now I faced enough stairs to induce another coma. Within moments, my heart pumped like a jungle drum and my skin leaked sweat. I grabbed the rail, eyes down, forging ahead, step by agonizing step. When my quads could take no more, I glanced up. Saw the number seven painted in jaunty red print. Four floors to go.

  “Shit.” I heaved, I grumbled, and I trudged. Leaned against the wall. Puked and laid down on the cold floor. May have passed out for a moment. Sopping wet, shaking, I stood and carried on.

  When I finally opened the stairwell door on the eleventh floor, I expected to see some sort of activity. At least some furniture. The room sat bare except for numerous paintings on display. I didn't see the vampire and was reluctant to leave the perceived safety of the stairwell. My fingers tingled with the same adrenaline that hit when I expected a mutt to attack. I had the horrible feeling I was walking into a trap but wasn’t smart enough to leave.

  I entered the empty room. The door closed behind me, and the click echoed.

  Since no one was there, I perused the gallery. Comforting scenes of riverside picnics, little Amish children and animal studies; a theme of relaxation. My heart rate began to settle. My fingers regained sensation. The paintings looked tasteful and nice, but art was really Davey's forte. He'd have fun in this room.