Kerry Allen's Love Emporium

Chapter 1

There were two things by which Harvey Doyle did not wish to be greeted when he arrived at the office. The first was daylight; the second, superstitious peasants armed with holy water and wooden stakes.

Upon his arrival the evening of December 23, he added a third unwelcome sight to the list: coworkers flinging Christmas flotsam everywhere in preparation for an office party he hadn’t been warned about.

His left foot slid backward. If he remained quiet and made no sudden movements, he could retreat to the elevator and call in sick before anyone knew he’d been in the building.

“Merry Christmas, Harv!”

He winced at the combination of the nickname and the shrill voice, amplified to a scream to guarantee it traveled from the far side of the room—a vast distance of fifteen feet. If the fluorescent green stripes in her black hair, troweled-on makeup, and graveyard chic wardrobe were insufficient to draw one’s attention, Taffy could always command it with an auditory assault on the senses.

The elevator doors nipped at his heel as they closed.

His hope of escape deflated with a sigh. “Christmas is two days away.”

Also on the far side of the room, Mason crouched to stick a plug in an electrical outlet. Thousands of tiny light bulbs blazed to life. The room’s temperature warmed by five degrees in the time it took him to straighten from the task. “The whole crew won’t be together again until after New Year’s, so we’re partying tonight. Everybody will be here by ten.”

Harvey stopped at the unmanned front desk to collect the stack of messages addressed to him, knowing he would be unable to return them before morning unless the overburdened circuits sparked a fire and the building had to be evacuated.

He longed for a match to facilitate such a disaster when Taffy lifted from a box a pompadoured snowman dressed in a sequined jumpsuit. Powered on, it would gyrate to barely recognizable renditions of Christmas tunes.

“Yes!” She hoisted it above her head. “I was afraid this got lost in the move. We’d never be able to replace Frelvis.”

Harvey made a mental note to send a thank-you card to Satan for shutting down whatever factory in Hell no longer produced such monstrosities. “We agreed last year to abolish this tradition.”

“We had a meeting and agreed the problem is it’s impossible to get a decent gift for ten bucks, so we upped the limit to fifty.”

“I recall no such meeting.”

Mason unraveled an extension cord and passed one end to Taffy. “You were off kicking puppies, serving eviction notices to widows, and repossessing wheelchairs from crippled orphans.”

“You would have been outvoted, anyway. You can’t stop the spirit of the season.” The snowman’s hips groaned to life with the first tinny notes of “Blue Christmas,” and the sparkle in Taffy’s eyes rivaled that of her glitter eyeshadow. She glanced in Harvey’s direction and stuck out her tongue at his profound lack of enthusiasm. “Lighten up, Grooge.”

He had erroneously believed Harv to be the epitome of objectionable labels. “What did you call me?”

“Grooge, a mashup of your role models, Grinch and Scrooge. We considered Scrinch, but that sounds like some kind of sphincter spasm.”

Mason saluted. “Out of respect for your authority, we went in a different direction.”

One day, he would learn better than to ask. Harvey strode toward his office. If his ancestors could fortify crumbling castles against mobs of angry villagers, surely he could barricade a door against a handful of festive coworkers. “I have some calls to make before the frivolity renders work impossible.”

“Stop!” Taffy lunged into his path, arms flung wide to bar the way. “You can’t go in there.”

Her objection seemed excessively vehement for a simple request to stay and socialize. “Please tell me you haven’t stashed something in my office.”

A number of gifts littered the room, stacked on desks and leaning against the walls, so secrecy was not the order of the evening. The only reason he could imagine for hiding something was that the something couldn’t be wrapped, such as a Shetland pony or a prostitute. Knowing his coworkers, either was a possibility.

Mason handed him a cube decorated with images of an anthropomorphized kitchen sponge engaged in a variety of wintertime pursuits. “We don’t expect you to reciprocate, but you’ll graciously accept tribute from us lowly minions.”

Harvey peeled back a flap of wrapping paper, revealing a box containing four books. The exposed side of the box was printed with a pair of hands holding an apple.

A muscle under his eye jumped. If he were near an open window, he’d be tempted to follow its example. “The entire set. How thoughtful of you.”

“I knew you’d like it because it’ll help you on the job.” At Harvey’s mystified look, Mason elaborated, “It’s a topic of cultural relevance. It’ll help you connect with the young people… and a lot of their moms.”

Taffy squinted at the package of similar size and wrapping on her desk. “You better not have given me the same thing.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Mason smirked. “I got you the movie, since I know you can’t read.”

She fluttered her fake eyelashes at him. “Now I’m sure I made the right decision getting you a one-year membership at the Bottom’s Up Club. I assume you already own the assless chaps that constitute the junior member uniform.”

“Sure do, but I’ll have to borrow the ball gag your boyfriend uses to shut you up before your mouth manages to defeat even a double dose of Viagra.”

Harvey marveled at his uncanny ability to be standing between them every time they went for each other’s throats, as if he were the axis around which their animosity orbited. “Yes, increasing the monetary value of the gifts has clearly altered the tone of this occasion for the better.”

Taffy waved a hand to dispel the cloud of cynicism. “Never mind him. I got you something I know you’ll appreciate. Go on, take a look.”

She stepped aside so he could do so. Wary of what awaited him inside, Harvey turned the knob and pushed open the door with all the caution of a bomb squad rookie.

Taffy bounced on her toes, eyes locked on his face to gauge his reaction. “I took a little off the top to subdue her.”

He wouldn’t accomplish much in the way of work with a woman lying atop his desk, one limp hand weighing down the files in his inbox. She wore a red velvet dress, cinched at the waist with a wide leather belt and adorned with white fur trim at the hem, cuffs, and collar. A matching hat sat askew upon her head, revealing a short cap of dark hair and one delicate ear that came to a point at its apex.

