Love Bites (5 page)

“Get back, he's a vampire,”
the madman had yelled.

Rachel's gaze slid to the coffin, then back to her self-proclaimed host. There were no such things as vampires. Yet this guy had just leapt out of a coffin and apparently got up twice and walked away from death.

“Vampire?” He echoed the word with amusement,
making Rachel realize she had spoken aloud. “Now, what would make you think I was a vampire?”

Rachel gaped at him, then glanced toward his coffin. Her host followed her gaze, and his expression turned slightly sheepish. “Well, I realize sleeping in a coffin must seem odd, but it helps clarify my thoughts. Besides, you were in my bed and I didn't think you'd appreciate my joining you.”

Rachel shook her head. No. She wouldn't have been happy to awake with a stranger in bed with her. Especially a dead stranger. That was taking the idea of bringing work home with her a bit far. Not that she was home, she reminded herself.

“Where am I?” That seemed the obvious question at this point.

“My home,” her host answered promptly. “Mother wanted to take you to the family manse, but I insisted we bring you here.”

“Ah.” Rachel nodded as if her question had been answered, then asked, “Your mother?” Did vampires have mothers? She supposed they must. They were made, not hatched. Or was it turned rather than made? Rachel was a little fuzzy on the point.

Aware that he was moving toward her, she instinctively reached for the cross that usually hung around her neck. It wasn't there, of course. Silly to imagine it would be, Rachel supposed. Her host would hardly ignore such a threat to his well-being. Without the cross, she did the only thing she could think of—she
made a cross out of her pointer fingers and thrust them out. She was most amazed when it worked and her host paused.

He didn't look properly horrified, however. Tilting his head, he appeared more curious than cringing. He said, “I just thought you might be more comfortable in a chair.” Apparently unaffected by her makeshift cross, the man then swept her into his arms.

Hooking the desk chair with his foot, he tugged it out, and before Rachel could draw enough breath to either protest or scream, he set her in it. He then stepped back to lean against the L-shaped desk. “So, tell me a little about yourself,” he suggested in a chatty tone. “I know your name is Rachel Garrett and you work in the hospital morgue, but—”

“How did you know that?” Rachel snapped.

“It was on your hospital ID card,” he explained.

“Oh.” Her eyes narrowed. “How did I get from there to here?”

“We brought you.”

“Why?”

He seemed surprised. “Well, they couldn't help you, and we knew you'd need time to adjust.”

“Adjust to what?”

“To your change.”

“Change?” she squeaked. Rachel was beginning to get a very bad feeling. Before he could respond, she blurted, “Some crazy man hit me with an ax.”

Her host nodded solemnly. “You saved my life tak
ing that blow. Thank you. I could hardly do any less in return.”

“You couldn't?” She frowned at his statement, almost asking how he had saved her, but she suddenly wasn't sure she wanted to know. After all, the man hadn't denied being a vampire.

Recognizing the ridiculous nature of her thoughts, Rachel shook her head. There were no such things as vampires, and even considering it…Well, that way lay madness. Instead, she asked, “When was that? The attack, I mean?”

“Last night.”

Rachel blinked in confusion. “Last night, what?”

“Last night is when you were injured,” he explained patiently.

Rachel immediately began to shake her head. This was impossible. The wound had healed into a scar. She glanced down and tugged her makeshift toga aside just to be sure she hadn't imagined it, then froze, her eyes widening. The scar was gone. Reaching beneath her sheet, she prodded the unbroken skin with disbelief, as if touching it would make the scar suddenly reappear, but it was gone.

“We heal more quickly than mortals.”

“We?” Rachel echoed. “Mortals?” Her tongue felt fat and dry. Unwieldy. Yet, somehow she formed the words. At least, he seemed to understand them.

“Yes. I'm afraid there was only one way to save you, and while we generally like to receive permission be
fore we turn someone, you weren't really capable of the decision. Besides, I couldn't simply let you die after you had sacrificed your life for mine.”

“My life?” Rachel's tongue felt as if it was made of cotton.

“Yes. Your life.”

“Turned?”

“Yes.”

“Turned into what, exactly?” Her cotton tongue made the question “urned inoo ut aghactly,” but again he understood.

“An immortal.”

