Hawk: A Stepbrother Romance Part 97

I don't know if it's magic or pheromones or something about my eyes, but the bouncer working the door sees me and I look him in his eyes and it happens. There's this push, like trying to rub the wrong ends of two magnets together, and his jaw goes a little slack, and he motions me forward. I skip the line, the rope goes up, I walk into the club, and the hunt begins.

Awful, absolutely awful. The lights, the pounding, the constant movement. I cut through to the bar and find a place to sit and motion the bartender over. He doesn't ask for my ID when I meet his eyes and do the mind trick. He just gives me my favorite drink, a screwdriver. I take a few sips and let it burn down my throat and know I'll be dealing with it later. I have to keep up appearances. Blend in, and wait.

This is when it sets in.

There might not be another guy tonight, or tomorrow. I might bend my rules, go soft on my standards. I might make an excuse. I want to laugh at myself for thinking I can justify the death of every human being it takes to keep me going. People have to die so this thing can keep going for another few days at a time.

The only thing that keeps me at it is the knowledge that sooner, or later, the thirst takes over. I will lose control, and I will hurt someone that doesn't deserve it. Someone innocent. A woman or a child. When my veins turn to gla.s.s and frozen fire rips through me and melts away what's left of my humanity, everyone else is just a pulse.

I should stop myself, permanently, before someone gets hurt, but I can't. I'm scared.

The first one spots me. I see him first. Too old for this place, he's a wannabe lothario, badly imitating the dress of the dudebros and failing to pull it off. He b.u.t.tons up his polo s.h.i.+rts and wears his chain like a necktie and he has skinny goose legs under his out-of-fas.h.i.+on cargo shorts. A quick glance in his eyes and I feel it, like a distant memory. There's a woman at home and he wants to f.u.c.k someone younger and tighter to spite her.

That's no crime. I can't kill this one.

He sidles up to the bar and I let him because every time this happens I'm closer to just taking the first one and giving up on justifying my actions.

I want to scream, somebody help me, but I already know no one will.

"Whatcha drinkin'?" he shouts.

I look over at him.

"I'm good."

He puts his hand on my back. He's pushy. I look over at his eyes again. Out there in the world he's someone important. Sometimes I hate important people.

They forget their mortality, as if packing enough money in your bank account can buy time to make up for those eighty-hour weeks. As if the couple grand he carries in his wallet will buy me off when I've got my knee on his chest and I'm slicing open...

I shudder.

"What's your name?"

"Sherman."

I look him in the eye.

"Go home, Sherman." The name comes to me. "Vera is lonely. You're fifty-six years old," how I know that I have no idea, "you're in good health and you have a wife who loves you. It's not too late."

He blinks a few times. Then he leaves. He might go home, he might not. I can't make myself care.

I keep telling myself that one of these times I'll say to the guy "These are not the droids you're looking for" but my sense of humor went away along with everything else.

I turn back to the drink and swirl the dregs around in the gla.s.s. I prop my chin on my fist and wait. I desperately need to find a guy looking for someone to take advantage of. They have to deserve it.

The next two are the same. I blow them off. The intimacy of the deep gaze sickens me so I do it the old fas.h.i.+oned way, with the cold shoulder.

Then the suitor comes. Like poor Sherman he doesn't belong here, but he doesn't belong here in an unnerving, predatory way. This guy is different. He's holding a drink but he hasn't had any. He's looking around like he expects to get jumped, watching all the corners, checking the exits.

He looks me over three times before he moves to the bar, circling me like a shark when there's blood in the water. I watch him in the long mirror behind the bar. His reflection is blurred.

The gla.s.s must be dirty.

He's about six two, narrow in the way of a guy that leads a sedentary lifestyle but takes care of himself and works hard on staying in shape. His clothes are all tailored, his belt and shoes alligator, and he's wearing an Omega. When I spot the watch something stirs, deep down, something fluttery and scratchy waking up in my belly. When he sits down next to me the feeling grows. It's heady, intoxicating. I forget to pick up my drink.

"Hi."

"Hi," I say, and I blink. He has a lean face, not model handsome but, I don't know, endearing. He wears gla.s.ses, by the little marks on his nose, but doesn't have them on now. His hair is a sandy blonde and when I see his hands I decide they belong to a doctor, for no particular reason. He touches my wrist and I'm aware of pressure and heat and the texture of his fingertips, but it's as dead as any other touch, just an awareness.

Except it isn't. I don't stop him or pull my hand away.

"You don't look like you belong in a place like this."

I don't belong anywhere with the living.

"I guess not."

"Are you upset about something?"

I flinch. He says it like he already knows the answer.

This has to end. This man is kind. I don't dare meet his eyes. I don't want to feel that.

"Go away."

I take my hand away and prop my chin on it. I might go thirsty tonight. I'd rather take the risk than hurt someone undeserving.

He's not leaving. He's not giving up.

"You look upset."

A tiny part of me wants to tell him. Tell him all of it. Of course I'm upset. I'm a corpse, I have every reason to be upset. I don't. I turn away even more.

I catch the motion out of the corner of my eye. He pa.s.ses his hand over my drink. A flicker pa.s.ses through his face and I can't read it. I turn back and taste my drink.

He's put something in it.

"Why don't we get out of here?"

I squeeze the gla.s.s and stop myself before I crush it. This is worse than usual. I feel betrayed. I'm angry and I want to savor it. Feeling something is precious, even if it's hate. If you crawl through the desert and find a drink of water, who cares if the water's warm?