Whatever department store employed her would have raised the alarm when she didn’t show up for work, if for no other reason than to ensure return of the costume.

The red cellophane bow stuck to the woman’s forehead resembled a cluster of bloody spikes erupting from her skull, but the more likely cause of death was the pair of punctures on the right side of her neck. A dark bruise ringed the bite from the force employed to suck her dry. The remainder of her skin was a cadaverous shade of gray.

When she received none of the effusive thanks she expected, Taffy peered around the doorframe. “Oops. Guess I took a little more than I thought.”

Mason shouldered his way inside and pressed his fingers against the woman’s throat, observing protocol even when faced with the obvious. “How can you not remember draining somebody to death, Taff?”

“I don’t know! I remember her cussing at me when I brought her in because she was late for her job or something. I just wanted her to sit down and shut up so she wouldn’t ruin Harv’s surprise. I remember biting her.” She touched the tip of her tongue to her upper lip. “The next thing I remember is pulling boxes of decorations out of the storeroom.”

“None of that matters now.” Harvey moved the woman’s leg to gain access to his desk drawer, in which he placed the messages that would now have to wait. Her thigh was cold to his touch through the red-and-white-striped stocking that resembled a candy cane.

If she had known how her day would end, she might have chosen attire which made her look less like food rather than more.

“Where did you find her?” When disposing of bodies, procedure dictated leaving them where they could be easily found and identified, a courtesy to the human law enforcement responsible for investigating missing persons cases.

It was more courteous, of course, to leave the meal alive, but accidents happened.

Taffy looked away. “Um… my roommate brought her home.”

Mason’s eyebrows shot up. “For you?”

“I already ate! It would be stupid to let her go to waste, and I thought Harv would like her.”

Harvey pinched the bridge of his nose, behind which a dull ache had begun to accumulate. “You cannot regift a human.”

“Why not? They do it with fruitcake.” Taffy lifted one shoulder in a careless shrug. “Same diff.”

“The ‘diff’ is that fruitcake does not die in transit to the recipient.”

“They’re both inedible.” Mason raised his hands to ward off the dual glares he received for that comment. “The easiest law-abiding course of action is to dump her at the nearest hospital. To atone for the books, I’ll take disposal duty.”

The inbox crashed to the floor, scattering papers across the carpet like a blanket of snow. A pallid hand shifted to clutch the edge of the desk.

Taffy slugged Mason in the arm. “What did I tell you? Exactly like fruitcake. Fruitcake never dies!”

Harvey removed his coat and draped it over the woman. Her cheek felt cool against his palm, but no more so than someone who’d braved the wind between the parking lot and the lobby. When he lifted his hand, her skin had regained a healthy rosy hue. “It seems reports of her demise were exaggerated.”

Mason rubbed his abused arm. “There was no pulse. I held it for a minute. Nothing, and she was ice cold.”

Harvey recalled the dead weight of her leg, the chill that went more than skin deep. He’d handled enough dead to recognize one of their kind.

He had to have been mistaken in her case, though, because the dead didn’t come back to life; didn’t restart their silent hearts, color with blood they’d been drained of, and warm from within; didn’t move their lips in a weak attempt to communicate.

He lowered his ear to her mouth. A faint breath caressed his skin, and he discerned a single whispered word.

“Rosebud.”

Chapter 2

The vamp scowling at her was cute in a Yeah, baby, do my taxes, do ‘em hard kind of way. If he’d cracked a smile at her Citizen Kane joke, and if she hadn’t had the life sucked out of her by one of his parasitic cronies less than an hour earlier, Bowe might have dragged him down to the desk and decked his halls. Under the circumstances, however, a guy with no sense of humor who thought biting constituted foreplay just didn’t set her girly bits atingle.

Given the consequences of failing her mission, if her girly bits weren’t atingling, athrobbing, and asinging the “Hallelujah Chorus,” she couldn’t afford to waste what little time she’d been given polishing office furniture with her back.

She sat up. Gravity pulled the coat from her torso, the hat from her head, and the limited supply of blood from her brain. “Aw, fuck. I don’t have time to faint.”

Exhibiting the blatant defiance of her will typically reserved for her big mouth, her body slumped to the side.

A firm hand on the back of her neck stopped her from pitching to the floor and guided her head between her knees. “Keep your head down and breathe.”

Just this once, she would let a man who shoved her head where she didn’t want it to go keep all his appendages. The position did help stabilize her equilibrium, and at least the crotch inches from her face was her own. She breathed as ordered and took her first look at the underwear in which the Council had dressed her while she awaited her sentence—red-and-white striped to match the stockings.

What a relief. She could strike outfit not coordinating from her list of death fears.

When a small head movement didn’t result in the room tipping upside down and going black, she thought it safe to attempt a larger one. She swatted the vampire’s hand away and straightened in stages, giving her heart a second to pump at each elevation. Everything seemed back to baseline except for fatigue rivaling that she’d felt after the Battle of Smithfield, during which she hadn’t stopped for so much as a coffee break for the fifteen days and nights required to slaughter the enemy’s hit squad and have a little chat with the head bitch in charge of the invasion attempt—whereafter she came to be referred to as the headless bitch in charge.

Speaking of bitches…

She trained her narrowed gaze on the girl vamp who’d been foolish enough to tap her. “Who the hell are you calling a fruitcake?”

Girl-vamp’s black-tinted lips twisted in a sneer. “Hey, just pointing out a similarity in your longevity.”