Immortal.
Rachel felt a moment's relief. She had very much feared hearing the word vampire. Immortal sounded much better.
Immortal
. It made her think of that movie with that actor—what was his name? Good looking, cool accent, Sean Connery had played another immortal…Oh, yes. Christopher Lambert, and the movie had been
Highlander
. And in it immortals weren't evil bloodsucking demons, but…well…immortal. It seemed to her that there had been some evil immortals, though—and some nastiness about cutting off heads. Some nonsense about there could be only one. She didn't care for the idea of having her head cut off.

“Not immortal like Sean Connery and Christopher Lambert in
Highlander
,” her host explained patiently, making her realize that she had been muttering her thoughts aloud. “Immortal like…well, the closest
thing you would understand is a vampire.”

“Oh, jeez.” Rachel was suddenly on her feet and running. Time to go. She had heard enough. This had moved beyond a cool dream and into the nightmare realm. Unfortunately, her legs were no more steady now than they had been. They gave out halfway to the door, and her head spun. She fell back, limp.

Her host scooped her into his arms. Saying something about it being time for her to go back to bed, he carried her out of the room and upstairs. All Rachel could think to say was a plaintive, “But I don't want to be a bloodsucking demon. How will I do my makeup if I don't have a reflection?”

He said something in response, but Rachel wasn't listening; she was thinking of the few episodes of
Buffy the Vampire Slayer
she had caught on TV as she prepared for work and added, “Those facial lumps and bumps are so unattractive.”

“Facial lumps and bumps?”

Rachel glanced at the face of the man carrying her. He didn't look anything like she imagined vampires would look. He wasn't really pale—that must have been an effect of the lighting in the computer room. Here in the lighted stairwell, his skin looked natural and even flushed with color. He looked like a typical healthy male, not a dead man. He also smelled vaguely of some rather expensive cologne, and not like a rotting corpse.

“Facial lumps?” he repeated.

“Like Angel and Spike and the rest of the vampires on TV. Their faces reshape and contort into these really unattractive demon faces,” she explained absently. She wondered if he was mad. There were no such things as vampires; thus, this man thinking he was one…On the other hand, she distinctly recalled an ax entering her body, yet there was no longer any sign of injury. Had she really been injured? Perhaps she had imagined the scar earlier in the bedroom. Or perhaps this was
all
a dream.

“Your face won't contort,” he assured her. “You won't look like a demon.”

“Then, how do your teeth extend?” Rachel asked. It was a test pure and simple, to see if he was mad.

“Like this.”

He opened his mouth, but the fake vampire teeth she had expected weren't there. In fact, his teeth looked perfectly normal—for the count of a heartbeat; then his canines began to lengthen as if sliding along oiled hinges.

Rachel moaned and closed her eyes. “It's just a dream,” she reassured herself as Etienne stepped out of the stairwell and carried her through the kitchen. “Just a dream.”

“Yes. Just a dream.” His voice was warm and soothing by her ear.

Rachel relaxed a little at his words, but only a little. She remained in his arms as he carried her up the
second set of stairs and along the hall. At last he set her in the bed she had so briefly left.

Opening her eyes, Rachel snatched at the blankets and tugged them up to her chin. Not that she needed to be defensive. He seemed to have no interest in attacking her and he was instead walking away toward a small fridge. He bent to open it and retrieved a bag of what was unmistakably blood.

Rachel's eyes narrowed suspiciously and she tensed when her host walked back to affix the blood bag to the IV stand. “What are you doing?” she asked. She tried to snatch her arm away when he took it, but he was much stronger than she.

“You need this.” He slid the tube back into the IV in her arm with the skill of a nurse. “Your body is going through changes, and healing took a lot of blood. This will ease the cramps so you can sleep again.”

Rachel wanted to argue, but the moment the blood slid down the clear tube and began to pour into her body, some of the aching she had suffered since awakening began to ease. So did the odd hankering she'd been experiencing. Apparently, this was what her body had yearned for.

“You will sleep now.”

It sounded more like an order than a suggestion. Never having cared much for being ordered about, Rachel wanted to argue…but she was suddenly quite weary. Her exhaustion and lassitude were growing in proportion to the blood entering her. She felt
much as she did after a big carbohydrate-rich holiday meal.

“This is a dream, remember?” her host said soothingly. “Just sleep. All will be well when you wake up.”

“Sleep,” Rachel muttered.

Yes, sleep would be good. And when she woke up for real, she would find herself in a hospital, or perhaps snoozing at her desk. Perhaps it was
all
a dream—the crispy critter, the ax-wielding madman, everything. It was such a reassuring thought that she closed her eyes and let her mind drift. Rachel did have one regret just before she gave in to sleep: If it was all a dream, then the handsome, vital man who had carried her upstairs was a dream too, and that was rather a shame.

