"Fine." I scrunch my blond hair a little bit, briefly longing for the days of mousse and detangler. "Just a few very cheap things."
On Atlan's day off, he drives me into Blue City in a janky, rusty old pickup that usually sits in a half-collapsed shed near Deathcastle. The Captain wouldn't spare us a military vehicle, but he said we could use this one, and honestly I don't mind. It's me and Atlan, alone, driving together, and I keep getting this ridiculous urge to smile for no reason at all. It's stupid, but it feels hella good.
He smiles at me, too, once for so long that I smack his arm and tell him to focus on the road. Our truck winds between skyscrapers with dirt-clouded windows, empty parking garages, apartment complexes with windows that have been boarded and taped instead of replaced. Nowadays no one has time for any of the little municipal duties that keep a city looking decent. With so much of the country overrun by the zombies, and with so many materials and products scarce or unfindable, people spend most of their time scrabbling for what they can get—working for the remaining factories, running with the gangs, farming out beyond the city center, or joining the military.
As we bump and jostle over the potholed streets, I catch a glimpse of an unpleasantly familiar face—a guy that works for the Shardan Collective—one of the two goons who tracked me down after I defaulted on my debt and dragged me back to Shardan to pay up with my body. I scrunch down in my seat, turning my head away from the window. "I should have brought a hat or something. Or borrowed the Captain's mask."
"Why?" Atlan glances at me.
"Before Captain Markham bought me, I was in some trouble. Got desperate, did some dumb things, wound up in debt—I tried to hide, living on the streets, staying out of sight, but slave-hunters found me. That's when I ended up at the slave market."
"But you've already been sold, and purchased," he says. "The ones who caught you have no claim on you now."
I snort. "It's the Shardan Collective. If they can catch you again and sell you again, they will." Peeking out of the window, I confirm that the man I saw is gone, and I sit up a little straighter. "The woman in charge of the sector I was caught—she liked me, so she let me choose—brothel, sweat shop, or slave market. I rolled the dice and took a chance on the market. Still thought I might end up being raped on a regular basis, but—I got lucky."
Atlan's hands tighten on the steering wheel, his knuckles turning red and white.
"Seems like our civilization never gets past that," I murmur. "Lots of men are good and decent, but there are always a bunch of them who can't get past that raw animal instinct to mount anyone they want. All it takes is enough darkness or enough chaos for them to think they can get away with it."
Atlan's voice is tight, full of restrained emotion. "You know I would never have hurt you, right? Even if I—if I could perform in that way—I would never—"
"I know."
"Before the Shardan Collective, where were you?"
"I had a group. We took care of each other, had our own place, our defenses. We got overrun in the breach of the Lowedge Wall last year."
He nods. "I heard about that."
"I climbed on top of these shelving units in a storage closet, and I dumped out a bunch of paint and cleaning fluid to confuse the zombies' sense of smell. They wandered around in there for two days, but they didn't find me. Finally another group of travelers passed by, and the zombies followed the new smell and left me alone."
The account falls readily from my lips, but the bare words can't describe the unending agony of those two days I spent, my muscles locked in place, terrified to move an inch, unable to sleep, pissing and soiling myself where I lay, my stomach racked with hunger and my tongue swollen with thirst. By the end I was so stiff I could barely climb down from the shelves—I landed on my ankle crookedly, and had to limp along the empty road until a car came along. Turned out to be the vehicle of a Shardan Collective drug-runner, but at the time it seemed like a golden chariot driven by an angel.
Atlan swerves into a spot along the side of the road—nobody pays attention to parking meters or "no parking" signs anymore. The pickup won't lock, but he pricks my arm with his teeth and draws a fanged smiley face on each of the doors in my blood—a warning that the vehicle belongs to a vampire. Basically, "steal this truck at your own peril."
The store we enter used to be a Target. It still sells a broad variety of goods—clothing, housewares, food—but now the preponderance of its wares is survival gear, ammo, and weapons. The once-automatic doors are now wedged open, and there are no more shopping carts. The former Starbucks now displays a vast array of liquor, and my mouth tingles for the sharp taste of alcohol on my tongue. It's a luxury I haven't enjoyed in a long time.
