Don't Talk Back To Your Vampire Page 2

  Her gaze took in the six feet of hunk and she whistled. “His clothes are a mess, but did you see his abs? You could scrub clothes on that washboard. Yum!”

  I rolled my eyes. “Can you control your hormones, please?” I’m having a hard enough time with my own.

  Finally chastised, she hurried forward, getting ahead of us. I dragged Lorcan through the large kitchen and toward the thick metal door. The only safe place in my decrepit three-story house was the basement, where I had relocated after becoming, as my daughter put it, vampified.

  The steel door was the Consortium’s idea, as was the metallic glaze that coated the basement’s walls—über-protection against light, which could kill a vampire. Not just the sun’s rays, either; any bright, hot light would do.

  Tamara opened the door. She patted my shoulder. “Sorry for being splenetic.” She grimaced, obviously torn between being cool, indifferent teen and caring, worried daughter. “What should I do?”

  “Just go to bed, baby. Everything will be fine by tonight.”

  She nodded. Lorcan and I hit the stairs, and the door clicked shut behind us. Even though it was pitch-black dark to human eyes, I could see just fine.

  My sleeping quarters consisted of mountains of books, a huge yellow LoveSac—which looked like a giant’s punctured tennis ball—and a king-sized cherrywood sleigh bed, complete with Tempur-Pedic mattress and extra-large, fluffy pillows. I was a pillow whore. There were six propped against the headboard. I was also a sheet snob: If it wasn’t three-hundred-thread-count or higher, I wasn’t sleeping on it.

  The LoveSac was obscenely comfortable; I had napped in it many times. I thought about chucking Lorcan into it and throwing a blanket over him. Guiltily, I looked at the bed. It was the ultimate in sleeping accommodations, especially with its very soft sheets and plumped pillows.

  “Eva,” whispered Lorcan, “my chest hurts.”

  Guilt stabbed me anew. As gently as I could, I laid him on the bed. I flicked on the lamp that sat on the small bedside table. The pool of weak light wasn’t much, but with my vampire sight I could almost see molecules in moonlight. Lorcan looked a mess, all right. His black pants were dirty and torn; his black dress shirt was in shreds. Blood streaked his chest, though the wounds were already healing. Dirt smudged his face, but in a boyish way.

  I dug out a box of wet wipes from a paperback pileup on the floor and cleaned his face. Even though his shirt hung in tatters, I hesitated to take it off. Exhaustion poured heavily through me, and I knew I probably had only minutes before I passed out. Vampires really didn’t have much choice about their sleeping habits—sunrise, you sleep, and sunset, you wake. No alarms needed.

  “Your shirt,” I said. “Can you—”

  He muttered something in Gaelic, and to my utter shock the shirt disappeared. His bared chest with its dusting of dark hair was revealed in full. Tamara had been right—washboard abs. Yum.

  “Jessica told me Patrick pulls that trick all the time,” I said as I took wet wipes to the dirt and blood. I tried to sound blasé, but very few vampires had the power and talents of Patrick and Lorcan O’Halloran. Making clothes disappear— and reappear—was rather impressive.

  “I can do the pants, too,” he said. His eyes flickered open and I saw amusement glitter in those silver orbs.

  “No, no.” I considered his jeans. “Unless you’re hurt . . . somewhere.”

  “Oh, I do ache, love,” he said in a liquid voice. His hand drifted to my hair and fluttered like a butterfly caught in a web. “I ache for you.”

  I knew then that he was delusional. If he wasn’t out of his head, I might fall for those seductive words. It had been a really long time since I’d felt wanted, much less loved. Annoyed with the direction of my thoughts, I tucked Lorcan under the covers and grabbed a pillow. At least the LoveSac offered some comfort.

  As I rose from the bed, Lorcan snagged my wrist. “We can both sleep here. I won’t bite.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  I hadn’t meant it as a reminder that he had a lethal bite. I couldn’t snatch back the words now. Why pretend he hadn’t killed me? Still, when his eyes went flat and he let go of my wrist, my stomach dropped to my toes.

  “Forgive me, Eva.”

  The words were drenched in anguish. I felt as though I’d held something pretty and fragile— and it disintegrated because I’d gripped too hard.

