Urban Fantasy Collection - Vampires (83 page)

Lori sets my beer in front of me. “Cool idea.”

“It gets better. Have you ever heard of the 27 Club?”

“Isn't that the weird thing where all these famous singers died when they were twenty-seven? Like Jimi Hendrix and Janis Joplin?”

“And Jim Morrison, Kurt Cobain—”

“Robert Johnson, the Stones' Brian Jones, Al Wilson
from Canned Heat,” Shane adds, his voice low and reluctant. “Pigpen of the Grateful Dead, Badfinger's Pete Ham, Wallace Yohn from Chase, Uriah Heep's Gary Thain, Helmut Koellen of Triumverat, Jimmy McCulloch from Wings, the Minutemen's Dennes Boon, Mia Zapata of the Gits, and Hole's Kristin Pfaff.”

“Wow.” Lori seems impressed and a little disturbed at his knowledge. She steps away and picks up a rag to wipe the sink. “So what about it?” she asks me.

“Get this: each of these DJs died and became a vampire when they were twenty-seven.”

“Huh.” She looks at Shane. “So how old are you supposed to be?”

He tries to smile. “I'm thirty-nine.”

“It was my idea.” I execute a pitch-perfect hair flip. “We even have T-shirts.”

“That's brilliant. People will love that.” She gasps and whaps the rag against the bar. “We should have a kickoff party here at the Pig. We'll dress up all Gothy and serve blood-red beer. It'll be like Halloween in June!”

I gesture to her and look at Shane. “Can you tell why she's my best friend?”

She high-fives me across the bar, then heads for the phone near the cash register. “I'll call Stuart and see if he'll go for it. It is his bar, after all.”

When she's out of earshot, I turn back to Shane. “See? Everyone will think it's a gimmick.”

He pushes his pint glass slowly against mine, gliding it toward the edge of the bar. “This is one of those moments when I ask myself why I like you.”

I catch my glass just before it topples. “Do you have an answer for yourself?”

“Still looking, with hope.” He slides off the stool and heads for the cozy corner table.

I join him with a basket of popcorn, which I place on the table between us. “You all live in the basement of the studio, right? Past the ‘Keep Out' door?”

He nods. “That door leads to our underground apartment. It has a bedroom for each of us, plus a living room and a kitchen. Not exactly a Park Avenue penthouse, but it's free. Not to mention safe.”

“Safe from what?”

“Fire, for one thing. Probably a comet impact. Definitely a nuclear blast.” He tugs on the white threads fraying his sleeve. “But the sun is what we worry about most. That's why the station's front door is always locked and the windows boarded up.”

“Curtains wouldn't be enough?”

“Even a little daylight bleeding in around the edges can hurt. So we use civil twilight times instead of sunrise and sunset.”

I read about that in the primer, but my head is a jumble of facts. “Civil twilight is what again?”

“It's when the sun is six degrees below the horizon. Basically, when humans need artificial light to see. The extra half hour makes a big difference.”

“What happens if you get caught in daylight?”

He thumbs the rim of his glass as he considers. “You ever get a splinter jammed under your fingernail?”

I wince. “Ow, yeah.”

“It's nothing like that.”

I give him the appreciative
ha-ha
that he was seeking, but refuse to change the subject. “Don't vague out on me. What happens when you're touched by sunlight?”

“The same thing that happens when we're touched by fire.”

His gaze unfocuses suddenly, and he wipes his hand over his forehead.

I have to prompt him. “What happens?”

He jerks his attention back to me. “We burn.”

“But everyone burns in fire.”

He shakes his head. “Humans burn like wood, vampires burn like paper. We can heal from brief contact with sunlight or fire, and we can survive more of it as we get older. You wouldn't believe how many fingertips Regina and Jim have had to regrow because of their smoking habits.”

“Yikes.” I grab a handful of popcorn, which I notice Shane hasn't touched. “Do you eat?”

“If I have to, to fit in. But solid food's pretty bland when you're dead. Everything tastes British.” He holds up his beer. “Liquids are good, though, if the flavor is intense, like a rich ale or a dry wine or strong coffee, and the drugs in them still affect us, just not as much as they do humans.”