Bowe rubbed the tender spot on her neck. “I’d venture to say I taste a damn sight better.”

Girl-vamp’s eyes glazed with a dreamy, faraway stare. “Yeah. Wow. It was like… like—”

Scowly-vamp’s scowl carved deeper lines into his forehead. “Like something you should have known better than to drink after the first taste.”

“And Bingo was his name-o.” Bowe made a gun of her index finger and pointed it at him. She wasn’t struck dead again, so she assumed that weapon was Council-approved. “But don’t be too hard on her. I’m not one to hold a grudge. Okay, I am, but I’ll make an exception this time.”

Scowly-vamp’s upraised hand cut short Girl-vamp’s response. “Why?”

It was almost like he didn’t trust her. Smart man. Tall, pasty, and handsome with a functioning brain wasn’t a combo she often came across. If she survived beyond Christmas, she might have to come back to get to know him better, become bored and disillusioned by what she learned, and swear off men for another century or three.

Since he seemed to be in charge—and since Girl-vamp stimulated an ill-advised urge to snap bones into itty bitty pieces and see how much screaming it took to rob her of that irritating voice—Bowe directed her explanation to him. “I need help with a little errand.”

The irritating voice said, “Aw, did you fall behind shoveling reindeer poop?”

So many ways to make a death appear accidental, and not one that would sneak past the kind of surveillance keeping tabs on her. Bowe took a deep breath. If she survived beyond Christmas, she’d make a point of spending some quality time with Girl-vamp, too.

She flashed her I-look-forward-to-disemboweling-you smile. “Under ordinary circumstances, I wouldn’t make such a generous offer. In fact, I’d have introduced several of your internal organs to my daggers the instant you approached me, simply because the whole faux-Goth teenybopper look you have going on there is an affront to my aesthetic sensibilities.”

Girl-vamp snorted. “You’re a fine one to talk. Your getup’s what all the cheap hookers are wearing this season.”

“Wait a minute.” The third vamp, who hadn’t done much up to that point except stare at her like he’d seen a ghost, redirected his stare to the bare skin between the top of her stockings and the furry hem of her skirt. “That dress was appropriate for handing out candy canes to impressionable little kids a minute ago. Did it shrink?”

Bowe tested the leather band around her waist, far more worried about its snugness than that of the dress. She could barely worm her little finger between it and her body now. “Damn. Is it midnight already?”

Scowly-vamp consulted his wristwatch. “It’s nine o’clock.”

She supposed it was midnight somewhere. How like the Council to forget to mention a minor detail like her deadline being shortened by three hours due to geographic limitations. They probably figured if she was cutting it that close, she had no chance of succeeding anyway.

Or they’d bought a glimpse into the future and knew those three hours were the ones that counted and had no intention of allowing her to succeed.

She hopped off the desk and tugged her hem down as far as it would stretch. “Okay, I have neither the time nor inclination—especially not the time—to dick around with you leeches any longer. You will help, or I will prance my scantily covered ass over to the elven embassy and report a major violation of the Supernatural Interspecies Civility Act of 1974.”

Staring-vamp’s eyes widened. “You’re an elf? A real elf?”

Bowe pointed to her ears. “That or a Vulcan, and I’m not enough of a drag to be the latter.”

Staring-vamp fell quiet again, awed by either her elfhood or her knowledge of Star Trek. His silence created a void Girl-vamp felt compelled to fill. “Shouldn’t you be wearing leaves and bark and making out with a tree or something?”

“Shouldn’t you sparkle?”

Girl-vamp’s growl was music to Bowe’s ears. She had never enjoyed half a book so much. Not only did it provide enough vamp-enraging taunts to last until the end of time, but its enormous popularity completely overshadowed that Lord of the Rings debacle. The sooner humans forgot their misguided impression that elves were prissy little forest wardens with a penchant for unpronounceable words punctuated by unnecessary apostrophes, the less likely they were to be slaughtered en masse by pissed-off elven warriors even more bloodthirsty than vampires.

She tapped a finger against her chin. “Now, what’s a vampire’s sentence for the crime of exsanguinating another supernatural being to the point of death? Oh, right, picking up litter along the interstate. At noon. But look on the really, really bright side. As soon as you dissolve into a bubbling puddle of gravy, you’ll be eligible for parole.”

The muscles freezing the sneer on Girl-vamp’s face went slack.

Staring-vamp laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. “How can we help?”

Double the help would be sweet. Bowe wasn’t about to jeopardize it by gloating, at least out loud. “I have to bring the Christmas spirit to some miserable bastard, but I have to find him first. That’s where you come in.”

Staring-vamp shot a sideways glance at Scowly-vamp. “Someone in particular, or will any miserable bastard do?”

