Ravenous (5 page)

That kiss had gone far beyond anything she'd planned. She hadn't expected him to respond with such fervor, but there was more than blood-hunger in his eyes. There was all the confused heat and hope of any lover.
Who knew
?

He pushed the hair from her face. "As much as I want this, Holly, I'm not safe. And you have a good life. You don't need me. Not like this."

"I…" She trailed off, not sure what to say to the resignation in his voice. It made her angry and pained all at once. She put her hand on his arm, meaning to comfort. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be." He was suddenly restless, shifting from one foot to the other. She looked over her shoulder to see what was the matter, but there was nothing that hadn't been there before. Whatever was making him edgy was coming from inside his head. Doubt? Regret? Embarrassment?

How like a man to get close and then bolt
. Apparently basic gender behavior didn't change with immortality.
Now, there's a two-edged sword
.

"I really have to go," he said quickly, looking down. "Honestly. I'm sorry."

"Can I catch a ride home? I'm not sure I should drive."

Something like panic crossed his face, followed by sharp longing. "I know I offered, but get one of the police to take you. That would be much better."

"Why? Why can't you take me?"

"I have to get out of here. I… I'm a vampire, Holly. You shouldn't be catching rides with me. Not after… I'll see you later."

The soft leather of his sleeve slipped from under Holly's hand. Her fingers tightened in reflex, but could not hold him as he stepped away, melting into the shadows. Alessandro looked back, a quick glance over his shoulder. His eyes caught the errant light in a flash of amber, but his expression was unreadable.

"Go home," he said. "Now."

"Yeah, okay. Call me," she replied. The words sounded forlorn.

It was way past time for the abysmal evening to wrap up. Holly headed toward the house, planning to double-check with the policeman—what was his name… Macmillan?—that she had the all-clear to leave. Floodlights lit up the front porch, making it look even eerier. Yellow tape cordoned off the walkway to the porch. As she approached, three gurneys came down the steps, one after another, sheets drawn over the faces of the victims.

Tears started in Holly's eyes. She'd heard the other professor had been Bill Gamble. He hadn't made it. He was one of Ben's best friends and a really nice guy. Six had gone in. She'd saved only three. Remorse shuddered through her.

Police were everywhere, and they looked anticipatory. Odd. It wasn't as if there were anything to arrest. Now that the ooze was gone, there wasn't even that much to see.

Macmillan had just come out of the house and was walking her way.

"What's going on?" she asked.

He turned and stopped as she spoke, his expression guarded. "It's a crime scene."

Holly folded her arms. "Yeah, but who are you going to arrest? The house?"

Macmillan studied her, clearly making up his mind how much to say. "You're going to need to answer some questions."

"Okay."

His gaze didn't waver, but kept watching, recording her every twitch. "They found another body. She didn't die like the others."

"What?"

"Her death was different. Murder, and not by real estate."

Holly grabbed the sleeve of Macmillan's coat. "How come I didn't see her? Where was she?"

He took a step back, giving her his X-ray look again. "Where's your friend? Alessandro Caravelli? I'll need to speak with him."

"He's gone." Holly felt her stomach plummet to her feet. Alessandro had made an oblique reference to the campus murders. Told her to go home and lock the doors.
He knew about the fourth body
!

Macmillan's look grew cold, heavy with authority. "Do you know where he went?"

Holly gulped back her shock. "No."

Not only did he fail to mention a body, Alessandro had skipped the scene, leaving her to explain his absence to the police. She could kick his butt.

Holly folded her arms, struggling to look Macmillan in the face. "The law doesn't afford the supernatural community the same rights as it does humans. The trials are a joke. Even if I did know where he went, why should I turn him over to you?"

He looked disgusted. "Legal obligation aside, because this latest victim was killed by a vampire."

The words delivered a hard jolt. "What's that supposed to mean?"

His eyes widened, a hint of temper. "Loyalty is great, but how much do you really know about your fanged sidekick? Where—who—does he eat? Where does he go on a night-to-night basis? Who are his other friends? Just because he seems like a stand-up kinda vampire, that doesn't make him safe. Or innocent."

Macmillan stepped closer, his hands on his hips, tie dangling inches away from her chest. The posture lifted the edges of his coat, and Holly could see the straps of his holster. It held the latest police sidearm—some new weapon that shot silver-alloy ammunition with enough power to stop a werewolf in midrampage. Sadly, the new models jammed a lot. Most cops still carried a second, garden-variety gun.

