Cravings (17 page)

"SO now what?" Daniel asked. They were in yet another anonymous hotel room,
this one the downtown Minneapolis Marriott. Andrea had to admit it was much
nicer than the others. "Do we stay? Do we go back to Chicago? Do we keep driving
west, running from the rising sun? What?"

"I don't know. I—I didn't expect to still be alive. Or in charge of my own
destiny. I thought she'd kill me or enslave me."

Daniel snorted. "Her? The only thing she'd enslave is a pair of high heels.
She was cute, though. Really cute. If you like 'em annoying, flighty, and
fashion-obsessed."

"Which you do," she said thinly.

He tackled her, bringing her to the bed. "Nope. Used to like 'em that way."
He nuzzled her nose. "Now I like them stuck-up and brainy and on a liquid diet."

"Daniel, that's so—"

"And the dude with her! Cripes! It was like the devil showed up in her
backyard!"

"Tell me."

"No wonder you got the hell away from him when you were still a drooling baby
vamp."

"Yes, rushing off while fueled by cowardice was one of my finest moments."

"Don't knock yourself, Andy. He was scary. I don't know how she's gonna keep
him in line."

"Oh, that's obvious enough." For some delightful reason, Daniel was nuzzling
her earlobe. She'd thought, once his obligation had been discharged, he'd be
long gone. It was odd that he was lingering, but nice. "Did you see how he
looked at her? He loves her. And not like a subject loves a queen, I think."

"Mmmph."

"Stop it, that tickles."

"Nuh-uh. I've got something else to tickle you with, by the way."

She laughed. "That's terrible!"

"So, look." He straightened up and propped his chin on his elbow. "You gonna
ditch me?"

"I was sort of waiting for you to ditch me," she admitted.

"Because the way I see it, you can go to that weird library and reactivate
all your accounts, your credit cards and stuff. And get a vampire-type job. So
you don't really need me anymore."

"Such a lie."

"Right, but—what?"

"Daniel, you moron, I was never hanging around with you for the clothes from
Target. You were the first person in six years to take an interest in me. Even
when I was at my worst, you took everything I could dish out and you were always
waiting for me the next night. You could have killed me anytime but you didn't.
That's…" She started to sniffle, and sternly ordered herself to cut it out.
"That's priceless to me."

He was frowning at her. "Let me get this straight. You're all goo-gooey about
me because I didn't ditch you? Or kill you? Andy, you are
such
a
weirdo."

"Yes, so they tell me."

"Well, I don't care if you don't need my money or if you want a big ring or
whatever. I'm staying. I—I kind of love you."

"Kind of?" she teased.

"I told you, you ruined me for live girls."

"That's very… romantic."

"Of course, I'll get old and smelly and you'll always be young and cute, but
we can fix that," he said cheerfully.

"Daniel, I'm not turning you into a vampire."

"Oh, sure you will. Not now… I'm still in my prime! Maybe in ten years."

"Daniel!"

"It'll be the coolest!"

"Daniel…"

"But first…" His hand was sliding up her shirt. "Aren't you just the tiniest
bit thirsty… ?"

"Daniel, I'm
not
—"

"Okay, well, look, let's talk about it in ten years, okay?"

"It's more complicated than that," she said, pretending she wasn't overjoyed.
It was amazing… she was getting everything she ever wanted, but she had to die
first, and see a queen by way of a library. The world was strange. "You can't
just decide to shack up with a vampire—"

"I was thinking more like marrying a vampire."

If she could have gasped, she would have. "Well, there are things you haven't
considered—"

"Andy, will you please shut up and kiss me?"

"Okay," she warned, "but we're talking about this later.
In depth
."

"You're so sexy when you're stern and lecturey."

 

LATER, after making love, she said, "I kind of love you, too."

"Yeah," he yawned. "I know."

"What, you know?" She kissed the bite mark on his neck. "How could you know?"

"Sweetie, you're smart and all, but some things, I just know." And he picked
up their entwined hands, and kissed them.

Helen?

Too dignified. I've never been terribly dignified.

Rachel?

A pretty name… it didn't feel right, though. I wasn't in the mood for Rachel.
I paused, digging my toes into the sand. Overhead the sky was clear, its black
dome fuzzed by the lights ahead. Galveston isn't large, but tourists like a
place that's lively at night. I do, too, but prefer to live outside the city
proper.

Beside me the great, briny mother was in a quiet mood, her waves lapping at
the sand like curled cats' tongues. That made me think of my neighbor, Mrs.
Jenks—a nice woman, but with no talent for naming cats. She had three. The one
she called Mona was a particular favorite of mine, sleek and black, who referred
to herself as Wind-Who-Leaves-the-Grasses-Silent. Quite a mouthful in English, I'll admit.

Well, what about Mona? A better name for a woman than a cat.

No, it was too close to Molly, which was my current name. I'd be forever
signing checks wrong.

I sighed and started walking again. Walking in sand is good for the calf
muscles. Doing it at night with the ocean whispering beside you is good for the
soul.