Bowe stuck her fingers into her cleavage and withdrew the slip of paper tucked there for safekeeping. “His name’s Harvey Doyle.”

~~~~~

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Chapter One

“The butchers delivered fresh meat.”

Amanda kept her face pressed to the microscope, her scribbled notes barely keeping up with the rapidly degenerating liver tissue on the slide beneath the lens. “In the middle of something here. I’m sure I’ll meet him later.”

“I wouldn’t count on later.” Spencer bumped the table with his hip, jarring the cluster of cells she’d been studying out of the magnification field. Employed by virtue of nepotism, he was a stranger to work, incapable of understanding anyone else’s desire to engage in such an activity, and had made it his mission in life to convert her to the shiftless side. “They had him out in the desert for a week. He’s in bad shape.”

She gave up on recording accurate data on that sample and directed her gaze toward the wall, blinking to readjust her eyes to real-world view. After a week of SPH hospitality, the new subject was lucky to have a shape at all. She’d better get a look at him while there was something left to identify. “All right, I’m coming.”

The morgue, through which all new arrivals were processed, occupied a wing to the right. Upon leaving her office, Spencer struck out down the hall to the left.

She slapped her hand against the door before it swung shut. She ought to know by now none of his efforts to tempt her away from her desk had anything to do with work. Maybe next time she’d catch on before he lured her from her chair. “If you’re trying to manipulate me into a supply closet again, let me spare us both some time and you a trip to the infirmary.”

He held up his hands as if the sight of his grabby paws should pacify her. “No tricks this time, I swear. They brought us a live one.”

She curled her fingers under so her palm wouldn’t leave a sweaty print on the door. “What have we done to earn such a treat?”

“It’s for you.” He had the same avid glitter in his eyes when his father gave him a Porsche for his birthday. “You’ve done a good job with the grunt work. They’re ready to let you have some of the fun.”

Fun. Her lunch backed up into her throat. “It’s about time.”

She’d waited six years for an invitation to join the ranks of the murderers surrounding her.

Her sensible shoes clopped like hooves in the concrete corridors, masking the whisper of sound from his rubber-soled tread. She felt less like a Clydesdale when they stopped at the only observation room in use, but a yoke of dread bore down upon her as she looked through the glass.

Five men surrounded the stainless steel table bolted to the floor in the center of the room, two in lab coats, three in black paramilitary garb. Each of the latter carried enough weaponry strapped to his body to overtake a small country. A fourth soldier stood to the side, rifle gripped in both hands. A ragged line of sutures ran around his hairline, as if his face had been peeled off and reattached. His finger flexed over the trigger every time his restless eyes fell on the table.

One of the scientists stepped away, exposing the subject’s upper body.

Amanda’s stomach cramped. Keenly aware of Spencer’s watchful gaze, she suppressed any visible betrayal of her horror and dismay. Performing countless autopsies should have rendered her immune to such reactions, but the specimens under her knife were usually in better condition than this one, and she didn’t have to witness their suffering.

Or look forward to causing them more.

His head turned toward her as if he heard her stuttering heart through the soundproof barrier. She fell still as a mouse in a hawk’s shadow, even though he wouldn’t see her if she hiked up her lab coat and broke into the cancan. Beyond the swelling and the layers of filth and blood caked on his face, the unnatural flatness of his lids indicated they had taken his eyes.

She’d never understood the purpose of blinding them. Darkness was no handicap to vampires, and they regenerated anything they lost, except blood. If he survived, none of the damage would be permanent.

Of course, he wasn’t there to be nursed back to health.

His own mother wouldn’t be able to ID his battered, misshapen face, but his tattoo should suffice for that purpose. He had to be the only “savage miscreation” with a cartoon panda inked into his left upper arm.

The soldiers tightened the straps binding the vampire to the table until the leather bit into his shriveled skin. The scientist returned with an IV drip of clear fluid and worked the needle into a prominent neck vein. Satisfied debility, restraints, and sedatives would immobilize him until the time came for whatever purpose he’d been acquired, they filed out of the room. Scarface lagged behind, swinging the butt of the rifle around and ramming it into the vampire’s forehead by way of goodbye. The blow snapped his head around so he faced the other way.

Only then did that sightless stare release her from its paralyzing grip.

The last scientist to exit the room coded the seal on the door for maximum security clearance. The lab personnel disappeared down an adjoining corridor. The soldiers passed behind Amanda and Spencer, one muttering he was glad to have that one off their hands, the others planning their next crucial operation: finding the nearest titty bar.

Scarface met her icy gaze and licked his lips, pumping his fist up and down the barrel of the rifle. She compressed her lips to stifle a remark about using his weapon to compensate for his shortcomings. The reptilian malice glittering in his eyes warned her he’d blow her brains out over a slight against his manhood and consider justice served.

Her lips were numb by the time the men turned the corner. “Monsters.”

Spencer rubbed her shoulder. “It can’t hurt you. By the time they get here, they’re not a threat to anybody.”

She shrugged off his touch and his assumption she referred to the thing on the table. The vampire was so emaciated, she could count his bones. “They’d have to bleed him to get him in that condition in only a week.” A vampire could survive longer than that without feeding, but drained of his reserves, he’d be too weak to hunt and in terrible pain when his demanding metabolism attacked his soft tissues in a not-so-gentle reminder to refuel.

“How come you’re such an expert on vampire health?”

“I grew up among them.”

The look Spencer gave her contained a different brand of interest. “That explains why Dad made such a big deal about recruiting you. You have inside information.”

“And motivation to share it.” After one last look at the vampire, she returned to her corner of the lab and went through the motions of finishing her shift.

When she arrived home, she changed into her running clothes as usual, the only deviation from routine the choice of cell phone clipped to the waistband of her sweatpants. She performed some token stretches and set out at a steady plod around the golf course backing her apartment complex.