"I never see anyone drinking at Deathcastle," I say.
"Markham never drinks. Doesn't allow anyone else to, either—at least, not where he can see it or hear of it. May I?" Atlan raises his eyebrows at the bearded shopkeeper, who nods. He picks up an amber bottle of Bourbon whiskey—Knob Creek Kentucky Straight. "Nice. More than I can afford though."
"I got an Evan Williams Black Label I can let you have," says the shopkeeper eagerly. "On the house, Lord Atlan, and thank you for your service." He writes out a quick receipt and hands it over, along with the bottle.
"Why, thank you." Atlan accepts the gift, and we stroll on through the store.
"So you just walk around through the city, and people give you things?" I whisper.
"Sometimes." He gives me a sheepish grin.
"Damn. Must be nice."
"Please." He sweeps his hand broadly, indicating the entire store. "Shop. Find what you need, and I'll make sure you get it."
I'm still uncomfortable with him buying me things, but my post-apocalyptic survival instinct urges me to take what I can, while I can get it. No stupid pride is getting in my way right now.
First I collect shampoo, conditioner, soap, and a little makeup—nothing fancy, like I promised Atlan, but better than what I have now. The woman's clothing section is decently stocked, so I grab a few sets of panties, softer and prettier than what Robbins chose for me. I pile them into Atlan's arms along with the other items and I move on to the bra section. There are a handful of bras in my size or close to it. And wonder of wonders, there's still one dressing room open, though the others are crammed with boxes and stock.
"Do you mind if I try these on?" I ask Atlan, waving my finds in front of him. "There's nothing worse than an ill-fitting bra."
"I wouldn't know." He mock-frowns at me. "Nothing worse? Really?"
"Okay, that might be a tiny exaggeration. But you don't know the pain of the chafing, Atlan, and the poking, and the scraping—"
My gaze skips past his shoulder, caught by a moving figure, and I bite off the words.
It's the same Shardan Collective hunter I saw in the street. He's moving between the racks of women's clothing, creeping ever closer to the dressing room entrance.
He saw me in the truck.
He's coming to get me.
Without thinking I grip Atlan's shirt and drag him into the tiny dressing room stall with me. I close the door and latch it.
Atlan clears his throat. "Traditionally, I think trying on bras is something best done in private."
"Shh!" I press my hand over his mouth, feeling the faint bulges of his fangs beneath his upper lip. "That Shardan Collective hunter is out there. I think he's after me."
Atlan shakes off my hand. "Yeah? Then let's go talk to him. I'll let him know who you belong to now, and then he'll have to leave you alone. You don't have to hide anymore, Trouble. You're a valuable military asset, supplier to a vampire warrior."
"I don't want to talk to him," I say, shrinking into a corner of the small space. "Hiding is better."
Chuckling, Atlan sets the items in his arms down on the narrow bench. "You're the most interesting blend of brave and scared I've ever seen."
"Um, thank you?"
He's right. I am scared. Part of me desperately, desp
erately just wants him to hold me, and stroke my hair, and take care of me—and I know I'm supposed to be strong and self-sufficient but damn it, sometimes I just want to be held.
I swear it's like he can read my mind, because at that very instant he steps forward and wraps both arms around me, pulling me to his chest. "Relax, Trouble. Anyone trying to get to you has to go through me first. And I'm not an easy guy to beat."
As much as I want this, it's hard to relax into it—hard to release the tension in my muscles, hard to trust him. But the smell of him and the feel of his body are becoming so familiar now—I'm starting to equate him with safety, and with rest.
14
Atlan
When Finley relaxes in my arms, I have the weirdest urge to cry.
I haven't cried in years.