I'll admit to being vain about my legs. Otherwise I'm on the nice side of
average, with my weight holding steady at fashionable-plus-fifteen and a
thoroughly Irish face, complete with freckles and a pug nose. More motherly than
cute these days, I suppose; I let my hair go white several years ago. But my
legs are still excellent.

Not that I was out walking for the sake of my muscle tone tonight. My calves
were in better shape than my soul.

Self-pity is so wearing. Unattractive, too. Really, I needed to settle on a
name. It was time to move on. Just last night Sam had commented again on how I
never seemed to change.

Dear Sam. I sighed again. I would miss him. And several of the others, too,
and Galveston itself. I loved the historic section and the view, breakfast at
The Phoenix and seafood at Gaido's. I lived so close to the ocean that the
salt-and-sea scent drifted in my window, and I could indulge in the private
splendor of walking the beach at night…

I was lucky, I reminded myself. Most women wouldn't feel safe alone on the
beach at three in the morning. There have always been predators. But some would
say that's what I am, too. I'm not easy to harm.

I'd reached the narrow road that divided the public beach from the RV park
where I live. Not that the owners call it an RV park, mind. It's a mobile-living
village. That's the name, in fact: Beachside Village. I suppose a touch of
pretension is inevitable if you want to charge such outlandish prices to rent a
spot, and the location is wonderful—outside the city proper, right on the ocean.
I stepped onto the soft asphalt, still warm from the summer sun.

There was a soft sound, sort of a
pop-whoosh
! And a naked man lay at
my feet. A beautiful, unconscious,
bleeding
naked man.

Oh, dear.

The air turned crisp and my hearing sharpened as those trusty fight-or-flight
chemicals did their thing. But there was no one to fight—thank goodness—and I
couldn't simply run away.

I do not need this
, I told myself as I knelt on the soft, tacky
asphalt. My heart was galloping. I had no idea where he had come from or how
he'd arrived, but those slashes across his chest, belly, and legs looked
intentional. Someone did not like this man. I should head home immediately and
call 911.

I touched his throat, found a pulse, and exhaled in relief.

The moon was nearly full, and I have excellent night vision. He was a
breathtaking man, with skin so pale the sun might never have touched it. Pale
everywhere, too, not just in the usual places. His hair was short, very dark,
and almost as curly as my own. His eyelashes were absurdly long, giving him the
look of a sleeping child… a look quite at odds with one of the loveliest male
bodies I've ever seen. And I am something of a connoisseur of male bodies.

And the slashes on that lovely chest, flat stomach, and muscular thighs were
slowly closing. Blood barely oozed now.

Whoever he was, he wasn't entirely human. Not as most people counted such
things, anyway. And though I loved Texas, there was no denying most people here
were not very tolerant of those of the Blood. Not that he was lupus or Faerie or
anything else I recognized, but who else could heal a wound so quickly?

One of the Old Ones could.

I shivered and shut a mental door before a name could slip into my thoughts.
No point in taking any chances of disturbing Their sleep. Besides, one of Them
wouldn't be so poky about healing a few cuts. The bleeding had stopped, but the
gashes remained, a couple quite deep—though not, thankfully, the one in his
stomach.

One of Them could have made those cuts, though. And zapped Their victim here,
or anywhere else They pleased. I did not need to be part of this. I'd call 911
and let them deal—

He opened his eyes.

They were silver in the moonlight, silver framed by a dark fringe of lashes.
And so blank that I was sure there was no one home. The ache of that realization
was sharp enough to surprise a small, sad "Oh" from me.

All at once he was
there
, his gaze focused and intent, latching on
to mine as if I'd tossed him a lifeline. "
Ke hu räkken
?" he whispered.

I am so weak
, I thought, annoyed. Long eyelashes and a body to die
for, and I lose all sense. I wasn't going to call 911. "I do hope you speak
English."

"Enn… glish." He repeated the word as if he were holding it in his mouth,
testing it for familiarity. "Yes. I can speak… English. This is England?"

"No, this is Galveston Island. It's in Texas," I added when he looked blank.
His accent was decidedly British—upper crust. "U.S.A.? Never mind. I'm going to
help you, but I need to know who hurt you. And if they're likely to be close
behind."

"Who…" A frown snapped down. He lifted a hand to his side, touched one of the
wounds, winced. He looked at his hand, the gory fingertips. "I'm damaged."

"Yes, but not, I think, fatally. Though heaven knows I'm not a doctor. But a
doctor would probably notify the police. You
were
attacked, weren't
you?"

He nodded slowly. "Who…" he said again, then stopped, looking baffled. "I'm
bleeding."

"Not as much as you were. Look, do you want me to call an ambulance?"

"Am… bulance. An emergency vehicle."

I nodded encouragingly. "Yes, you know—ambulances, doctors, nurses, the
hospital, all that. They could take care of you there."

"No." He was suddenly decisive. "No hospital."

