Chapter 17 #2
It worked—sort of. He backed away four whole steps, before moving aside between the bed and a nicotine-stained wall.
But he also put his arm out, neatly barring the bathroom door. “Simone. Please. Simply grant me a few more nights. Two, three at most. I swear, on the Blood and on my leman, that—”
“You can show me, after I go to this meet.” There.
That’s as far as I’m going. The relief was intense—just like telling Curt they were getting a goddamn divorce, for real and no takebacks.
There was a kind of relaxation in discovering she couldn’t be pushed any further, just like the moment when a bounty sighted her and she was committed to fight-or-die.
No compromise, no middle ground, no bending for another person’s needs or desires.
It felt wonderful each goddamn time. Which probably meant she wasn’t a good person, sure. But that fact, however lately discovered, had helped her survive.
John didn’t leap on her, but he also wasn’t giving up. “Mortal entanglements are unwise.” Whatever that meant.
“This is non-negotiable, Jonathan.” The name rolled out easily, as if she knew him. Which was weird, but maybe just a function of being around someone who could talk coherently about vampire stuff.
Even bloodsuckers had to get lonely. And what if he was right, what if she’d been the reason the other ones had acted all drunk and psychotic? Though the bounties had done terrible things before she appeared, it was still chilling to think she’d mistaken her sole edge in the situation.
What else was she missing? What else did she need to learn, and could she trust this bloodsucker to give her a few lessons?
His arm lowered a few degrees, then a few more. “You forget I am daywalker, sweet Simone. I have not been… idle, while you rest.”
Good for you. “I suppose you could just drop me in the sunshine somewhere, if I don’t cooperate.” Probably best to let him know she’d considered the notion, and was on guard against it. Although what on earth could she actually do? “Is that it?”
“Of course not.” Did he actually sound shocked? His baby blues widened, almost comically. “I would never—”
She shoved past him. “Just stop. I’m tired.”
The lock-button on the bathroom doorknob didn’t work at all. No windows, and the fan was probably too choked with dust to provide any real ventilation. The bleach-and-mildew bouquet could’ve been worse or, conversely, a whole lot better.
But the plastic bathtub didn’t have a ring, at least. She left the lights on—only two out of three bulbs in the strip over the sink worked—and clambered in, boots and all, curling over her bag as the numbness of sunrise mounted in leaden limbs.
All I have to do is get to the meet. She’d hear the billionaire’s pitch, then decide. If there was nothing to this ‘cure’ idea, she’d figure out a way to give John the slip and set herself up in a cottage somewhere. If there was anything real or actionable, though, she’d have to get creative.
Really creative.
She was trying to decide which she hoped for most when dawn seized her.
After recent events, it was almost startling to wake up with her clothes on, let alone in a questionably clean bathtub.
Simone stayed very still, eyes closed, breathing deeply. Folklore said vamp sleep looked like a particularly fresh dead body until you hammered the stake in, but she’d never been able to test the assertion.
Wonder if John would tell me. A silly question, sure.
The air was still and dead, two of the bathroom’s walls—the outer edges of this home-for-an-hour—bearing that invisible almost-shimmer.
Maybe she ought to be grateful he hadn’t forced her to settle on the bed, or moved her there like a tired toddler once she was out.
Now she had to get to the meet. After she’d possibly antagonized an old vampire who could probably keep her bottled indefinitely, and was perfectly aware of the fact.
While she’d been snoozing, though, some part of her had apparently been busy coming up with ideas. One sprang, full-blown and awful, to the forefront of her brain.
Oh, God, that’s awful. But it could possibly work.
She’d done more difficult things, both before and after infection.
Of course, a good girl wasn’t supposed to fight dirty, to kill slavering vampires and demand prompt payment; a lady shouldn’t be threatening or rude.
A good girl was supposed to be patient, long-suffering, wait to be rescued.
Getting to middle age meant discovering—and internalizing—there was nobody coming to save you, so you’d damn well better do it yourself.
The hardest part was stripping, folding her clothes neatly, and piling them next to the sink, her bag and boots tucked against the facing underneath. Deliberately not looking in the flyspotted mirror, she waited for the shower to gurgle into life.
Great water pressure, even if the spray never got truly hot. She wrung her hair dry and didn’t bother with the towels. Not part of her plan, and what she was about to do was nasty enough. No need to add whatever was on anemic, faintly mildewed terrycloth to the mix.
Watch, I’ll look out and he’ll be gone, that’d be hilarious. It took more courage than she’d guessed to twist the knob, pull the door open slightly, and peer out.
The room was just the same as it had been, except the bed was piled with shopping bags. A large black suitcase lay on the pillows, open and waiting, its lid against the headboard; the TV was on but muted, glowing at the old vampire who stood stock-still, staring at its glass face as if enraptured.
Men and televisions. It’s like a bug zapper, they can’t look away. Simone hesitated, wondering if the crazy, awful, long-shot plan was worth carrying out.
Black jeans, black shirt, plain silver belt buckle, plain black boots.
His hair bore no crimp of the hat’s sweatband, turned into a half-tousled mass balancing the harsh planes of his face.
Not gaunt anymore, but there was nothing soft about him either.
An oblivious human might peg him as thirty, thirty-two tops, a rawboned good ol’ boy unremarkable save for those straight eyebrows and piercing blue peepers.
What did it take, to live a long time as a vampire? To get so old you could walk around in sunshine—what would a being like that want with her? All that leman stuff had to be horseshit. Some kind of con game.