  Feeling penitent myself, I brushed his long black hair away from his face. “Rest now,” I said. “You can tell me what happened to you tomorrow.”

  “Damnú air! Stop being so nice.” He yanked me onto the bed and I fell beside him. The struggle to get up and away from him ended in an instant.

  Dawn was breaking—I didn’t need to see it to know it. I felt the heavy blanket of sleep draw over me. But as the familiar darkness encroached on my consciousness . . . I felt Lorcan drag me into his embrace.

  Some vampires don’t dream.

  I don’t remember dreaming, either. Not until Lucky arrived. The first night he crept into my yard, sitting dolefully at its edge and staring at me with such sad longing, was also the first night, or rather day, I dreamed.

  It was the same dream every time—as vivid and as colorful as a well-kept photograph. I stood in a dark, thick forest, but in a little clearing where the tall trees cupped the night sky. Looking up, I could see the round, pale moon and the single black-stoned tower that imprisoned something I wanted very badly.

  I couldn’t name this treasure. I didn’t know what was in that tower. I just felt an incredibly sweet yearning . . . as if my life would be complete if I could reach that tower and take what was in it.

  As usual, I wore a royal blue dress. It had wide sleeves, a square neck, an empire waist, and a straight skirt. My hair, which I never wore long, was piled onto my head, except for a few ringlets that draped my neck. On my feet were thin slippers the same color as my dress. I loved fairy tales, so it wasn’t difficult to find a cause for my appearance—or for that matter, the dream’s setting.

  Just as I did every time, I plunged into the dank, creepy woods. Skeletal limbs pulled at my hair and tore at my dress. I pushed onward, desperation raking me with icy claws. I lost my shoes; my bare feet sank into the mud and were scored by sharp rocks.

  Low growls echoed behind me and the chill of desperation turned into an arctic sensation of fear. Pushing through low branches and thick underbrush, I finally managed to reach the base of the tower. The growls grew louder, more menacing.

  I hurried around the tower, searching for a way inside. There was no door, no hole in the stonework, nothing. In all the dreams before, I had never found the entrance.

  But I did tonight.

  I saw a sparkly gold rose appear on one of the black stones. Mesmerized, I pressed my palm against it. Stones disappeared and left a rectangle of black. The shadowy creatures chasing me burst out of the thorny brambles, so I dashed inside the magical door. It sealed up behind me instantly, leaving the monsters to scrabble and howl outside.

  The tower was narrow. I stood before a twisting staircase. Blue sparkling orbs of light danced around the base. As my foot touched the first step, the orbs frolicked upward. Every time I advanced, they moved ahead, beckoning me. It seemed as though hours passed as I climbed and climbed and climbed. My bare feet chafed against the rough stones and my legs ached terribly.

  Finally, I reached a doorway. There was no door, just an empty black space. Heart pounding, I hesitated. What I wanted so much was beyond the inky darkness. The playful lights bounced and twirled at the entrance, waiting for me to decide.

  I stepped through. The blue circles raced ahead, bubbles of excitement, and lit the circular room. The only object in it was a huge four-poster. Silver curtains cascaded around it like a shimmery waterfall, concealing whatever slept behind.

  I hadn’t expected this. Frowning, I looked around the bed. What I was looking for was in the bed? Yes, what I wanted, what I needed, was there. Yet, I hesitated, afraid.

/>   “Fear not, princess,” whispered an other-worldly voice. “Would you give up now? When you are so close?”

  Clutching the edge of the fabric, I drew the curtain back. Wetting my dry lips, I heaved a breath and looked.

  “You found me,” said the big black wolf. Then he leapt off the bed and tore out my throat.

  Chapter 2

  The prince longed to be loved by a maiden pure of heart and strong of spirit. He cared not for her upbringing or for her lineage. He wanted only that soul-to-soul connection, that true and honest knowing that love bound him to her and her to him.

  For years he searched the world. He found beautiful women with quick minds and kind natures, but not one stirred his heart. Oh, he found pleasure. Nothing compared to the sweet moments held in a fair damsel’s embrace, but those glorious touches never reached further than lips upon satin skin.

  In his despair, he sought the advice of his grandmother, a powerful witch.