Cars whizzed by on the street bordering the fourth fairway. She slowed to a walk, rubbing her side, then leaned against a tree for support. If she was under surveillance, her weakness should arouse no suspicion, since she was genuinely winded and nursing a stitch every time she reached this marker. She didn’t have one athletic fiber in her body, and it sent her punishing reminders each time she pretended differently.

A deserted expanse of golf course rolled out in front of her, and the din of the fast-moving traffic provided a measure of privacy behind. She flipped open the cell phone. Indecipherable hieroglyphics appeared on the screen as it powered up, rather than the provider logo displayed on her personal cell. A new phone arrived in the mail every month, hidden in what appeared to be a shipment from a romance novel subscription service. It was the only package she ever received that showed no evidence of tampering. Her handler had devised a perfect way to repel unwanted interest, but she often wondered what he did with the books missing from the shipments.

Each phone had one number programmed into speed dial, encrypted so she never saw it. She strongly felt this qualified as the emergency she’d been instructed to save it for. She sent the call and waited while the signal bounced through untraceable relays around the globe. The cloak-and-dagger business wasn’t for her benefit. If she got caught, she’d burn on her own, but the party on the other end would remain anonymous.

The background noise when he finally answered sounded as if that party was having a party. “What?”

A man of few words and even fewer social graces, that Leo Hilliard. His people skills might improve if he read a sentimental book or two, but she wouldn’t bet on it. She’d known him most of her life and watched him become more callous and uncompromising with each passing year. She’d think him completely heartless if not for the one thing she knew he would move heaven and earth for. “You lost something.”

“Hold on.” He made a curt excuse to his companions and went somewhere quiet. “Since that’s not common knowledge, I gather you found it.”

She scanned the jogging trail in both directions to verify no one had ventured within earshot. “How quickly can you send someone to retrieve it?”

“I can’t do that.”

“Excuse me, what?” The meaning buried in the deliberate ambiguity had obviously gotten lost in translation. “Do you understand how much this something means to you?”

“Perfectly. I also understand the directive. Do you?”

Her fingers tightened on the phone, her locked knuckles preventing her from hurling it under the wheels of a passing bus. He knew exactly what she meant. He not only refused to do anything about it—by reminding her of the directive, he was also forbidding her to take action.

“Answer me.”

She drew a shallow breath, the tightness in her chest having nothing to do with jogging. “Yes. I understand.” You heartless bastard.

He disconnected without another word.

She slumped against the tree for support, the phone dangling at her side. It had taken her six years to advance to her current position within the Society for the Preservation of Humanity, winning the trust of her superiors by minute increments. Her own spot in the inner sanctum was finally within reach. Once she gained access to top-level SPH secrets, her real assignment—feeding that information to Leo—could begin. Her one order until then was to maintain her cover at any cost, using whatever vampires she was given as lab rats, torturing and killing them if necessary to confirm her commitment to the cause.

Even if one of those vampires was Leo’s brother.

Even if she’d once been in love with him.

Chapter Two

She walked home. If anyone questioned the break from habit, she could blame a stomach virus and produce the vomit to substantiate the claim.

She stripped and stood in the shower, a full blast of icy water beating against her body. Her skin shrank from the abuse, but she didn’t adjust the temperature. Cold. She had to be cold.

The spray beaded and coursed down on the stark white tile like tears. She smeared them away with her fist. There was no room in the directive for tears.

Following her last encounter with Nathan Hilliard, she’d jumped on the opportunity to infiltrate the SPH. Sure, recreate my identity. Teach me to carve up bodies without puking. Risk my life. Anything to get away from here. There was a certain poetic justice in his capture.

He hurt her. The SPH took her in.

The SPH took him in. Now she had the opportunity to hurt him.

She tipped her head back and let the water cool her stinging eyes. Regardless of how he’d treated her, he didn’t deserve to be tortured. He didn’t deserve to die.

No one did, but all the others had been beyond help by the time they reached her. She’d never been in a position to save someone before. She’d never had to choose between the life of an individual and the lives of many that could be spared if she had access to details of the SPH’s agenda. The choice should have been obvious.

A sob caught in her throat. Why did the test have to be Nate?

A childhood memory clawed at her conscience. She’d insisted on tagging along with his gang but couldn’t keep up. The other boys wanted to go on without her. Nate lifted her up on his shoulders. She may be slow and weak and puny, but she’s ours. We don’t leave ours behind.

She knew of only one time he’d turned his back on someone. At the time, she’d wanted him to suffer, but even the most inventive retribution she’d imagined would have been a slap on the wrist compared to what he’d endured in the past week—and they weren’t through with him yet.

Correction. He was her reward for years of hard work and dedication. She wasn’t through with him yet.

She turned off the water and scrubbed herself with a towel until her skin reddened. She had her orders. The correct course of action would be to microwave some popcorn, park herself on the sofa, and let the television rot her brain until she passed out, then get through tomorrow and the day after in the same fashion.

She stared into the sink rather than confront her reflection in the mirror above it. “Dammit. It may be correct, but it’s not right.”

Leo had questioned her ability to follow orders from day one. Being proved right wouldn’t improve his disposition when he learned his doubt had been justified.

Minutes later, she eased her car into the flow of traffic. She had nothing as grandiose as a plan. Years of daily improvisation had taught her anything could go wrong at any time, making flexibility a necessity. She took stock of the resources at her disposal and let them direct her destination.

At the ATM, she learned her daily withdrawal limit hardly constituted a resource and adjusted her strategy accordingly. Between the largest department store the mall had to offer and a “beautique” hidden on the side of a half-vacant shopping center, she spent nearly all her cash.

