Chapter 7
Her wrists were trapped, stretched overhead and crushed against pillows.
The bed was suddenly there, sinking underneath her, without any intervening time or movement.
A yelp of surprise was effectively smothered by a feverish, insistent mouth fastening on her own, and not only was she flat on her back again but he had somehow settled between her legs.
He still had his clothes on; wool burned against her inner thighs and Bea panicked afresh, her jaw cramping as she bit savagely.
The monster made a muffled noise, not precisely of pain, and a metallic taste coated her tongue.
Oh, Christ, no. Maybe it was adrenaline, or some kind of alcohol lingering on his breath?
But it was hot, and smeared on her lips; after a moment the taste shifted.
She tried her best not to swallow but an odd, unfamiliar sweetness trickled down the back of her throat—and he kept going, pressing into the bite.
Then he stilled.
Her jaw loosened; he eased away, his cheek resting against hers, hatefully intimate. The shadow over her exhaled, a long shuddering sigh.
Did he…
A very respectable hard-on was still jammed against her, straining at a few thin layers of cloth.
She couldn’t tell if he’d fired early, and devoutly hoped so.
He had her wrists in one hand, and despite carefully bracing his weight the difference between this monster and a human male was more than apparent.
Either that or he just seemed a lot heavier, since she couldn’t goddamn move.
“My intentions must be clear enough,” the monster purred. “One last time, kitten, would you prefer calm discussion or shall I free myself of all restraint? I have no objection to this being our first.”
What. In the hell. “Get off me.” As if she had any hope of making him do so.
It wasn’t so much the terrible, inhuman strength as the control—she was now absolutely certain this guy could wrestle Superman to a draw.
But so far, he had avoided hurting her, and that was almost more frightening than being beaten up.
No. That was wrong. It was exponentially more terrifying.
“I don’t think I can,” he said, thoughtfully. “Not yet. Keep talking, if you prefer. You could at least tell me your name.”
“Why? You’re not Christopher Everly, even if you somehow bribed someone into giving you a birth certificate.
But that was easy, I bet. You’ve got enough to pay for anything you want, right?
I swear, I could forgive you for being an actual bloodsucker but it turns out you’re a business leech.
It’s disgusting.” If she could just get him so angry he killed her, rather than.
..anything else, that would be best, right?
Normally, Bea would say she wanted to live. But being held down like this was enough to make her reconsider. Was whatever he had planned worse than letting those bald, gleaming, nearly naked green things slice her to bits? How could she decide?
“You have some small knowledge of the demimonde.” The monster shuddered, fractionally heavier as he sank onto her. “How exactly did I kill your brother?”
The position was horribly exposed; nothing but the silk slip to save her, and that was useless.
“You tried to run him off the mountain. When he wouldn’t sell, you sent your nasty little green men.
They nearly drove both of us insane and then you killed him.
” The lump in her throat would not go away, and it tasted syrup-sweet.
It couldn’t be blood, his blood, could it?
“I saw you over his body. You disappeared, but there was a security camera outside the stable—” She was babbling, she didn’t tell this story, she never told the whole thing, even to Don.
A dark, hideous relief filled her for a few heart-pounding beats.
Saying things out loud made them real, but also let the terrible weight slide free of her shoulders for a single moment.
“You even killed Snowball,” she finished.
“Who does that? Who kills dogs, you fucking monster? And why did you have to do that, to her...to her body? She was just a little…” A mophead with legs, Jare said, but he also snuck her treats and bits of cheese all the time.
“Little green…” The monster’s breath warmed her hair, caressed her ear. “Ah. Wait, let me think. This was in Vermont, yes?”
It was downright insulting, how little he remembered of the worst day of her entire fucking life. He probably did this shit all the time, it was just another ho-hum Tuesday for him.
Was today Tuesday? Weeks blurred together; a monster hunter lived on her own schedule.
The party was Friday night, a week before Halloween.
How long had she been unconscious? Bea’s knees ached.
Her back arched slightly, attempting to ease the strain in her hips, and the monster actually growled, long and low in his throat.
Just like a big cat. The deep thrum resolved into words. “I recall more now. The house, south side of the mountain, wasn’t it? Which was strange, they usually prefer the northern.”
What? “So you do remember something.”
“Another journalist, was he not? The young man.”
Novelist, you asshole. “His name was Jared. Jared Dunlevy.” God, if I had the stake right now...But she didn’t. She’d failed at killing the monster, and now he was playing with her. Had Jare ever felt this helpless? It could drive a person right off the deep end.
“Yes, that’s right. You...were there, that evening?
Impossible. Unless…” He moved again, a supple wavelike motion passing down heavy muscles, before burying his nose in her tangled hair and continuing, a little muffled but easily audible.
“No, I am mistaken. Quite possible, since the reek of greiben was strong and they are noisy in withdrawal. How strange.”
“How strange.” She put all the mockery she could into the words, despite the little voice in her head tentatively broaching the idea that maybe he’d just let her go, tell her not to fuck around with monsters anymore, and what would she do then?
Slink away knowing she’d been too much of a coward to do what she promised at her brother’s grave?
Both Bea and Jare’s agent Nanci had insisted he get a will drawn up, the funeral arrangements an unpleasant discussion she was squirmingly grateful for since in the end she’d been too terrified even to call the cops.