  “The one you seek has not yet been born,” she said. “I can give you a potion that will give you immortality, but there is a price. You will never again walk in the light or sup at your father’s table. To live, you must drink the blood of innocents. To find your maiden, you must embrace darkness.”

  “My soul will surely shrivel without the light,” said the prince.

  “Your soul mate is your light. Life is about balance. For every sacrifice, there is a reward.” The witch stared at him, her rheumy gray eyes narrowed. “Beware, dearest prince! If you allow your new nature to overtake you, you will forget your quest. You will live only in darkness and you will never find the one destined for you.”

  —From The Prince and the Maiden,

  an unpublished work by

  Lorcan O’Halloran

  Chapter 3

  When I awoke, I found myself clutching Lorcan like a beloved teddy bear. He was awake, his fingers stroking my back. I scrambled to a sitting position and stared at him, embarrassed. With those silver eyes and his long black hair he reminded me of the wolf. My hand fluttered to my throat as anxiety prickled my skin.

  “Bad dream?” he asked softly.

  “Vampires don’t dream,” I said.

  “You do.” He looked at me, but his expression was unfathomable. “Thank you for helping me.”

  “No problem.” Big problem. It seemed Lorcan’s proximity affected me in unexpected ways. “What happened to you?”

  “You need not concern yourself,” he said, arrogance lacing his tone. “ ’Tis done now.”

  What was done now? I didn’t ask because I knew he wouldn’t tell me. The O’Hallorans were good at keeping secrets. I watched him get off the bed. My gaze roved over the muscled torso. His chest was completely healed. Could I help it if my fingers wished to dance through those dark curls and flit across those ridges? I looked away and swallowed hard. When I looked back, Lorcan was dressed—a black T-shirt tucked into black jeans.

  “Don’t you like color?”

  “Black is a color,” he said. He smiled—the small, sad one he had perfected as the guilt-stricken vampire monk. I missed the other smile, the curve of lips filled with mischief. It was like glimpsing a slice of heaven before the gates shut. Hmph. I probably wouldn’t see him smile like that again.

  “Good-bye, Eva.”

  Startled at the sudden good-bye, I managed a limp wave. Strangely, I didn’t want him to go. He made me uncomfortable and he confused me, but at the same time, I wanted to be near him. A red flag if ever there was one—as if my body didn’t care what he would do to my heart. Lust had its own rewards. Yet mere pleasure glittered and faded, leaving only pain, only emptiness.

  As Lorcan sparkled out of sight, he waved his hand and something gold and shiny fell onto the bed. I looked at the object and gasped. Picking it up, I fingered the full bloom of a gold rose. Real gold, too. The brooch was the size of a quarter. In the middle, very small, I saw a looped “L.” For Lorcan? Huh. Was it a thank-you gift? Or a mark of possession?

  I laughed. He probably made these little roses and tossed them at the feet of any female who showed him kindness. It wasn’t special. Besides, vampires who wanted to put others under their protection—or as a step toward binding—had to put their claiming mark on the neck. It was magic; any paranormal creature would see a claimed being. I had claimed Tamara as soon as Jessica taught me how. She was my child, forever under my protection, and anyone who messed with her, messed with me.

  Our symbol was a red ruby.

  My mother’s name was Ruby. She died five years ago of cancer. Other than Tamara, my mother was the most important person in my life. Her death left a void in my world—one that had never been filled. I had learned to live with the hole. In fact, I guarded it fiercely.

  The rose beckoned my attention again. It wasn’t lost on me that a gold rose had opened the tower in my dream. Or that a wolf waited for me. I wasn’t sure I wanted to think about that dream and try to figure out what it meant. Maybe it didn’t mean anything.

  I couldn’t deny my attraction to Lorcan, but heaven help me, I wanted to deny it. I had a history of falling for men who were bad for me. Chances were good that if I was attracted to a man, he was shit in an expensive suit. Then again, Lorcan had already done the worst thing ever, hadn’t he? You are having sexual feelings for your murderer, Miss LeRoy? Tsk, tsk.

  Hard to believe it had been nearly three months since Lorcan noshed on my neck. If you’ve ever read those romance novels where the soul-tortured vampire hero reluctantly brings his mortal woman to the Other Side— well, my experience was the exact opposite of that.