She didn’t need money at the medical supply company where she stopped last. Her SPH badge did triple duty as ID, company credit card, and all-access pass to the black market inventory. She could walk out with a cooler full of donor organs on the company tab if she so desired. The comparatively mundane items on her requisition form didn’t warrant so much as a raised brow from the clerk on duty.

Back at her apartment, she layered her purchases inside a shoulder bag of cavernous proportions. What she didn’t pack, she’d be wearing.

She struggled into her new outfit and studied her reflection in the full-length mirror on the back of the bedroom door. Nothing screamed Cheap slut! like a skintight leopard print dress that barely covered her ass and left half her bra exposed. She’d get kicked off the set of a low-budget rap video for not looking classy enough.

Exactly the effect she wanted to achieve.

She tied a scarf around her hips to disguise a visible panty line, clinging to the last remnant of her pride, before subjecting her face to its part of the makeover. Twenty blackened cotton swabs later, she’d corrected her inexpert eyeliner application to achieve the sultry-raccoon look. Overwhelmed by the amount of goop already on her face, she left the new tube of red lipstick unopened and dabbed on a bit of strawberry-flavored lip balm to lend color to her pale lips.

Any more preparation would be stalling. She slung the bag over her shoulder and picked up high-heeled shoes she didn’t dare wear while navigating the stairs. A trip to the emergency room didn’t figure into her schedule.

She stopped at the door and took a final look around the apartment. She saw nothing she couldn’t leave behind. Nothing that held any meaning for her. Not one item that left her mark on the place. If she never returned, the cleaning crew could erase all evidence of her existence by wiping her fingerprints off the fridge.

She should care more about being erased. Her existence might be a lie, but that lie was all she had.

She wouldn’t miss it any more than the cleaning crew would.

She cruised past the local bars until she located the only Porsche in town, then drove toward the lab and pulled to the shoulder of a little-used dirt road about a mile west of the facility. Anywhere closer would be visible to passersby and raise questions she’d rather not answer.

Leo’s encrypted phone went in the glove compartment. She would need it later and wanted it somewhere safe, in case she had to travel light and ditch the bag. She hoofed it back to the highway and called a cab using her own cell phone.

The cab driver took one look at her and chose to disbelieve her story about car trouble. For the duration of the drive to the bar, he lectured her on the dangers of her profession.

“Mister, you don’t know the half of it.” She paid the fare with the last of her cash and exited the cab. The spike heels gave her a drunken wobble even while standing still. If she didn’t break her neck crossing the parking lot, she could use that to her advantage. She adjusted the cups of her bra until her cleavage rivaled the depth of the Grand Canyon and teetered inside to find her target.

Even in poor lighting and through a smoky haze, locating him was no challenge. He had the loudest mouth wherever he went. Using his voice as a beacon, she wove through the crowd until she stood right behind him. She tapped his shoulder to get his attention.

“Glad you could make it,” Spencer greeted her breasts, slinging his arm around her and leaning in for a kiss before his eyes settled on her face. His mouth fell open. “Amanda?”

She pushed his chin up with one finger before he drooled on her. “Surprise. I’m not a drag twenty-four hours a day.”

He kept his grip on her shoulder to prevent her escape but stepped back enough to give her a thorough once-over. “Glad to hear it.”

She stumbled as if a passing waitress had bumped her. Her breasts smooshed against his chest. The contact had an immediate and predictable effect on another part of his anatomy. A conspiratorial smile curved her lips. “Glad enough to help me get away with something that will get us both fired if anyone finds out?”

His hand skimmed from her shoulder to her butt, the tips of his fingers stroking the bare skin just below her hemline. “Depends what’s in it for me.”

She curbed the knee-jerk reaction that would have lodged his testicles in his throat. She couldn’t fault him for being a sleaze when her entire plan, such as it was, hinged on that character flaw. “You told me once about a certain fantasy you have about you and a girl… and a friend of yours.”

Suspicion pulled his brows together. “The way I remember it, you started squawking about sexual harassment.”

“I was new at the lab, and all I knew about you was that you’re the boss’s son. I wasn’t sure if I could trust you or if it was some kind of trick to get me fired. Now I know you’re not scared to break the rules.” She slid her fingers into his hair and nuzzled his ear. “Nothing turns me on more than breaking the rules.”

Neither the threat of unemployment nor daddy’s wrath could daunt his twenty-year-old libido. In scarcely more time than it took to explain what she wanted, they were being waved through the lab’s security station by the armed guard, who was too preoccupied with Amanda’s chest to even glance at her bag. On the basis of his knowing leer, she guessed he represented the friend variable in the equation.

Spencer swiped his ID badge through the lock on the observation room. The injustice of a glorified test tube washer being granted higher security clearance than hers dispelled the wisp of guilt she’d begun to feel about using him. If only her father were a key player in the SPH, this entire charade would be unnecessary.

Then again, if she’d grown up steeped in SPH dogma, she’d probably feel very differently toward the vampire lying motionless on the table.

Spencer poked him in the cheek. “I think it’s dead.”

Nate lunged against his restraints. The bolts fastening the left legs of the table to the floor popped free of their moorings. Fangs sliced through Spencer’s sleeve. He squealed and staggered back until the wall prevented further retreat.

Idiot. Even steeped in the dogma, he didn’t know any better than to taunt a wounded vampire. Survival skills must have taken a distant second to hatred on the SPH curriculum. “He seems pretty lively to me. Leave me alone with him.”

Spencer recovered from his scare. “But I thought—”

“It’s my playtime now. No fun for you until after I’m happy.” She slipped her hands into his pockets and fit her body against his from ankle to chest. “Trust me, when I’m happy, I’m loads of fun.”

He succumbed with a full-body shudder. “Hurry.”

His concern for her safety ten seconds after a brush with having his radial artery sliced open was so touching, she had to wonder if his plans for the evening would change at all if she got mauled before he had his turn. “You can’t rush these things, Spence.” She unhanded him and gave him a shove out the door. “You’ll be the very first to know when I’m done.”