The night was cold enough that she could feel the faint envelope of heat radiating from Macmillan's body. His jaw bunched with temper. "Now—why did Caravelli leave the scene of a vampire murder?"

The happy drugs left Holly's blood on a tide of adrenaline. Alessandro
wasn't
safe. He'd said so himself.
Oh, crap
.

No
. She refused to believe the worst of him. "He's a good guy. He pulled me out of that house of horrors tonight."

"That doesn't mean he never gets peckish."

"That doesn't mean he's a slob, leaving food all over the place."

"Where is he?"

Holly barely stopped an eye roll. This was ridiculous. "You should try some basic detective work."

"Really?" The detective's eyebrows lifted.

"It's public record that Alessandro owns a collections agency. Check the yellow pages for an address. Vampires don't live in the sewers these days. They're employed. They have phones."

Macmillan's mouth thinned. Holly braced herself for a snarling comeback, but a uniformed officer waved for Macmillan's attention. The detective shot her a hard glance. "Wait here. I'll be back. We're not done."

He started toward the gaggle of police milling on the porch. Holly folded her arms across her dread-sore stomach. Macmillan had gone straight to the truth: Outside of their working relationship, she knew almost nothing of Alessandro's life.

Fat, icy drops splashed Holly's face. It had started to rain.

Alessandro turned into the garage at the rear of his downtown apartment, wipers gracefully arcing across the T-Bird's windshield. He had escaped for now, but unless the cops were idiots, they'd put it together that he had been alone in the building with a dead girl. Tedious questions would follow.

In his experience, cops were like cats: The more you tried to avoid them, the more they wanted to get to know you. Unless Alessandro wanted to dump his current life and run—which was not so easy to do these days—he would have to act quickly. The sooner he could point the police in the direction of the real killer, the sooner they would leave him alone.

This new hunter in Fairview was causing a great deal of inconvenience.

He parked the car but sat a moment, unmoving. Holly's scent lingered on his clothes, an intimate ghost of her hair, her skin, her life. The fleeting echo of her presence cut through the maelstrom of his thoughts, and he closed his eyes, dwelling in that instant when she had pressed herself to his lips.

Scent was the one way, the only way he could drink her in and still leave her unharmed. It was barely enough to keep a dream from starving, and yet it was all he could safely enjoy. Memory was sweeter, but more dangerous. Memory made him want more.

Details of the evening played over and over in Alessandro's mind: the curve of her knees, the brisk gestures of her hands. The images fanned the embers of smothered lust. As his blood heated, a savage pang of hunger rent him, twisting his gut and filling his mouth with saliva.

He drained the blood of those he caressed, destroying what he craved. Eroticism and appetite were inexorably linked, like thunder and lightning. Any dream of love was mere delusion. All a vampire had was hunger.

At that Alessandro's yearning fell to ash, leaving him empty. He got out of the car as if there were barely enough spirit left to propel his limbs, but the weather snapped him out of his reverie. The half dozen yards to his apartment block were a gauntlet of pelting rain. He took them at a run.

Once a Victorian-era warehouse, the building had been converted to a modern art gallery and a handful of suites. Alessandro entered at a rear door that led straight into his neglected kitchen.

Halfway over the threshold he stopped, suddenly alert. Nothing was out of place. The door had been locked. The security system was disarmed, but then he rarely set it.

What was wrong?

Rain pattered on the pavement behind him, gurgling down the drainpipes and over the lid of a Dumpster. He could smell the ocean in the heavy, moist breeze, as well as a whiff of restaurants and car exhaust.

That was all distraction. What had caught his attention was a subtle note behind the rest of the sensory noise.

Alessandro pulled the door closed, shutting out what little light came from outside. Water dripped in a steady beat from the hem of his coat to the tiles of the entry way. He shed the coat, throwing it over a chair, and glided noiselessly toward his living room. Tension prickled at the back of his neck, spilling down between his shoulders. He wasn't afraid, but he was wary.

What had been faint was growing stronger, unveiling itself. Now power hung in the air like pungent smoke. Pausing once, he drew a long knife from his boot sheath. From the feel of the energy, Alessandro's visitor was another of his kind.

The living room was pitch-black, the bare brick walls absorbing any ambient light. He didn't need much to see, but he needed some. With his left hand he found the light switch and flipped it, keeping his knife at the ready.