  I had just returned from an ice cream run and had gotten out of my little VW bug. As I shut the door, I heard a shuffling noise behind me, followed by a hair-raising growl. There was nothing sexy about big furry paws grabbing my hips and sharp, icky teeth digging into my throat. The scariest thing about what happened was that I couldn’t see my attacker. I felt him—he was huge, hairy, snarling. When he was finished, he tossed me in the driveway and loped away.

  Then I died.

  The worst part was that I never got to eat that pint of Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey.

  If the Consortium—a sorta vampire Peace Corps—hadn’t rolled into town and brought several vampire Masters willing to Turn us, none of us would be alive. Well, undead. Y’see, Lorcan had been suffering from the taint, a terrible disease that affected only vampires. Everyone was scrambling for a cure, including the Consortium. They’d managed to rid Lorcan of it, but whatever they’d done seemed to work only for him.

  When I woke up after the attack, I was latched to the neck of a vampire named Mortimer. Yeah, I know—someone named Mortie saved my life. After Tamara got over the shock of my death and my vampification, she often crooned lines from “The Monster Mash” just to annoy me. As for Mortie, he’d returned to his wife in London and left my vampire lessons to the other Masters who’d decided to stick it out in Broken Heart.

  After we got all the vampire stuff straightened out, the Consortium revealed it had been buying out residences and businesses in Broken Heart. It wanted to build the first-ever paranormal community in the United States. Over the summer, nearly all the human residents had moved out. The town was practically empty, its buildings under constant demolition and construction.

  Turning into a vampire had rid me of cellulite, acne scars, and crow’s-feet. Yet other things had been taken away, too—sunrise and road trips and ice cream (oh, the joy of a Ben & Jerry’s pint!).

  My mind drifted back to the dream. Why was I associating the wolf with Lorcan? Because I feared him? Because I wanted him, but I was scared to want him? Finding a bed in a tower—a phallic symbol for sure—seemed rife with sexual imagery.

  Having sexual relations was a serious business for us vampires. If we fed and did the mattress mambo, we were linked to the person of our affection for the next century. Needless to say, most of us were real discriminating about our love lives. Hmm. Maybe my subconscious was just working out my sexual
frustration with the only man who’d shared my bed in more than a year. Granted, he’d only held me, not tried anything naughty (was that a sliver of regret wedged in my relief?), but still . . . Lorcan was hot. Movie-star hot. The kind of hot a woman like me viewed at a distance, wanting and wanting but never in a million years actually getting.

  Oh, what did it matter? I had no intention of binding with anyone ever. Falling in love for me was like unwrapping a mystery candy. I wanted chocolate, but I always got licorice.

  Still, it was hard to forget those eyes, that wild hair, that muscled chest. Poor, poor sexually repressed me. I thought about all the blood and mud I had wiped off. Why had Lorcan been attacked? Fear ghosted along my spine. We had problems with a group of vampires called the Wraiths. They were a nasty bunch, but they’d been routed out of Broken Heart a couple months back. I shuddered to think they or their vamp/lycan abominations were running around the town again.

  “Hey, Mom,” Tamara called down. “Your breakfast is here.”

  “Share your pancakes with Charlie,” I said.

  If I couldn’t indulge in real carbs, I could at least get the faint taste of syrup-drizzled pancakes in liquid form. Charlie was one of my two favorite donors. Donors were humans who were paid to be vampire meals—courtesy of the Consortium. Most vampires needed only a pint an evening to survive.

  Charlie was a nice guy, though a little on the shy side. He was smart and loved books; we got along well because my most favorite thing in the world, other than my daughter, was reading.

  I took a quick shower in the private bathroom (courtesy of the Consortium) and drew on a pair of black capris and a beaded white halter top, both new purchases thanks to a cyber-shopping trip. My friend Jessica and my daughter sat at the computer with me and helped me (read: chose for me) buy clothing I probably wouldn’t have bought given my druthers.

  A couple weeks ago, after assessing my favorite pair of gray sweats and baggy T-shirt, Jessica insisted that my “librarian frump look” had to go. The thing about Jessica was that she had a heart—and a mouth—as big as Texas. You never asked Jessica for her opinion unless you really wanted it.