She tracked his progress down the hall as he rushed back to his pal, then pulled the privacy curtain across the window. By the end of the night, she’d need a bath in bleach before she felt clean again. This wasn’t her most revolting performance during her stint with the SPH, but it definitely ranked in the top five.

She unpacked a pair of well-worn canvas sneakers from her bag. She pried the killer shoes from her feet and dropped them in the wastebasket, not a single regret about their loss. “Listen up, vampire. I’m not carrying enough blood to even take the edge off the kind of hunger you’re suffering. I’ve mixed up a drug cocktail that should help, though.”

His feral growl made the hairs on her arms stand at attention.

If she knew her counterparts out in Nevada, he’d been injected with enough drugs in the past week to last him a lifetime. She couldn’t spare him from these, though. She had no intention of unleashing a starving vampire when she was the nearest food source. She’d feel terrible about leaving him here, but not as terrible as she’d feel about getting her throat chewed out in a fit of mindless hunger.

She laid out the remainder of the bag’s contents on the counter. “The ten pints I have will barely hydrate you. You’ll need something to slow the cell destruction until we find more.”

The growl dwindled to a low rumble and shifted to ragged breathing. “It’ll be enough.”

That he was coherent enough to speak was reassuring; that he assumed she’d been born yesterday, merely amusing. “It’ll be enough for you to regain the strength to snap those bindings like they’re made of chewing gum and go for my jugular. I’m not giving you a drop of blood until you take the shot.”

She kneaded a pouch, the rhythmic swish of blood between her fingers simulating the flow through a human heart. “I must have carried this one closest to me. It’s still warm.”

He lunged again. The table wobbled on two legs. Her eyes darted toward the door. If he tipped it, the racket would bring Spencer and his buddy with the gun running. “Go ahead and dump yourself on the floor. That’ll get you a few inches closer to a drink. Of course, you’ll lose about three feet in height. You do the math.”

Taunting a wounded vampire from just outside his striking range didn’t make her a whole lot brighter than Spencer, but sometimes a slap to the pride was the only way to get this one’s attention.

The table legs banged down to the floor. “Bitch.”

“If you’re going to be nasty, I can pack up my toys and leave you to regret pissing away this opportunity for however long it takes them to kill you.” She tossed the pouch. It landed in the center of his chest, well out of reach of his fangs. He went very still. “Agree to the shot, and I’ll give you the blood.”

Only the intermittent flare of his jutting ribs confirmed he hadn’t expired. A tense minute passed before he jerked his head in what she took for agreement.

She picked up the syringe she’d prepared earlier. “The injection contains Procrit and Neupogen to stimulate temporary production of your own red and white cells, with warfarin and epinephrine to extend the blood’s circulation time and speed long enough to infiltrate your entire system and restore at least minimum functionality to your organs. This combination will damage a vampire’s heart, liver, and what little marrow you have and make a serious dent in your life expectancy.”

He briefly strained against his bindings before subsiding once more. “Why tell me?”

“Ethics don’t allow me to poison you without full disclosure.”

She accepted his second nod as informed consent. Rather than trying to force the needle into one of his prominent, ropy veins, she slid it into the tube dangling from the sedative drip and depressed the plunger. After emptying the syringe, she extracted the IV from his neck. The puncture sealed within seconds, a red lump of tissue forming over the mark.

If he were in perfect health, such a tiny wound would have healed without a trace. She ran a fingertip over the disfigurement. Scarred vampires typically had epic war stories to account for their failure to recover fully. Somebody poked me with a needle would require some creative embellishment on his part.

“If you’re going to grope me, move the hand lower. Otherwise, give me the fucking blood.”

She snatched her hand away, face burning at the rude reminder her purpose was to save his life, not comfort him in his hour of need.

She held the first pouch of blood to his lips. He bit into it, and ruby fluid welled from the punctures, flooding his mouth faster than he could swallow. She looked away. Bag feeding was a messy business she had always found difficult to watch. Still, the sight of blood going into him by any method beat the sight of it pouring out.

When he sucked that pouch dry, she fed him the second course, then the next. As his greedy tissues absorbed the liquid, the hollows between his bones became less pronounced. The gray tinge to his skin faded, its texture recovering some elasticity. Despite the visible improvement, he still looked worse than some of the corpses she’d seen. With the influx of blood, his immune system would kick into overdrive to repair his injuries, but cosmetic flaws took a distant second priority to the internal damage.

When the tenth pint crumpled under suction, he jerked free of the straps binding his hands and groped for the discarded plastic littering his chest. He ripped open the bags and licked them clean, then swiped at the blood on his chin and sucked it from his fingers.

She edged away from the table while the dregs of the meal commanded his attention. Thanks to the injection, he had no immediate physical need for more blood, but instinct might incite him to gorge as restitution for the famine, and she made easy prey.

He tore the straps off his legs and slid from the table to prowl the edge of the room, circling toward her. His gaunt body should have looked frail and vulnerable in its nakedness, but he moved with the regal power of a predator confident of his place at the top of the food chain.

Since there was nowhere to run and any sudden movement might trigger an attack, she held her ground while he stalked her. Her pulse accelerated to an erratic gallop when he stopped inches away. The last time she stood this close to Nathan Hilliard, he broke her heart. How much damage would he do this time?

“Relax. It would be crass to bite the hand that freed me.” He bent his head, his breath stirring her hair, catching her scent, learning everything sight couldn’t tell him. “I know you.”

The sense of smell was a vampire’s most acute. If a good whiff of her aroused nothing but vague familiarity, she didn’t qualify as worthy of remembrance. Another woman might take that as an insult, but considering the outcome of their last encounter, his inability to put a face to his rescuer came as a relief. “I used to work for your family. You’ve smelled me around. I brought clothes for you.” She pushed them against his chest, creating a barrier to combat the urge to fling her arms around him like a long-lost friend.