“So what's the deal with vampires and garlic?”

“Our sense of smell is really acute, so any food that gets into people's breath and pores can drive us nuts. You can't get blood without going through sweat.” He sips his beer. “I don't mind garlic too much. Asparagus, though ...” He makes a yuck face.

“What about blood from banks? No sweat there, so how does that taste?”

“Stale, like three-day-old pizza. It's also not as healthy. But that's just for when we're lazy or desperate.”

I munch another handful of popcorn and ponder last resorts. “Do you ever bite men?”

“Sure.”

“Is that after—I mean, when you bit me, we were . ..”

He looks away like he's scrambling for a nonanswer.

“You promised you'd be honest.”

He takes another long sip of beer, then wipes his mouth. “Blood tastes better during an orgasm. Theirs, not mine.”

“Oh.” My neck warms. I pull my hair forward to cover it. “And the guys you drink, do you—”

“It depends.”

“On what?”

“On the circumstances. On the guy. Some, I can barely stand to put my mouth on their necks, much less—” He draws his glass across the table like he's outlining a battlefield. “All things equal, I prefer women. But we can't afford to be picky. A totally straight or totally gay vampire will end up a totally undernourished vampire.”

“How long can you go without drinking?”

He sinks back in his chair, looking like he has a headache with my name on it. “Old ones can go weeks. Brand-new vampires need it at least twice a night.”

“What about you?”

He doesn't answer, just rubs the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, grimacing.

“You don't look so hot tonight,” I tell him, then realize it sounds like an insult. “I mean, you look—” Hot as ever. “—like you don't feel well.”

“I'm just thirsty.”

“Okay, I'll get the next round.” I raise my hand to signal Lori.

Shane grabs my wrist and pulls it back to the table. “No, I mean I'm
thirsty
”

“Oh.” I yank my hand out of his grip. “In that case, I'm not getting the next round.”

He opens his cell phone. “Sorry, I need to leave.”

A Lois Lane-size curiosity (and possible stupidity) surges within me. “Can I come with you?”

He looks up at me from the phone. “You don't want to do that.”

“Afraid I'll be jealous?”

“No, I hope you'll be jealous. But you could also be repulsed.”

“I'll take my chances in the name of research. And we'll drive separately, so if I freak out, I can go home.”

“There's one a few blocks away.” He presses a button, then puts the phone to his ear. “One who likes to be watched.”

A kinky thrill courses through me, along with a vague fear—or maybe it's a kinky fear and a vague thrill. Please let this donor be a guy.

“Hey, it's me,” he says into the phone. “Can I come over? Yeah, now, if you're sure you have enough.” His cryptic words remind me of a drug deal.

“I'm bringing someone,” he tells the phone person. “No, never.” Shane smiles. “Well, I don't think she'd like that word. Red is good, yeah. See you in a few.” He folds up the phone.

“What word wouldn't I like?”

He downs the rest of his beer in one gulp, then slides his glass to clink against mine. “Virgin.”

“Don't say anything,” Shane tells me on the short walk to our destination. “If you need to leave, do it quietly.”

“Are you going to—”

“Please, Ciara, no more questions.” He rubs a knuckle over the corner of his mouth. “I feel self-conscious as it is.”

We turn up the walkway of a brick town house. The porch light illuminates a yard with cheery, tasteful landscaping.

He opens the screen door and knocks softly on the wooden one, even though a doorbell sits to the right.

“Why not just ring—”

“Shh.” He wipes his hands against the sides of his jeans. “Not a word, unless she speaks to you.”

She. Damn it. I'm about to back out of the deal when the door opens. A pretty brunette in her thirties stands there in a very red dress. Its tiny straps show plenty of skin, and its hem swishes just above her knees. I would look so cute in that thing. She wears no jewelry or shoes.

“Shane,” she whispers. “It's good to see you.”

By the way he's looking at her dress, I can tell the feeling is mutual. She sends me such a genuine smile that I can't help but return it.