I down the rest of the drink and slip off my stool and think. This guy is probably not going to have a dingy apartment. This might be a mistake. I should go, but I can't. I have to have this one.

Then I look over and see his face and hate myself for what I'm going to do to him, even though I now know he deserves it. Something is off about this, something wrong. My instincts are starting to scream at me to leave, hole up somewhere for the day and come back to the hunt tomorrow night.

We leave the club. I walk with him. It's late, now, fewer people on the street.

"I'm parked on the next block, in a lot," he says, and squeezes my hand.

I drift along with him. The parking lot is half empty, surrounded by barbed wire that glows under harsh high pressure sodium lamps. The attendant's booth is empty, closed up. There's a big white van parked in the corner, away from the lights. He starts leading me to it.

His hand tugs mine when I stop.

"Come on, honey."

Something familiar in his tone. I've had enough. I don't like this. I pull away.

His hand grips mine. Hard. I can't pull loose, and I shriek in panic and really pull, but he still holds on. I give him a shove that should rip his arm out of his socket, but he doesn't let go. He's got my other arm and he picks me up off the ground and I kick my feet and thrash. I throw my head back and hear a thump when the back of my skull hits his nose. That makes him let go. I shake loose and bolt.

Two steps later a sledgehammer hits me in the back. That's what it feels like, before fire rips through my body and I go down. My limbs won't do what I tell them to and I'm shaking, my arms and legs writhing around out of my control.

My bones creak as every muscle in my body clenches all at once. When he rolls me over and pulls the taser barbs out of my back I realize what happened. He stuffs it back in his suit pocket and picks me up from the ground, gingerly, like a newlywed. He holds me in his arms so my head falls against his chest.

Oh G.o.d.

He carries me back to the van and throws me over his shoulder, fireman style. I can't move, just stare at my arms dangling towards the ground as he yanks the van doors open and gingerly lowers me to the floor, cradling my head with his hand. He tucks me inside the bag, pulling it up around me before he grasps the zipper and drags the world away.

I'm in a body bag.

Chapter Two.

During the trip, the sun rises. I can't see it but I can feel it. There's a moment of awareness and in my mind's eye I see the cleansing light sweeping over everything, pus.h.i.+ng the dark back into tiny corners and low places, and then my consciousness gutters out and I'm gone.

No time at all pa.s.ses between the coming of sleep and waking up. My eyes pop open and I lay there disoriented, trying to adjust to my surroundings. I feel something I rarely experience anymore, fatigue. My muscles are actually sore, and I feel like I could actually willingly go to sleep if I close my eyes. Normally I'd have no trouble moving but it feels like there's bags of sand piled on my chest as I try to sit up.

When I do and I get a look at my surroundings, I want to laugh. At least I'm not being dissected. I half expected a lab, either clean and modern and made of stainless steel and latex or some creepy old mansion's bas.e.m.e.nt, all stone and bubbling beakers and a hunchback.

What I get is a library, the personal study of someone with money. The books climb the walls on all four sides, broken only by a huge hearth and a set of gigantic, shuttered windows behind the ornate desk. There's a pair of chairs facing the dead fire and someone is sitting in one, reading a book.

A book claps closed and the occupant stands up. It's the guy from last night, in the same clothes. He looks tired. There's bags under his eyes and red marks on his cheeks that might be the tracks of tears, but I'm sure I'm just making that up.

Standing up is even harder than sitting. I'm wobbly on my feet, and my head swims when I move. When I take a step I feel like I'm going to fall down. I move towards him, not sure what I mean to do when I get there. He watches, and sighs softly as I run head first into an invisible wall. I feel it with a brush of my hand, then reach out and touch it. I can see my skin flatten against the gentle curve, liked pressing against gla.s.s, and look down.

The floor is carpeted but where I'm standing there's a circle of bare stone. Deep channels cut across the surface in a pattern I don't recognize. The lines form many symbols, most prominently a five pointed star, the kind I used to fill my notebooks with when I was a bored little girl in... I blink a few times. The memory is gone before I realize it's coming back. I choke it down. Nothing is worse than those random flashes, reminders that I used to be a human. Almost nothing.

Something is going to go bad here. I can feel it coming.

"What is this?"

"It's a magic circle. A Greater Circle of Binding, to be exact."

I snort. "There's no such thing as magic."

"Said the vampire," he sighs.

"That's different."

He moves closer to the circle's edge and I step back, backing my way across until I hit the other side, another invisible barrier. Or the same, I suppose, running around.

"How is it different?"

"I have a disease." I don't sound very confident.

"You don't know anything about yourself, do you?"

I keep still, fighting the impulse to shake my head. I'm not giving him anything.

"Where are we? What do you want with me?"

"We're in my home and it's complicated."

"Complicated how?"

He sighs and looks down at his hands. "You wouldn't understand half of what I had to say."

"I'm not stupid."

"No, you're not. You're as smart as you are..." he trails off.

I swallow. "Last night, you... what are you?"

"My name is Michael. Yours is Christine."

"How do you know that?"

He reaches in his pocket and pulls out a creased square of paper. Then it hits me. He has my picture.

In a blind, shrieking fury, I throw myself at him. I hit the wall and push against it, clawing the air.

"That's mine. Give it back!"

He unfolds it and shows it to me.

"Who are they?"

"I don't know. That's me."

"The other one?"

"I told you, I don't know."

"What's your last name?"