He fingered the material, identifying the items by touch. “I need something to cover my eyes.”

“They’ll grow back.”

“Unless the toxic waste you pumped into me has issues with them.”

That was a possibility she really wished hadn’t occurred to him. “Now who’s being a bitch?”

She jerked the scarf from around her waist. He tensed at the movement. She froze, braced for a strike. She couldn’t afford such careless mistakes. Of course he’d react to every unseen gesture as a threat without some explanation of intent. “I have something for your eyes. Do you want to tie it yourself?”

“No.”

His grudging tone suggested otherwise, but she had no intention of arguing with him.

The sooner she got him home, the easier keeping that promise would be.

She draped the scarf over his eyes and tied it at the back of his head, taking pains not to catch his hair in the knot. Her fingers itched to smooth the snarls from the coffee-colored strands, but considering what that had happened between them, their present environment, and his wasted condition, petting him seemed in poor taste.

He traced the scarf’s beaded pattern with his fingers. “Ready to face the firing squad in style.”

She hoped those words didn’t prove prophetic. “Get dressed. I’ll have you home in no time.”

She lifted the edge of the privacy curtain. She expected to see Spencer’s face flattened against the glass, drool cutting a swath through his breath fog, but the hall outside the observation room remained empty.

She jumped when Nate’s voice rasped an inch from her ear. “Let me chew on your date.”

He still moved like a ghost, as light on his feet as she was clunky. He’d dressed in complete silence. Without a thought to his current condition, she’d grabbed the size he used to wear. The clothing hung on him like hand-me-downs he’d need to grow into. He’d benefit from a good feed… No. “Since we’re walking out of here, there’s no time to stop for a snack.”

His lips twisted. “What kind of half-ass rescue mission doesn’t include a getaway car?”

“The kind I don’t want to hear any complaining about.”

Since her low-clearance ID wouldn’t open the door from the inside, either, she’d asked Spencer not to lock her in. After she assured him her “play” depended on leaving the vampire doped up and strapped down, he’d agreed. Despite his promise, she held her breath as she pulled on the handle.

No alarm sounded. She checked the hall again. “I don’t think my date is going to let me borrow his Porsche once he figures out I’m not going to reward him with a threesome for breaking into daddy’s lab so I can satisfy my vampire fetish. Now be quiet.”

Her shoes squeaked softly against the floor despite her best efforts to tread lightly, but they made it to the office wing without alerting anyone to their escape. Her first day at the lab, Spencer showed her how to override the alarm on the fire exit so she could sneak out for a smoke or “whatever.” Courtesy of his training, the exterior door opened with only a muted creak of seldom-used hinges.

She detected no movement in the darkness, not even a whisper of wind stirring a leaf. “Give me your hand.”

“No.”

There was no time for dissent. “It’s at least a mile through the woods. You need me to guide you.”

He crowded her against the doorjamb, his lean body as unyielding as the steel frame. “I lost my eyes. I’m keeping my hand. Not negotiable.” He shifted slightly, pinning but no longer crushing her. “Now, if you’d care to revisit the subject of your hands…”

Her breath hissed between her teeth. Give a male—human or vampire—one spare drop of blood, and it was a given he wouldn’t direct it to his brain. “You seem real attached to the two you have. Mine wouldn’t dream of interfering.”

She squirmed away from him and headed for the tree line at a brisk pace. Within seconds, the trees cut off her view of the lab and, more importantly, the lab’s view of her.

Her sneakers lost their stealth factor crunching through the dry leaves littering the ground, but Nate didn’t make a sound. Superstitious dread gathered on the back of her neck, compelling her to look over her shoulder to shake it off.

He wasn’t behind her.

She strained to pick up any movement, any sound, any indication where he’d gotten lost. Little moonlight penetrated the trees, leaving her nearly blind, and she heard nothing over her own increasingly frantic breathing. She started retracing her steps, only to stop after a few feet. Was this exactly the way she’d come? A few degrees off course and she’d be walking in circles all night.

“Nate?”

No answer, but she hadn’t dared raise her voice above a stage whisper for fear of who else might be listening. He couldn’t have been captured. He wouldn’t go down without a fight, and she would have heard the struggle.

Her eyes narrowed as another possibility occurred to her. “If you’re screwing with me, Hilliard, I swear to god I’ll—”

A firm hand covered her mouth. “Shh. You take all the sport out of hunting you.”

She twisted her head to the side to get free so she could tell him exactly what she thought of playing cat-and-mouse when she was trying to save his miserable life.

His fingers pressed into her cheeks—not hurting, but making it clear he was no longer the helpless prisoner. “Pipe down. You’re only practice. For now.” He released her. “You really should have put an appetite suppressant in that cocktail, though.”

She scrubbed the back of her hand over her lips to rid them of the lingering warmth of his touch. “If you must be an ass, could you at least make some noise so I know you haven’t gotten lost?”

“You’re making enough noise for both of us. It would be impossible to lose you.”

One more snide remark from him and she’d put that theory to the test. She set off once more.

“Hey, Magellan.” His hands fell on her shoulders and steered her to the right. “You were headed that way before.”

Because she knew she’d gotten turned around—for which his juvenile behavior was entirely to blame—and because she knew him to have a superior sense of direction, she took his word for it. In about fifty years, she might chuckle over the blind leading the discombobulated. At the moment, however, she was far too conscious of time slipping away to find any humor in the situation.

They emerged from the woods near the intersection of the dirt road and the highway. She must have driven further off the beaten path than she remembered, since her car was nowhere in sight. She followed the rutted road another hundred yards. With a leaden feeling in her gut, she looked back toward the highway. A clump of trees blocked her view.

She knew damn well she’d parked within sight of asphalt.

“What’s wrong?”

Her hyperventilation must have tipped him off to her distress. “My car’s been towed.”

~~~~~

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