Chapter 9
No way to peek between the curtains in either the pink bedroom or the suite’s outer room, since the vampire kept a watchful eye as if afraid she might try to take a header through some hotel glass.
He might not have been wrong, Layla silently conceded. In the end, the idea that they might not be very far up and she’d only be embarrassed—or worse, not quickly put out of what might end up being bone-broken misery—stopped her.
But still, she considered the notion. Her brain was struggling through mud, even if the devouring, terrible fear had left her alone for a few short moments.
Maybe she was just too exhausted to feel afraid anymore, or maybe the strange, secret lassitude after getting railed to within an inch of her life was responsible.
Try not to think about that. There was so much else to focus on, she just couldn’t figure out what to prioritize.
The hallway was carpeted in pale blue, bright with recessed lighting, far cleaner than most houses, and utterly deserted.
She found out they were on the twentieth floor as soon as they arrived at the chilly, polished steel elevator; Layla tried not to gape, but this was the nicest place she’d ever been in.
And how on earth had he managed to get a dress that fit her?
The label said Kisbain; it was a brand she’d never even dare to touch in a department store, and it moved heavy-silken against her shrinking skin.
What else was in that big ol’ suitcase he hefted as if it weighed nothing?
She couldn’t even pinch herself to provoke a bit of clear thinking. She had to make do with flinching as tenderness in a few internal bodily sections reminded her of… of that.
What he’d done. What she had done, her own body turned traitor—or had it? The vampire acted like he’d already forgotten holding her down on the bed, and she had to look away from her tangle-haired reflection in the elevator’s brushed-steel wall.
It wasn’t like in movies, or in books. It wasn’t even like the porn Ben was constantly watching, though she was pretty sure a lot of people thought sex should follow those weird scripted patterns, right down to waxing hair away in several places.
Nothing in high school abstinence-and-disease classes had ever covered this, either.
Was the bite beforehand part of some vampire kink? Did this guy want to turn her into a bloodsucking monster? Why her instead of, say, Steve-o, who was probably far better material?
Layla winced again as the elevator slowed its soundless plunge, her stomach flipping uneasily. Looked like they were heading to a parking level.
How did the biter pay for all this? Many of the monsters were rich, money accumulating around creatures who lived a long time and were capable of hypnotizing humans into henchfolk or turning them into plain old regular-ass employees.
Once a biter hit a certain age, they seemed to accumulate those hangers-on, plus they switched identities almost at will, and their victims—food or merely inconvenient bystanders, not to mention anyone so foolish as to ask persistently awkward questions—vanished into crime statistics for the year.
People went missing everywhere, all the time, all over the world. Most were never found. A certain percentage had to be demimonde casualties, swept under the rug or never found. Some folk might even just walk away from their normal lives, start over somewhere else.
God knew she’d vanished out of her own life. Not that anyone had been left to care or look for her, no sir, not with both Meemaw and Suze gone. Dan, of course, had pulled his own vanishing act right next to her.
Now he’s really a statistic. She suppressed another flinch, wondering if anyone would find the… the remains of her crew back at base. Think about something useful.
What were her chances of escape? Of even surviving?
How the great blue northern fuck had he gotten a dress in her precise size?
It was a far more expensive version of the black one she’d worn for lookout duty, and she couldn’t decide if that was a good or bad sign.
Was it red because he was going to make her bleed on the fabric?
Oh, Jesus-please-us, what a gruesome thought.
He carried the suitcase easily, but she thought it pretty likely he’d drop it in a heartbeat if she tried to take off. He was just so goddamn fast.
And she didn’t even have a clue what time it was, though it had to be after dark if the biter was moving around. Assuming she’d only slept a single day, it had been less than twenty-four hours, her entire squad was dead—except maybe Pete, if the vampire wasn’t lying—and she’d been…
Well, she was no longer a virgin, at least. Now she had to worry about vampire STDs. Or did she?