 

Etienne watched Rachel's face relax into sleep. She was a beautiful woman—nearly as tall as him too, which he liked—but her life had obviously been a stressful one. There were vague tension lines around her eyes and mouth. Those would disappear once she'd had enough blood, but they were signs that her life had not been an easy one. He brushed a fiery red curl away from her cheek, smiling when irritation flickered on her face and she brushed his hand away like a pesky fly.

Yes, Rachel was an interesting woman. She showed signs of being prickly. He liked prickly, and he had always enjoyed challenges.

His smile faded as he considered Rachel's reaction. She would be resistant to the change at first. The woman obviously had all sorts of preconceived ideas about his people. Lumpy faces? Bloodsucking demons? He would have to clarify matters when next she awoke. Vampire wasn't a label he liked, but it was expedient, and one most people could at least understand. It would serve as a starting point in the conversation to come.

Stifling a yawn, Etienne glanced around his room. He would have liked to remain here, didn't want to leave her alone, but sleep was creeping over him. From her pallor, he estimated she needed another two or three bags of blood, and cramps would wake her again when this bag ran out. He didn't want her wandering around weak and shaky—she could fall and hurt herself.

After a hesitation, Etienne stretched out on the bed. He crossed his ankles and clasped his hands behind his head, then turned to glance at her. He would stay, catnap, and change the bags as needed. Her restless stirring when the bag ran out would wake him to the task.

The room was dark and silent, but something awakened her. Rachel lay still for a moment, simply listening, collecting her thoughts. It wasn't
completely
silent. Outside, it was obviously windy. She could hear the soft rush, the battering of the building and the rustle of blown branches. Those were the only sounds, however; there was nothing to signal where she was—nothing except the memories crowding her.

Those memories were horrific, not to mention confusing. They came to her in order this time. Rachel distinctly recalled Fred and Dale arriving with the burn victim and telling her she'd earned the position she'd sought. Then, she recalled her confusion at the burn victim's state and the wild-eyed madman bursting into the room. Rachel had a very clear memory of
his ax slamming into her. Yet now she was feeling no pain.

She wanted to believe her feeling of health was because she'd been given some excellent drugs, but she also recalled waking up earlier, meeting the handsome blond man with silver eyes. Etienne. He was the same man who had haunted her dreams while she'd been sick the week before the ax attack. She distinctly recalled waking up and him claiming to be a vampire, then showing her his extendible teeth. Which should only convince her that all her memories were nothing more than a dream. There were no such things as vampires, after all.

Rachel shifted cautiously where she lay, mentally prepared for a burst of pain to rip through her chest from the wound she'd sustained, but there was none. The hospital had obviously given her some pretty strong drugs. No doubt those drugs were leaving her confused as well as warding off the pain she should feel.

Amazing drugs, Rachel decided. She hadn't felt this strong or healthy in years. At least, not since she'd started working the night shift.

Moving carefully to avoid disrupting the IV she could feel trailing out of her arm, Rachel sat up and blinked several times, trying to bring the surrounding dark shapes into better focus. The room seemed large in the blackness, much larger than a hospital room should be.

Rachel was frowning over this when she realized that, from the shadows and shapes she could make out in the darkness, the room very much resembled the bedroom from her dream. A light had been on then, revealing a draped bed and blue decor. She recalled creeping down through an empty house to a basement where that silver-eyed man had risen from a coffin.

Definitely a dream, she decided.

Unable to see herself in the darkness, Rachel ran her hands over her upper body. She wore no clothes, and there was no sign of injury—just as it had been in her dream. Had she been hurt at all? What was dream and what was reality?

“Oh, jeez.” Feeling a little panicked, Rachel thrust the blankets aside, hardly noticing as the IV tore from her arm. She paused long enough to feel around for the bedsheet, which she had been lying on top of rather than under. Pulling it from the bed, she fashioned it around herself toga style. Again? She was suffering a definite sense of déjà vu.

Don't even think like that,
Rachel ordered herself firmly, suddenly desperate to find someone, anyone, to verify what had happened. She had a vague recollection of the setup of the room, but since she had already decided it was a dream she remembered, she couldn't go by it. Instead, she crept along the bed toward the wall it should back onto, arms extended.
Once she felt the wall, Rachel eased her way carefully along it in search of a door.

The first thing she found was a piece of furniture. Actually her knee found it—with a crack to her shins. Rachel paused to rub her aching leg before she felt the outline of the item was a chair.

