Déadre rubbed her right shoulder, which bore the scars of that punishment, inflicted because she’d dared to sip at the wrist of a drunk she’d stumbled over on a late-night walk three months ago.
She’d learned her lesson that night; she hadn’t had a taste of blood since.
It wasn’t fair. The old ones, like the Matron, could go years without feeding. Decades, if need be. But Déadre had only been undead since 1934. Like a kitten, she needed to nurse frequently, at least once every few weeks. She couldn’t die from lack of blood, but she could grow weak from it. Sick. She could suffer.
Even now her limbs felt heavy. She couldn’t gather enough saliva to moisten her lips. The scent of blood, heated by the tight crush of bodies in the club, made her dizzy with need. Her heart, if it were capable of beating, would have been racing, her pulse, if she’d had one, shallow but rapid.
As she watched one particular dancer, a blonde with skin so translucent that Déadre could see the veins in her neck when the girl tilted her head back, swaying with the beat of the music, her thumbnails began to lengthen, thicken. To sharpen to fine points perfect for perforating the jugular.
Déadre closed her eyes, rocked in her mind with the girl. Licked her dry lips. She imagined herself trailing her hands up the column of the girl’s throat, feeling the heady pulse beneath her fingertips, searching for just the right spot—
“You look parched.”
Déadre snapped her eyes open and jerked her hands beneath the table, thumbs tucked into her fists. While she’d been daydreaming, the music had stopped. The band was on break.
The dancers had disappeared, and a man loomed over her. Tall. Lean. Average brown hair gelled up in clumpy spikes. Leather pants, biker jacket with no shirt underneath. Studded dog collar around his neck. Nifty scar running diagonally across his left cheek.
He flashed her an easy smile. “Can I buy you a drink?”
She hesitated, considering. She needed a mark, and by all appearances, he would be easy enough to lure outside and separate from his wallet. All she had to do was return his smile, lean forward, and give him a glimpse down her shirt. He’d follow her anywhere. But something felt wrong about the man before her.
On the surface, he blended easily with the other Goths and punks milling around, but his posture—too straight—and his eyes—too guarded—said he didn’t belong. Whatever he was up to, she wanted no part of it, even if blowing him off did mean losing a chance to beef up the paltry offering she’d gathered for the High Matron this month. Besides, getting close to a strong, vital body like his in her current state of need was not a good idea. She might forget about the High Matron and her blood rationing and suck him dry.
It took all her will to turn away. “No,” she said, and made a point of looking bored, looking at anything but him and his surprisingly broad expanse of bare chest.
She couldn’t look at that chest. Not without thinking of the heart beating inside it. Without hearing the swish of his blood through each of the four chambers, thinking how good it would taste.
He pulled out the plastic chair next to her. The legs scraped across the cement floor the same way his smile grated on her nerves. “Even if it’s a Bloody Mary?”
She gasped at the offer. Her stomach tumbled as her gaze latched onto his. She’d love a Bloody Mary. Or a Bloody Tom, or Henry, or Heather…
She was so lost in her need that it took her a moment to realize he hadn’t meant the offer literally.
Of course, he hadn’t. He was mortal.
But she got the feeling, looking into the serene green of his eyes, that his choice of words hadn’t been a coincidence. “Who are you?”
“Daniel Hart.” He stuck out his right hand.
“What do you want?”
“To get to know you, for starters.”
“Why?”
“You seem like an interesting person.”
He seemed sincere enough on first glance. He had a handsome smile, full of straight white teeth. Even the scar on his cheek didn’t detract from the personable expression he wore so comfortably. But on closer inspection, Déadre noted the fine red web in the whites of his eyes, the strain at the corners of his full mouth.
“Sorry. Not interested.” She shoved her chair back and made for the door, the chain she wore as a belt jangling with every step.
Daniel swore under his breath. Picking up women in bars had never been his forte. Picking up a vampire was proving to be an even more elusive skill. He’d spent weeks researching her kind, finding them. He’d picked her out especially for his needs—a loner, young, female. Vulnerable to a man who paid attention to her, he’d hoped.
So she’d proved a little less vulnerable than he would have liked. He still couldn’t let her go. In the days he’d spent in the hospital after taking the beating from Garth and throughout the weeks of recovery afterward, he’d searched for a way to kill the man—the monster—who had taken Sue Ellen’s life, who held her undead body under his spell. Daniel had studied; he’d read. When he was able, he walked the streets and used the last of his money to buy information.
He knew what Garth LaGrange was, and he knew as a mortal he had no chance against him. There was only one way to win, to free Sue Ellen’s soul, and it all depended on getting Déadre Rue to help him.
If Plan A didn’t work, he’d go to Plan B.
He started after her, giving her space as she worked her way through the crowd and out the door, then caught up to her in the parking lot, where they’d have some privacy.
At least, he thought he’d caught up to her.
He stopped beside the red Jeep Wrangler in the last row and checked the plate. It was definitely hers. He scanned the darkness, the cones of light from scattered streetlamps. “Déadre?”
He felt a breeze, saw a blur of motion, and found himself flying backward to slam into the Corvette in the next parking space. His feet were on the ground, legs spread, but his back was bent over the rear quarter panel.
Déadre stood between his knees, holding him down with a fist clenched in the collar of his coat. Her pale skin looked as stark against her dark hair as a full moon against the night sky. Except the moon didn’t usually scowl so fiercely. “How do you know my name?”
With her hands so close to his throat, now seemed like a good time for the truth. “I’ve been watching you.”
“Why?” Her hands tightened. “Did the Enforcer send you to spy on me?”
“No. I mean, I don’t know. Who is the Enforcer?”
“If you’re not working for him, why are you following me?”
“I need your help.”
“To do what?”
“To—” He hadn’t planned to announce his intentions so soon, but he didn’t see where he had much choice, at this point. “To become one of you.”
For a moment, disbelief held Déadre immobile. He knew what she was. And he wasn’t screaming in terror or running away from her.
The warmth of Daniel’s body seeped into her. The feel of his firm thighs riding her hips gave her a brief reprieve from her craving for blood and stirred a long-unfed craving for another kind of fulfillment.
Then she whirled away from him. Disgust had her wanting to howl.
It happened once in a while. Mortals with terminal illnesses decided they wanted to live forever. Punks or Goths thought they wanted to do more than play at being creatures of the night. So they sought out a vampire and asked to be converted.
Some vamps were happy to oblige in the first part of the process, draining the mortal’s blood to the point of death. But they often neglected the part that caused the conversion, giving some of the blood back.
The fools’ corpses were usually found rotting in the gutter the next morning.
Before the rationing, that was. Now, the vampire would be a fool to take human blood without the authority of the Enforcer.
She turned and sneered at the man pushing himself off the car and rubbing his throat. “Go home, little mortal. While you still can.”
“I don’t have a home anymore. Or a car, or a job, or anything else, for that matter.”
“Aw, and you want me to feel sorry for you?”
“I want you to make me a vampire so I can kill the bastard who stole them.”
A long moment ticked by.