A funny slipsliding sensation filled her skull. I quit, Dan said, and then the entire world veered off course, descending into this insanity. And that horrible revelation—I never wanted to marry her, she said she was pregnant.
But he’d been so broken up about Suze. Showing up on Layla’s doorstep, outright sobbing and clinging to her like a baby, his hands roaming.
Adamant about digging into his wife’s death even though the cops said it was an accident, called him crazy for asking questions.
For her part Layla thought he was probably a bit unhinged from the shock , but…
Well, it might be time to admit a home truth or two. Suppressing a long-term crush on your best friend’s husband did not make for entirely objective assessments. She’d tried to be careful, to look at the evidence around Suze’s death, try to disprove anything outlandish.
There was just so much once they started digging.
And Dan seemed to need her so badly. He’d even been outright affectionate, at first; she’d kind of suspected he wanted to rebound on her.
It had taken all her willpower to act blissfully oblivious to that aspect, because of poor Suze and also because some faint but definite voice—maybe conscience, maybe just a twinge of pride—told Layla she didn’t want sloppy seconds.
She preferred something real, and if she stuck around through the hard stuff maybe he’d see as much.
At least, that had been her hope. And yet… there was the wedding incident.
She hadn’t said a word about seeing him with Cindy, she’d listened when he talked about biters and things going bump in the night, she’d looked at the proof he’d gathered, she’d tried to do what was right.
Now here she was, kidnapped by a biter. And Dan was dead.
Was he? Could she trust anything a vampire said? You need not concern yourself with them.
She could go with what she saw, couldn’t she? Ben, vanishing between syllables. Ack, plucked right out of his chair. And the vampire now standing next to her, silent and patient a cat at a mousehole. She stole glances at his beaky profile, her stomach fluttering harder as the elevator stopped.
Not a soul in sight, from the hotel suite to the hallway. When would she see ordinary people again? What time was it now? And Christ, what did he say his name was?
Max. No, Maximus. That can’t be real. It suddenly struck her as funny, and she clapped a hand over her mouth. None of that, no sir. Don’t you dare, Layla.
If she got the giggles now, who knew what the hell else would happen?
The elevator dinged, the door drew aside—yep, a parking level. Outside a larger glass enclosure, concrete walls surrounded patiently waiting cars. Still no sign of another human being.
Had he killed everyone in the damn hotel? She wouldn’t put it past this monster, and thinking about it made her gorge rise hot and acid, dispelling post-sex glow.
Or trying to. Her neck throbbed; seen in the bathroom mirror, the fangmarks were classic, vivid, and horrifying.
She’d never dreamed of her own skin bearing the pattern—four upper, two lower, the punctures’ outer margins white, the centers bright-scabbed red, slight bruise-discoloration spreading to show the arcs of the bite.
Post those on a forum, you’d get a lot of hits. Where’s a camera when you need one? Terrible, breathless, almost screamy hilarity swirled next to the thin scorch of bile in her throat.
“Come.” The vampire reached over her to keep the elevator door open despite Layla’s instinctive, all-too-visible flinch, then herded her out of the box. He also opened the glass door for her, like a goshdarn gentleman, then brushed past and set off as if expecting her to follow.
She did so as slowly as she dared, outright dilly-dallying and still holding back rancid, acidic giggles, breathing hard through loosely cupped fingers.
The movement of air against her skin was comforting, a reminder she was still alive.
This underground level was much warmer than interior air conditioning, though nowhere near soggy-breathless as it would be outside.
She examined the cars—most with out-of-state plates, not a local hooptie in sight—and scanned reflexively for any exits.
No chance to find a single outlet for escape, because a sleek black Volvo roused nearby.
The sound made her jump before she realized that somehow, the damn vampire had keyless start.
Which was even funnier, in the same bleak way as everything else right now, and she was going to commence howling with heebie-jeebie chuckles any moment now.
Researching vampires and other weird shit gave one unhealthy coping mechanisms and a terribly dark sense of humor, but she’d never gotten the howlers this bad. Ever.
Well, this is an exceptional situation, Lay.