“Next you’re going to tell me it wasn’t you, that the one-armed man did it. ”
“The greiben had only one arm? That’s odd as well.”
Oh, my God. “No, that’s from a movie. You are just unreal, you know that?”
“I have forgotten more than most mortals ever know, Miss Dunlevy.”
She almost flinched, almost asked how did you figure out my last name, then realized she’d said Jared’s out loud.
Dumbest move of the week, and she’d been doing so well up until the actual murder.
Had she and Don cleared away enough traces?
She’d disappeared the night her brother died; Beatrice Dunlevy didn’t exist anymore.
Sarah Monroe was born a few weeks later, Don getting her a fake Social Security number and enough ID to get a job, at least. “Is that enough discussion? Are you going to kill me, or have your little green bastards do it? Hurry up, I’ve got places to be. ”
The steel grip on her wrists eased, bit by bit. “Slowly,” the monster said. “I am going to move very slowly, and I would suggest you stay still as possible. If you attempt self-harm or escape, I will have you immediately. Do you understand?”
Which was more chilling, the ‘Chris Everly’ who had flirted, chatted, and joked with her for hours at a dull-as-doornails business costume party, or this lightning-fast, overpowering being who held her down so easily?
Some varieties of bloodsucker were supposed to have rules, like compulsively counting knots or flax seeds. Was that part of folklore true?
If he had rules, maybe she could survive. Somehow.
“Please.” It sounded a lot like begging; Bea was past caring. The bed creaked, though neither of them had shifted. “Why don’t you just kill me?”
“I did not harm your brother, I was trying to save him.” The monster’s shadow vanished, reappearing next to her as the mattress suddenly gave under redistributed weight.
Bea knew she wasn’t supposed to move, but she couldn’t help it. Her knees flew up; she spilled onto her side, curling into a tight, protective ball. She didn’t even care that the monster was behind her. Her entire body had decided nope, not doing this, peace out.
A featherlight brush against her bare shoulder, hard fever-warm fingertips settling a thin silk strap more comfortably. Bea twitched, an undignified squeak boiling in her throat. The monster’s hand drew away, and she waited for whatever would happen next.
Finally, his voice came again—very close to her ear, a maddening tickle. “When you wake, I shall have answers.” Another long, slow inhale; he was sniffing her hair again, like a total creep. “But for now, little leman, I did not harm your brother. Rest.”
Not fucking likely. She huddled on tangled blankets, listening intently for footsteps, for the sound of the locked door opening or closing.
Nothing. Was he still playing with her, cat at the mousehole? The instant she moved, he’d bite her again.
Or worse. Her neck didn’t hurt, simply felt swollen and warm, as if wrapped in a smooth thick scarf. The trembling came in waves, and each high tide pressed more tears between her tightly closed eyelids. She lay, cramps gripping her leg or the arm under her head, and prayed for dawn.
Which was ridiculous, she’d seen ‘Chris Everly’ walking around in daylight with her own two eyes.
Fucking confusing, except for the number of serious occult weirdos—not to mention monster hunters on the dark-web forums—who swore some bloodsuckers could do that.
Plenty of the old folklore said so as well, in as close to original sources as she or Don could get.
She had unequivocal proof about a lot of things now. Fat lot of good it did her. Her breath came in short hard chuffs as she shook, hoping against hope to be ignored for as long as possible, and when she finally passed out it was a blessing.
* * *
It wasn’t the first time she’d awakened in a bathtub—there had been a couple really wild college parties, back when Bea thought she was actually going to make something of herself. Best time of her life, really, out from under Jare’s shadow and feeling halfway pretty.
It was, however, the first time she’d achieved consciousness in a huge cast-iron number, clutching a pillow and two blankets dragged from a giant four-poster bed.
At some point last night she had apparently headed for what her subconscious considered safer ground.
Under the bed clearly hadn’t worked, but that was beside the point.
The slip was twisted all around, she had to rub her eyes twice before she believed anything they were telling her, and there were still no toiletries, just that pristine shell-shaped cake of blue soap.
Hollow-eyed, lank-haired, she examined the six marks on her neck.
Pale at the edges, the punctures each bore a single bright crimson dot in the middle.
The upper arc was made of four holes, larger to the outside and smaller nestling inward; the remaining two had to be from the lower jaw, clamping to provide leverage.
So that’s a real vampire bite. I know what one looks like now, yippee for me. When she gingerly brushed the marks with bruised fingertips a strange sensation poured down her back, causing a shiver, goosebumps, and a rollercoaster flutter in her belly.
A frosted skylight beamed gently down at the bathroom, filling the mirror with pale winter sunshine. One floor below the roof, most likely? Almost definitely the penthouse—if she found the elevator, could she get out the same way she had before? What about fire stairs?
The past few days had taken on a shimmering underwater unreality. Stress, lack of food? Or had she gone really and truly around the bend?
The soap was blueberry-scented. She washed her hands, waiting for the water to warm up; it turned close to scalding while she lathered. No nail brush, but she made it work, and it gave her a perverse satisfaction to drop a blue hand towel from the glass shelf into the sink afterward.
In any case, her hands no longer felt bloody. She’d have to take the notch off her monster hunting belt; he was definitely alive and kicking. Which was great for her conscience but now she was wondering just how badly the immediate future was going to go.
First she had to look for tools—something, anything she could break or splinter.
Then she’d see about that big oak double door.