I sighed. "In that case, can you walk?"

He considered that briefly. "I think so."

"My motor home isn't far—you can see it from here, the Winnebago with the
palm tree and the purple outbuilding. Oh, never mind. You can't see the color
now, can you?" I was blithering, which annoyed me. "We need to get you out of
sight. Someone might come along—an ordinary someone who would be startled by a
naked, wounded man. Or the someone who attacked you. Will he, she, or it be able
to follow you here?"

"I don't know."

Not much help. "Well, let's see if we can make it to my place. Please try to
be quiet. Mr. Stanhope—he's my neighbor on the west—wakes up if anyone sneezes,
and I'd just as soon not have to explain you."

He nodded. Looking as if the motion required every ounce of concentration he
could summon, he shifted onto his side, braced himself awkwardly with his hands,
and pushed into a sitting position.

He wobbled. I slipped an arm around him. "Dizzy?"

"Not… used to this. It hurts."

"I know. I'm sorry. Can you stand?"

"I will try."

Getting him vertical might have been funny if I'd been watching instead of
participating. All those lovely muscles worked fine, but he was too woozy to
know what to do with them. We did end up on our feet, though, with my arm around
his waist where I wouldn't touch any of his wounds, and his feet set wide, like
a toddler unsure of his balance.

He didn't feel like a toddler. A decided sexual buzz warmed me, and it wasn't
entirely due to the hard male body pressed against my side. He fairly hummed
with energy, some breed of magic I'd never encountered before.

He was also only about three inches taller than me, which was a surprise. Not
only is everyone taller than I am these days, but he'd looked big lying down. I
suppose it was something about the way he was proportioned—perfectly. And packed
solid. Very solid. I'm stronger than I look, but if I had to support too much of
his weight we might both end up on the ground.

I turned my head and looked into eyes only inches from mine. The skin around
those eyes was tight and bleached. "You okay?"

"I'm unsure what okay means in this context. I can proceed. I want me out of
sight, too."

"Let's do it."

A short chain-link fence runs all the way around the Village. Three years ago
I persuaded management to let me put in a gate at my plot so I didn't have to go
the long way around to get to the beach. By the time we reached that gate,
neither of us was breathing normally.

He was in pain. I was aroused. "Not far now," I assured him. I was going to
have to behave myself, that was all there was to it. I glanced at his face, taut
and damp with sweat. He looked to be in his mid-to-late twenties—too young to
think of me sexually unless I wanted him to.

Or got careless. I sighed. This was not going to be easy. "I don't have a
thing you can wear."

He stared at me, offended. "I am trying… to breathe. And not bleed. You are…
worried about clothing?"

I glanced down. The deep gash in his thigh had started oozing again, which
wasn't surprising. I could see bone. "If we can get to the tree, you can lean
against it while I get the door open."

He grunted. We lurched forward. Getting through the narrow gate was tricky,
but we made it and I more or less propped him against the palm. He looked
dreadful. A couple more gashes had started bleeding again, which probably meant
he was losing control, perhaps close to passing out. He leaned against the
trunk, eyes closed, chest heaving. "I liked… lying down better. You have a
place… I can lie down?"

"You can have my bed. We just have to get you there." I hurried to the
nearest door—which, with the way my Winnebago was parked, meant the driver's
door. I didn't think he was up to trekking around to the other side.

He was going to make a mess of my leather seat, I thought sadly as I dug in
the pocket of my shorts for my keyless remote.

The lock clicked before I punched it. I froze.

"What is it?" His voice was low, hoarse.

I turned slowly, my eyes searching the shadows. "Someone unlocked the door
before I could."

"Oh." He sounded apologetic. "That might have been me. I am wishing very much
to be inside."

"You aren't sure?" My voice may have been a little shrill.

"I'm not used to this place. The energies are different than… they're
different." He paused. "Who are you, and why are you helping me?"

Suspicion would be natural, even healthy, under the circumstance. But he
sounded more curious than wary. I opened the door, quickly shut off the dome
light, and returned to him. "My name is Molly Brown. I'm helping you because
you're hurt. Also," I admitted in a flash of honesty, "because I've been rather
bored lately."

"You are curious about me." Some fugitive emotion roughened his voice.
Disgust? Satisfaction?

"Very. I'll save most of my questions until I get you inside, but—"

"I can't answer your questions."

"You'll have to, if you want my help."

"I cannot," he said hollowly.

The despair in his voice tugged at me. I fought to hold firm against it. "I
don't want your life history, but I do need to know who you are, where you came
from, who's after you and why."

"I don't know."

"You don't know who tried to kill you?"

"I don't know any of it."

I believed him. I'm a fool sometimes, the same as everyone else, but I
believed the crushed bewilderment in his voice. I didn't say anything more, just
slid my arm around his waist again.

"You will help anyway?" That was hope I heard now—and oh, how painful hope
can be, in all its uncertainty.

"Looks like." I sighed over my folly and and supported him the last few feet
to my home.