She beckons us into her tidy kitchen, which is dark except for a light above the sparkling white stove. “Can I offer you something to drink?”

Um, isn't that why we're here?

Then I realize she's talking to me, not Shane. “Thanks, uh, ice water?”

She gets me my drink, then signals us to follow her. At the edge of the dining room, she says, “I just had the carpets shampooed, so take off your shoes and walk on the papers.”

We do as we're told, stepping from one white sheet to the next, like stones across a stream. The air holds a hint of soap. Shane covers his nose. His enhanced sense of smell must make chemical cleaning products intolerable.

Luckily, the stairs and upper level seem to be dry already. We pass a darkened room with a door slightly ajar, then enter a large bedroom at the end of the hall.

What I see there makes me sigh with longing. A high, queen-size bed with an oak frame sits under a vaulted ceiling, which is painted a slightly darker shade of peach than the rest of the room. The tall floor lamp casts a soft glow from one of those expensive full-spectrum bulbs.

“Sit.” She motions to the green velvet window seat. I obey and set my glass on a delicate wrought-iron table. Feeling conspicuous, I avert my eyes to check out the backyard. A vague structure sits in a corner near the flower garden, which is outlined by white stones.

“Are you going to watch or not?”

The woman's voice brings my attention back to the room. Her gaze on me sharpens. I sit back against the wall and stretch my legs out on the cushion. She smiles again.

“Just be comfortable. And quiet.”

I suddenly wish this were all over.

She moves across the room to Shane, skirt lapping against her thighs. “Do the neck.”

“No.” His fingertips trace a line from her ear to her shoulder, making her shiver. “It's summertime. You can't cover it up. Better here.” He runs his hand over her waist, to a spot above her left hip bone.

“Whatever you think is best.” She moves to her night-stand. “I trust you.”

With a flick of her finger she turns on a small CD player, releasing a sultry instrumental tune, heavy on the baritone sax.

Shane looks at me for a long moment, as if he's trying to store me in his memory, then turns back to the woman. Will he try to forget my presence, or will he revel in it, the way she clearly does?

Her eyes grow hooded as he approaches her next to the bed. He runs his hands over the fabric of her dress, up and down her back and her waist, inhaling the scent at the base of her neck. She moans and molds herself against him.

Shane slides down her body and pushes her skirt above her hip on one side. Without further ceremony, he presses his mouth to her bare waist.

She looks down. “What are you doing?”

He stops without raising his head. “What does it look like I'm doing?”

“Already?” She slips out of his grip and sits on the bed. “No preliminaries?”

Shane stands to face her, fingers twitching. “I'm thirsty.” He seems to be trying not to look at me.

“I've seen you thirstier.” She leans back on her elbows and runs a bare toe up the inside of his thigh. “Fuck me first.”

Oh, shit.

He stares at the woman. “What about your fiance?”

“We broke up.”

Shane glances at me. “Not in front of her.”

“You have nothing to be ashamed of.” Her toes slip under his crotch. “Think of it as free advertising.”

“No,” he says, even as he spreads her legs and moves between them. “Just give me what I came for.”

“I know you can steal my blood if you want. But you won't, with her here.” She tilts her head in my direction. “Wouldn't want her to think you're a monster.”

He looms over her, hands planted on either side of her body. “I'm not a monster.”

Shane kisses her then, so softly I catch my breath. I jam my fist against my mouth and try to pretend I'm watching a movie.

The woman peels his shirt over his head and tosses it on the floor. He looks at it, then at me.

She yanks him down on top of her, then slides her long nails up his back, hard enough to leave red marks in their wake. His body seizes and he kisses her again, harder.

Her legs curl around his bare waist, making her skirt fall above her hips. I try not to watch myself watching, fingertips between my teeth, and just watch. Forget what he might mean to me, forget what he did to me last Friday night. Forget the future and the past and just dwell in the pornographic present.

Shane breaks the kiss and grits his teeth. “No.”

“No what?” she says sharply.

“I can't do this.” He pushes himself out of her embrace. “I mean, I won't.” He unwraps her legs from his body. His face is contorted in what looks like pain.