“Nice place for it,” she muttered irritably, then forced herself to pause and take a deep breath. She should have turned on the bedside lamp. But, then, she hadn't felt one, or even a bedside table. Of course, her arms had been extended and she'd probably missed it because of that. Every room had bedside tables, didn't they?

Rachel briefly considered returning the way she'd come, but it seemed an awfully long way back. In the end she decided to keep going and eased around the chair to continue forward. Her breath caught at the sudden feel of wood beneath her fingers. Then she found a doorknob and quickly turned it. She thrust the door open. Black yawned before her, more absolute than that of the room in which she stood. After a hesitation, Rachel felt along the wall until she found a switch. She flicked it on.

Light exploded from overhead, forcing her to close her eyes. When she could open them again, Rachel found herself standing in the doorway of a bathroom. A large sauna tub lay directly before her. There was also a toilet and a bidet. The owner of this establishment obviously had European taste, which proved
more than anything that she was definitely not in a hospital. Unless it was a hospital in Europe.

Which was a possibility, Rachel supposed. She might be in a special clinic for coma patients. Although the bathroom was larger and more luxurious than the average hospital bathroom, and she didn't think that European clinics—even expensive European clinics—would waste this kind of space on a comatose patient. Besides, Rachel's health insurance wouldn't cover such expensive care, and her family was middle class, hardly able to pay for such extravagant accommodations.

More confused than before, Rachel started to turn away but paused as she glimpsed herself in the mirror. Caught, she eased closer until the vanity counter halted her progress.

She stood for several minutes, staring. She looked good. Darn good. Her hair was shiny and vital—a dark red with its natural wave and not the usual flyaway orange-red that needed a good oil treatment. She hadn't looked this good since she was a teenager. The fast-paced, stress-filled life of University, then the working world had not been kind. Her face was flushed and healthy now, however, hardly the complexion of someone recovering from a chest wound. Nor like the pale undead. A wry smile tugged at her lips. Vampires had no reflection. She was not a vampire.

Not that she had believed she was, Rachel assured herself. She grimaced then admitted, “Okay. For one
minute I was afraid those dream memories of a silver-eyed man telling me I'd been ‘turned' to save my life were true.

“Silly girl,” she chided. But she also lifted her lips into a snarl so that her teeth showed. They were normal, and Rachel could have sobbed with relief. “Thank you, God,” she breathed.

Sucking in a fortifying breath, she unwrapped the sheet she wore for the final test. She found her upper chest and the mounds of her breasts smooth and unblemished. Shoot. Not that she wanted to be wounded, but it would have been better for disproving the validity of her dreams.

It was then that Rachel also realized the sheet she wore was the same pale blue as she'd dreamt. A moment of panic swamped her, but she forced herself to control it.

“Okay. Stay calm,” she ordered. “There is a perfectly sensible, sane explanation for all this. You just have to find it.”

Reassured a little by the sound of her own voice, Rachel turned away from her reflection. Peering back into the bedroom, she surveyed the furnishings now visible in the light. Her heart sank. It was indeed the room from her dream.

Her gaze went to the IV stand. The bag was mostly empty, but as before there was a drop or two of red liquid remaining. Blood.

“Oh, jeez.” Rachel shifted from one foot to the
other, then walked to the other door and out of the bedroom. She had to know what lay beyond. Surely not the hall from her dream?

“Damn,” she breathed as the door opened onto just that—the long, empty hall she remembered so well. This was getting spooky. Taking a deep breath, she tried for rational thought. Okay, so the hallway and even the bedroom had been in her dream. That was simple enough to explain. Perhaps she hadn't been totally comatose when she'd been transferred here. Perhaps she'd been semiconscious, or feverish or something, and awake enough to see and remember the hall and the bedroom.

Ignoring any flaws in that reasoning, Rachel stepped out into the hall and walked to the landing. In what she had thought was a dream, the entry below had been dark and empty. It was still empty, but no longer dark. Light spilled out of one of the adjacent rooms, and she could hear the faint rumble of voices.

After a hesitation, Rachel moved down the stairs. She squeezed her toes into the hardwood with each step, an effort to prove to herself that this time she wasn't merely dreaming.

“You told her it was a dream?”

Rachel slowed as that question came clearly to her ears. A woman's strident voice continued, “Etienne! What were you thinking?”