No, scratch that. I cried a little the night after Ben died, but that's because he was a damn good friend, a buddy I really liked. He didn't treat me like a vampire zombie-hunter, or anybody special or different. To him I was just another soldier—one of the guys. He was into vintage video games, the ones that were new when I was young, so we'd talk about those and feel like we were getting a little bit of our old lives back.
I had every damn right to shed tears for him. I'm not one of these dudes who never cries—I cry when I have a good reason. I'm not sure that Finley relaxing in my arms is a good reason, but there it is. The tears are blurring my sight, and with a quick tightening of the hug I release her and step back, turning away so she can't see.
"I'll go out so you can try those on." I nod to the bras in her hand.
"Just stay," she says. "It's not a big deal." But she's getting flushed again, won't meet my eyes— "I mean, we both know you don't find my body attractive."
She's referring to the incident after the shower, when she dropped her towel in front of me and I told her, with a sneer, that I didn't want to see "all that." When in fact the opposite was true, and I think it may be even more true now, because at the thought of seeing her bare breasts again my heart quivers and my skin chills all over.
"Yeah, okay." I swallow and perch my butt on the edge of the little bench. I feel too big in here, like my legs and body take up way too much space.
She drags off the tank top and drops it. "Undo the clasp, please?" She sits on my knee, sweeping her blond hair aside so I can access the clasp of the bra. Slowly I unhook it, conscious of the curve of her spine, the angles of her shoulder blades, the smoothness of her skin against my fingertips.
She slides the bra forward, the straps slipping along her arms. She rises, draping the bra over my knee, those warm soft breasts of hers inches from my face.
It's back, that tingling sensation in my crotch, deliciously pleasant and wretchedly confusing. I watch her like a man paralyzed, enthralled, spelled into submission by a wickedly soft little siren.
The tingling, the faint echo of arousal intensifies as she tries on the underwear. I don't think she's trying to turn me on. In fact, anyone else might think the process is a little awkward—but I can't help finding every move she makes entrancing, and she smells—god, she smells like delicate heat and rain-drenched flower petals and I want to touch her, to drink her in.
She's pulling on her shirt again, holding up a pair of bras. "Winners!" she says. "We should buy both, because in another few years bras are going to be really hard to find. Might as well claim these now."
"Whatever you want," I say hoarsely.
She frowns, stepping nearer. "Are you okay?"
"Um... yeah." Stop looking at me like that or I swear I'll kiss your beautiful damn face right off. "Just—I just want you to know that I do."
"You do what?"
"I do think your body is—you are—attractive."
A slow smile curves her mouth. "Really?"
"Let's go." I gather the items we're buying and shoulder my way out of the dressing room stall.
The instant we step into the main area of the store, Finley gasps and shrinks behind me.
There's a tattooed guy standing between two racks, arms folded. He's obviously been waiting for us.
"What's up, Finley? Miss me?" He leers at her.
"Leave her alone." I glower at him, trying to look threatening despite my armful of bras and panties and cosmetics.
The gang hunter snickers. "Simmer down, vampire. I'm actually here to talk to you."
Okay. Did not expect that. "What about?"
"A girl was killed in one of our brothels last night. Breasts and stomach full of punctures—there were even some on her genitals. Her arms had been pulled out of the sockets, her jaw all crunched up. And big old bites of flesh were missing."
"And you think—"
"We think it was a vampire. One of yours."
I shake my head. "No one at Deathcastle would do something like that. If it was a vampire, could have been one of the civilians. Maybe one of the late-gen ones, getting frail and desperate, going nuts—"
"You and I both know those late-gens don't have that kind of strength. Plus we have a witness saw the guy that went into this girl's room—saw part of him, anyway. He wore a big hooded coat, but his boots were military issue. Just like those." He points to my boots.
My stomach clenches. "Are you accusing me?"
"Atlan wouldn't do something so horrible." Finley moves in beside me, her chin up. It might take her a minute, but she always finds her courage. At her defense of me, my heart swells.
"Your opinion doesn't matter, vamp-whore," sneers the slave-hunter.