There was a flicker of movement behind him, too fast even for his quick reactions. In a blink, feminine arms squeezed him; tiny hands pressed against the muscles of his chest. Recognition came in a jolt, stilling his blade just before he could strike.

He knew the steely strength in those delicate fingers, and a tiny part of him chilled with terror. This was not, however, a crisis that could be solved with a weapon.

"I have missed you, my Alessandro." Her voice was rich and soft, a brush of fur in the dark.

One hand slid down until it rested on the front of his jeans, making it clear what exactly she had missed. The crawling heat of the Desire rose between them, that call of flesh and power between the vampire kind. It was lust, but also recognition. He was hers, his safety guaranteed by her favor.

He felt the press of her cheek against his back. "Have you been lonely without me?" she asked.

I have been at peace without you
, he thought, schooling his face as he turned in her arms. "My queen," he said, sheathing the knife and falling to one knee.

Omara was tiny, dressed in a shift of azure silk, one long black braid over her shoulder. Her eyes reminded Alessandro of dark honey, her skin of pale cinnamon. Ancient beyond memory, she looked no more than one and twenty.

A creature of unfathomable power, she was alone, and in his house.
This cannot be good
, he thought. Random anxieties crowded his mind. He was overdue in sending a report. He had no one to offer as food. He hadn't vacuumed for a week. Then there were the campus murders.
Surely she

could not already know one of us is responsible? Why is she here? Why is she here alone?

The answer came at once as the Desire flared. She bent down and kissed his mouth, caressing with her tongue. Alessandro could taste her power, hot and pungent, as she explored him, licking, pricking her lip on his sharp teeth. Blood blossomed, richer and sweeter than any other. The ichor of a queen.

The twin goads of hunger and lust rose again, drawing him from his knees to his feet. She was his ruler; he was aching to serve her in all things. He knew how to make her forget her royal dignity. Perhaps she could make him forget how badly he wanted Holly.

With a rough shove Omara pushed him back, her eyes amused. "How eager you are." She ran one finger over his lips, wiping away the last of her blood. "And how pleasant that you are entirely mine to enjoy. No clan. No sire still among us. Such exclusive loyalty is surprisingly hard to come by."

Alessandro lowered his eyes, cursing his body's ready response. He feared her, because she knew his weakness. Every day of his immortal life he suffered on the wheel of solitude. One day he would break.

Abandoning him where he stood, Omara crossed to the couch and sat, tucking her feet beside her. She had shown her power over him. The opening pleasantries were over.

"An interesting place you have chosen for yourself." She looked calmly around the room. "Spare, but choice pieces. A suitably Gothic layer of dust. You need a servant."

He stood speechless, mute with strangled need.

She ran a finger over the side table, then inspected it. "Perhaps a French maid?"

Alessandro fought to collect his thoughts. He had been the queen's representative in Fairview for years and her retainer for centuries before that. She had taken him into her household even before she had worn the crown. Long experience had taught him the danger of falling for her games.

But there was tension in her face. What could trouble a creature powerful enough to rule dozens upon dozens of vampire clans? Omara uncurled her legs, sitting up straight. "Please have a seat."

Alessandro sank into an easy chair, looking at his queen across the clutter of library books on his glass coffee table. Resentment roiled inside him, the aftermath of that teasing kiss. "To what do I owe the honor of your visit?" he asked, carefully polite.

She looked down, as if mesmerized by the creases in the leather couch. "My head is filled with problems I cannot solve by fire or sword. I dislike this modern age."

Alessandro took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. The sudden shift in tone was typical of Omara. "Are you disappointed that all the Van Helsings of the world traded in their stakes and holy water for tax audits?"

Omara shrugged. "I have highly paid accountants to deal with those little men."

"Then why dislike this century?"

"Since we came out of the shadows, my role as leader has become more complex. Citizenship. Legal rights. They come at a price. We must obey human rules. If our community makes a mistake, we have so much more to lose."

Alessandro did not reply, keeping his opinions to himself. Most of the supernatural community still existed on the fringe of society, reviled by humans. Laws were fine, but fear and hatred ran deep. Still, he knew Omara would fight like the nightmare she was to further the interests of her people. He would not deny that she was an effective queen.

Omara sighed, as if impatient with his silence. "The human authorities are investigating a string of vampire murders in this area. You know about this?"

Alessandro frowned. "Yes."

"The police contacted me. I came here as a diplomat, to lend the vampire community's support to their inquiries."