He turned, a swift, graceful movement. His hat was on the cheap nightstand; at least he hadn’t left it on the bed. Did he know about the old superstition? Maybe he was older than a folk belief or two.
The idea that those blue eyes could X-ray right through the flimsy door was immediate, and hideously unwelcome. Simone froze.
“I, ah.” He made a short sound, almost like a nervous cough. “I brought you gifts.”
Really. Simone tried to process this, her brain briefly sputtering like a flooded engine.
“I don’t know what women of your era prefer,” he continued, reciting near-breathlessly as if racing through a prepared debate opener. “I will learn. All I ask is a little… a little…”
A little what? Simone realized she’d opened the door slightly further than she’d meant to.
He was getting an eyeful of what infection had done to her body—best nip-and-tuck around, except for the faint fading traces of old stretch marks on her thighs and the sides of her breasts; the ones on her arms were almost gone, along with her varicose veins.
Hopefully the remainders wouldn’t interfere with her plan.
Simone let the door swing wide, padding into the motel room.
The carpet was worn down to the weft in some places, delightfully scratchy save for the hint of grease lingering on nylon strands.
She was still damp, but thankfully summer-scorch and winter snow both rolled right off vamp skin to a certain degree.
She pretended to examine the bags on the bed. Well, can’t lay on that, or at least, I don’t want to roll around on plastic. So he shops designer, huh. Wonder how he got those past the seals? He doesn’t take the shimmer down to pass through, I think.
So much she had to learn. So she turned, looking up at him, and found out he was closer now, a soft warm breath of moving air brushing her cheek. “You’re trying to buy me?” Should I flutter my eyelashes?
“To please you,” he corrected, and she found out it was entirely possible for an ancient being on a liquid-red diet to look hungry.
John stared from under lowered lids, his lower lip pulled slightly in, blunt human-seeming teeth touching lightly.
All his attention focused, those blue eyes nearly incandescent, and yes, he did appear absolutely… well, famished.
He said bloodsuckers could eat human food. Once she got through this, she was going to test the assertion with a bacon mushroom cheeseburger, a mountain of waffle fries, and a cookies-n-creme milkshake.
With loads of whipped cream. Any digestive trouble afterward would only be what she deserved.
For now, Simone regarded him with what she hoped was cool measurement. He could probably hear her heart hammering, but maybe keeping a straight face was worth a point or two. “Why?”
“You’re my leman.” As if that was supposed to mean something.
“But why?” she persisted.
His throat moved as he swallowed. Simone began to get the idea she had some kind of weird advantage here—unless he was indeed lying. But then again, maybe a male vamp could be led around by the little head instead of the big one, just like human guys.
“Are you all right?” The urge to laugh bubbled in her throat, was ruthlessly pushed down, and died somewhere behind her breastbone. If he says yes I’ll probably die of embarrassment.
She was, after all, stark naked.
A deep thrumming slowly intruded on dead-air silence. He was staring at her, and starving didn’t even begin to cover his expression. A faint crackle accompanied ripples sliding through his cheeks, muscles on his jaw flickering.
She might have been overconfident, Simone thought. Just a little. Oh, what the hell.
More courage was necessary to step close to him, to place her palm flat on his shirt. The vibration in his chest slid up her arm—like a massive jungle cat, purring.
Those have fangs too. Oh, Simone, be careful.
“You can have what you want.” Hard not to coo, or flutter her damn eyelashes. She felt ridiculous. “But it has to be how I say.” Are you really doing this?
He leaned into her touch, gaze fastened on her lips. A heady feeling—this powerful monster, old enough to walk around in sunshine, right at her fingertips. Waiting to be unleashed.
A slight change in his weight, inclining toward the bed, and she understood as if he’d spoken aloud. “No,” she said. “Not on the floor, either. And you’ll need to take your clothes off—”
Fabric tore. Her bare, still-damp back hit the wall next to the bathroom door, and the fact that the paint was stained with ancient cigarette smoke didn’t matter because his mouth was on hers, a thin thread of copper-taste from his bitten lip stroking the spot in her throat where dormant thirst roused in a sheet of blinding crimson.
Lifted and held, the growl rattling into a sonic haze—she wondered for a moment if the neighboring room could hear it through the shimmer—and warm skin sliding against hers, her fingers clutching, full of silken strands as she plunged her hands into his hair.
Her legs wrapped around his waist, and her hiss at the sudden heavy, stretching first thrust was lost in the flood of sensation.
Oh hey, this isn’t bad—
Then there was no time for thought, just clutching and writhing, her body determined to get what it could.
He seemed to know which way she’d move, each convulsive move closer to shattering, her clit ruthlessly massaged by that wicked, knowing extra protuberance and the wave building, lightning slamming up her spine to detonate in her head.
This time he waited until her shudders eased, his breath hot against her ear, whispering something she couldn’t hear through the pounding of her heart, her own ragged gasps.
And when he tilted his head, guiding her mouth to the pulse beating hard and high in his throat, her fangs sprang free of their own accord, burying in the insistent throbbing.
He held her impaled, pinned to the wall as she fed, shudders passing through them both with each mouthful, each twitch of her sheath clamped tight around him.
For a few brief moments Simone didn’t have to think about the meeting, a possible cure, how to keep her balance on the edge of an unpredictable hurricane in vampire form.
It was over far too soon.