Carefully, methodically, I place what I'm carrying into Finley's arms, making sure the bottle of whiskey doesn't slip and smash—and then I flex my fingers, pulling my upper lip back to expose my twin pairs of fangs. "What's that again?" My words hiss slightly as my fangs push further out of their sheaths. "What did you call her?"
The tattooed guy eyes me, but he stands his ground. "I'm not here to fight you. I'm here to tell you that my boss and your boss need to have a chat about the murder. If there's a vampire willing to eat human flesh like a damn zombie, we should all know about it."
"I'm touched that your boss cares so much about a brothel girl."
"She's one of his favorites. He doesn't like having his things taken away from him." The gang hunter licks his lips, his gaze darting to Finley and then back to me. "I'm sure you can understand that."
"I'll pass along the message to my captain," I say coolly. "We're done here." Wrapping an arm around Finley, I walk toward the front of the store.
Most of the store's checkout stands are still in place. Checking out is more complicated these days though, and doesn't usually involve a cash register. Instead, people lay out the goods they want and whatever they brought to barter on the old conveyor belts, along with any credit line slips from local businesses that they get as part of their salary. Some cash is still exchanged too, but usually just for the cheaper disposable goods.
I feel pretty damn conspicuous here, as usual. My height, my tall black boots, the long coat, and the weapons belts give me an imposing look, but the fangs seal the deal, and right now they're still out, so long and sharp that I have to keep my mouth slightly open so I don't pierce my own lower lip. They'll retract in a few minutes, once my adrenaline subsides.
Finley tumbles her items onto an empty conveyor belt, and one of the store barterers comes over to us, focusing on me but throwing sneaky glances at Finley. "All on your credit line, Lord Atlan?"
"Yes, except for this." I show her the Evan Williams Black Label and the receipt.
"All good, sir. Thank you."
"Have a good day," Finley says, but the woman only stares.
We return to our blood-marked pickup and stuff most of the items we bought into a yellowed canvas tote Finley finds behind her seat. Then I sit for a second, my hand on the key, uncertain. "Want to get something to eat, here in the city?"
"No, you've already spent a lot on me," she says. "Thanks, by the way."
"Oh. Sure." Damn, I was hoping she'd say yes
.
She scoots forward on her seat so she can look into my face. "Unless you want to stay and eat around here?"
"Kind of. It's been a while since I ate anywhere but Deathcastle. Not that the pubs in town have much to offer, but it's something different." And I'd get to eat with you, away from the rest of them.
She smiles a little. "Okay. Let's do it."
15
Finley
I feel like I'm on a date.
Atlan is charm incarnate, with a faint edge of nervousness that turns my heart all gooey. I really think he likes me, and that knowledge almost makes up for the ultra-greasiness of the pub food. Almost.
At Deathcastle, the food isn't gourmet, but at least it's clean and semi-healthy. While I was on the streets, I got used to eating all kinds of disgusting garbage just to survive; but my stay at Deathcastle has made my stomach soft again, and I only get halfway through my bowl of greasy stew before I have to stop. The last thing I want to do is puke again, in front of Atlan.
After the meal we walk the city streets, down to a patch of wilderness that used to be a riverfront park. The park is littered with garbage now, its grass grown coarse and tall, weeds choking the paths and crowding the benches. But the sun shines warm on my arms, and the sky is blue and bright, dotted with the tiniest of puffy clouds. The river reflects the blue, and I lean over the barricade and gaze at its rippling azure surface. Atlan takes off his coat and sets his elbows on the stone barrier too, but I can tell he's looking at me, not at the river. My face heats and I can't help breaking into a smile.
I risk a glance at him.
Big mistake.
His beauty jolts my heart—starfire blue eyes, that sharply angled jaw, black hair sweeping over his brows.
"You're so damn pretty," I whisper.
"Thanks," he says wryly. "I love being objectified, don't you?"
"Okay, that's fair." I turn back to the river. "I like other things about you, too. Not just your face."
Enslaved To The Vampire Zombie-Hunter (Pandemic Monsters Book 1) Page 10