“I was thinking that she needed to rest, and that this was the easiest way to calm her,” a male voice an
swered in slightly defensive tones. “She was a bit freaked out, Mother.”

“Understandably so,” came another voice, similar to that of the dream man who had claimed to be her host, but deeper, more solemn somehow, despite its present amusement. “Especially since she caught you sleeping in that coffin of yours.”

“Oh, Etienne!” the woman exclaimed. “Surely you don't still have that nasty old thing?”

“I don't normally sleep in it”—he was now definitely defensive—“but I've had some of my best ideas resting in that coffin, Mother. Besides, she was sleeping in my bed.”

“Well, surely you have other beds here, son. You
have
finally gotten around to furnishing the spare rooms, haven't you?”

Etienne's answer wasn't really audible from where Rachel stood. Realizing she had stopped, she eased herself forward to stand outside the door. Then she hesitated, waiting until the woman spoke again before peeking around the door frame at the room's occupants.

“Well, you are going to have a lot of explaining to do when she comes in here, Etienne. And now that you've already lied to her, she may not trust anything you say.” The woman sounded annoyed. She also looked perturbed, Rachel saw, as she gaped at the speaker. The woman was beautiful, incredibly beautiful, the kind of woman other women hated to be
seen around. She was also the living image of the woman Rachel had seen on the monitor downstairs. Long wavy hair, large silver eyes, a pouty mouth.

Mother, the man named Etienne had called her? Rachel shook her head in denial. This woman looked to be in her late twenties. Thirty at the most. She was definitely not the blond man's mother. Mother had to be a nickname, perhaps chosen because she was a worrier and a fusser.

“I know.”

Rachel glanced to the speaker, Etienne. The woman had addressed him as son. Impossible. Her gaze roamed over his perfect face and tawny hair. He was the man from her dreams—sexy, blond, and strong. If her dream had been reality, he had carried her up two flights of stairs as if she weighed nothing. Yes, he was definitely strong.

“And she has negative notions of what we are, of course,” Etienne continued.

“Of course she does,” the second man said. He was a darker-haired version of Etienne, though the two men appeared the same age. “Most people do.”

“How negative?” The woman sounded wary.

“I believe the phrase she used was ‘bloodsucking demons,'” Etienne said.

“Oh, dear.” The woman sighed.

“And she thinks our faces contort like on
Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
”

The dark-haired man grimaced. “Nasty show. Gave us all a bad name.”

“You've seen it, Bastien?” Etienne sounded surprised.

“No, but I've heard of it. There are a couple of fans at the office. Have you seen it?”

“Yes. It's quite entertaining, really. And Buffy is an interesting little package.”

“Can we get back to the subject at hand?” the woman asked—a bit archly. “Etienne, how are you going to explain?”

“I'll just tell her it was the only way to save her. Which it was. I couldn't let her die after she saved my life.”

The woman harrumphed, then turned to Bastien. “Did you handle the hospital officials?”

“I didn't have to,” the man announced. “We went unseen. We're just lucky they decided Pudge made off with her.”

“What about the hospital paperwork on Etienne's corpse?”

“I took that before we left, while Etienne was turning the girl. All I had to do this morning was help the EMTs forget his name, and take the paperwork they had. Oh, and get the paperwork on Etienne's car from the police station.”

“Is that all?” the woman asked.

Bastien shrugged at her amusement. “It could have been worse, Mother.”

The woman made a face, then turned back to Etienne. “You really have to deal with this Pudge fellow.”

“I know.” The blond man sounded unhappy. “If you have any ideas, I'd be happy to hear them.”

The woman's expression relented somewhat. She patted his knee in a both soothing and affectionate gesture. “Well, I shall think about it. We all will. We'll come up with something.”

“Yes,” Bastien agreed. “And Lucern will get here later. Between the four of us, we should be able to figure out a solution.”

“When is he coming?” Etienne asked.

“A little later. He's working on galleys for his latest masterpiece but promised to come after dinner.”

“Which means about midnight,” the woman grumped. “In the meantime, I think we should offer our guest a drink.”

Rachel ducked quickly out of sight, but she caught a glimpse of the startled expression on Etienne's face as she did. Her heart thumped near her throat. None of them had looked her way, but somehow she must have given away her presence.

“She's been standing outside the door for several minutes,” Rachel heard Bastien announce.

“No, she hasn't,” Etienne replied.

He suddenly stepped out into the hall, surprising her. Rachel's first instinct was to run. Unfortunately,
her body apparently didn't agree. It seemed to be frozen to the spot.