"But I only just found out the murders involve one of us. How long ago did the humans call you?"

Omara studied one of her bracelets, twisting it around and around her slender wrist. "They called me two days ago as a courtesy. Every member of our local community is under their scrutiny."

She shook the bracelet back into place and gave him her full attention. The weight of her gaze brought heat to the nape of his neck. "I told them at once you were above reproach."

"They might not believe you."

"There will be others who can corroborate your whereabouts."

"I work alone, and I don't know when the murders took place. There may be no one who can swear to my innocence."

"If you do not have suitable alibis for the dates and times in question, I will see to it they are found." She gave a conspiratorial smile.

Alessandro nodded. "Your confidence is appreciated."

"I need you. You do me no good in a police lockup."

"We may need to work quickly. Tonight I gave the police reason to come knocking on my door." He summarized the night's events.

Omara listened, a small line forming between her brows as the tale ended. "Show me the token you found."

It was in the pocket of the coat he had left in the kitchen. He went and got it.

Omara held the metal disk under the light of the lamp. "It is, as you say, very old." She made a small noise of interest as she turned it over. "Some of these tokens have the image of Eurydice on the reverse. This one does not. That means it dates, oh, from before the Black Death, at least. The metal-smiths included her only after that era."

Alessandro curled his lip. "Is that when those ridiculous fantasies about the Chosen began?"

She looked up and laughed, sudden merriment making her look almost like a living girl. "Ah, if you could only see the derision on your face. The myth of the Chosen sends you to sleep, does it? You do not care how Orpheus risked all to rescue Eurydice from death's embrace?"

Alessandro gave a scornful wave of his fingers. "Fables for fledglings. I am not a romantic."

"Are you sure about that?" Omara smiled, her lips holding a universe of promises. "Come now, the myth of the Chosen is the Grail Quest of our kind."

"Enough. I know the story. True love holds our release from this vale of living death, just as Orpheus reclaimed his wife from Hades."

"Oh, then how can you resist it? Are you such a sad cynic?"

"I don't care how much a mortal might love a vampire; that vampire must feed."

Omara lifted one perfect shoulder. "Then you miss the point entirely. The vampire Chosen by a living mate can feed on their love, sustained through the lust of the body instead of the lust for blood." Her eyes glinted from under her lashes. "No wonder the legend is so popular. I ask you, what's not to like about that? Except eternal monogamy, of course."

Alessandro caught his breath, snagged despite himself by the promise of the myth. A Chosen could love without destroying. An impossible dream. "Orpheus failed. Eurydice never made it out of Hades."

Omara leaned back against the cushions, clearly enjoying his bleak mood. "A beautiful story, and all you see are the flaws in the metaphor. Orpheus failed because he had insufficient faith. He did not trust the dark gods enough for the magic to work."

"I empathize," Alessandro said dryly. "I have little patience with false hopes and bedtime stories, especially when there are other, more immediate problems to solve—like an unknown vampire leaving his leftovers for the police to find."

"You are a work-obsessed bore." She blew him a kiss.

"I'm a pragmatist."

"And I would rather talk about anything but this killer and his tokens, but our cold, gray new world will not oblige." Standing, she circled the end of the coffee table and knelt before him. Alessandro started to rise, but she caught his hands, keeping him still.

"I did not tell the human police that I know the source of these troubles," she said.

"What is it?" Alessandro asked, surprised.

She squeezed his fingers, reassuring. Once he relaxed, she rested her hands on his knees, the gesture both pleading and inviting. "I need your sword, my champion."

"Of course." His voice was suddenly rough from the weight of her touch.
What do you really want of me
?

She slid her hands up his thighs, her fingers caressing the worn denim. "I took you in when your clan perished. I gave you my protection when others would have made you their slave."

Her hands slid to his hips, and she leaned forward, her small, perfect body between his knees. His skin craved her, burned for relief from his endless solitude. She could see it in his face; he could tell. Her eyes searched his, seeking and finding his loneliness.

A slow smile showed the tips of her fangs. "You owe me this service."

In a single gesture Alessandro pushed his chair back and stood, putting space between himself and Omara. She looked up at him, amused speculation in her eyes.

"Tell me what you want me to do," he said, his voice carefully void of emotion.

"So obedient," she said, her voice dropping to a husky whisper. She leaned back on the floor, reclining on one hip, exotic as an odalisque from some eastern realm.