Kiss Me Deadly (9 page)

In less than two months, Truvin had succeeded in completely reversing Nikolaus’s vision.

Truvin Stone was an old and heedless vampire who hailed from the eighteenth century. Just three years in Kila, he’d never needed the boundaries Nikolaus believed necessary to survive in the mortal world, and yet, he’d accepted the no-kill rule.

According to Gabriel’s reports, the tribe was now embroiled in a turf war with the wolves, and he wasn’t sure Kila would rise above it without great damage to its members.

As well, Truvin’s penchant for the kill had, reportedly, returned. Stone had been leading the brotherhood down a treacherous path, instilling in them much mindless destruction.

Violence and death were not necessary for a vampire’s survival—though certainly the blood was.

Nikolaus stroked away the sweat-drenched hair from Gabriel’s forehead. The man had begun to settle, though he still clenched his jaw.

Truvin had to be stopped. Gabriel was too good. He couldn’t handle the kill.

“Take your rest, Gabriel,” Nikolaus said lowly. “They’re not real. Just images from another life.”

“So awful. An attack…brutal. With a knife. Christ! What mortals do to one another—I’m sorry, Nikolaus. The
danse
…it is as awful as you warned.”

“We won’t talk of it. It’s done.”

Nikolaus rested his head against the wall as he stood over Gabriel. To his right, he flicked the switch that turned off the window blinds. The sun had set. A string of glittering lights danced across the river, probably a party boat cruising slowly by.

“I’ve spoken to Truvin,” Gabriel said after a while. “He wants to meet with you before the Solstice.”

“Why?” He hadn’t showered. Nikolaus suddenly wondered if Gabriel could smell the witch on him. “Does he intend to take me out before I can return to the tribe? That’s not playing fair.”

Nor was luring Gabriel to the kill. Bastard.

“He wants to talk,” Gabriel said. “I trust him.”

“You do?”

When had he lost control of Gabriel?

Nikolaus studied his friend’s face as he nodded agreeably. It wasn’t a part of Gabriel’s nature to want to destroy or harm, which is why he’d distanced himself from the tribe since Nikolaus had been away. But obviously that distance had grown shorter.

“In proof,” Gabriel said, “Truvin wants to meet you at Cue, Saturday night at ten.”

A ritzy restaurant located in the Guthrie Theater. A scuffle would not be tolerated there. Saturday? Three days away.

“I won’t be hungry,” Nikolaus said. He knew there had to be a trick, some reason Truvin couldn’t simply wait for his return.

On the other hand, why not talk it out with Truvin first? If Nikolaus’s suspicions were true—that Truvin would not give back the leadership easily—perhaps they could discuss and work out the reasons beforehand.

“Fine.” Nikolaus walked away from Gabriel’s pleading pout. “I’ll go. I need a shower, then I’m going out again.”

“Hot date?”

Slapping a hand against the door frame to the bathroom, Nikolaus paused and thought of his hot little witch sitting on the center of her bed, the sheets strewn and her hair tousled. A rosy blush of satisfaction had glistened on her cheeks.

“You could say that,” he called back.

A
n hour later, Nikolaus had showered, slapped on a little cologne and combed back his hair. It was getting too long, he figured as he secured it in a loose ponytail at the base of his neck with a leather strip. Forgoing the long-haired, hippie trends of the sixties, he’d once worn it short and styled.

Until life had hit him hard. After his surgery, he’d shaved his head bald, and had kept it that way for about a year. (Which was also when he’d gotten the skull tattoos.)

Smirking at his reflection, he shrugged and turned off the light.

The TV was on, but no one was about. Gabriel must have gone out. He always left the thing on, claiming he liked the background noise when he was reading. Switching it off, Nikolaus left his home, ensuring the double dead bolts were secure, and tapping the invisible ward. He wasn’t able to craft a ward himself; that’s what wizards were for. And any vampire who valued his heart—unstaked, thank you very much—invested in warding.

Instead of checking in with Jake, his driver who lived on the first floor, for a chauffeured ride, Nikolaus decided a walk in the warm summer night was the perfect thing.

He lived close to downtown in the Mill District, and walked along Washington Street, marveling at the late-night crowds. The never-ending stream of barflies seemed to change little decade to decade, save their appearance. The clothing grew skimpier, the age younger, and the men were more blatant in their sexual advances, as were the women.

They were all so busy searching for something to fulfill their empty mortal lives. Maybe if they’d spend some time at home, sober, and started to look inside themselves, they’d have that something.

Nikolaus smirked at his philosophizing. Who was he to claim that ineffable
something
so easily? He was still in search mode—and yet, he may have found just the thing.

The last time he’d spent such a languorous afternoon having sex with a woman had been back in his college days when he’d skip class and know he’d ace the tests because he’d had a photographic memory.

Surgery had changed that. Surgery had changed everything about Nikolaus Drake. It had put him in a position to be changed. And the devastating results of said surgery had pushed away the only woman he’d loved.

Julie Marks, first-year NIC-U intern to his first year as attending on the neurosurgery floor. Long frizzy red hair, tamed with one of those leather pieces and a stick, had been her signature. It had been the summer of ’66. Free love abounded. But Julie had been cool about sex, claiming she wanted to wait until after they were married. Nikolaus had honored her wishes. He hadn’t felt deprived at the time, and he still did not regret his choice.

Now he loved another. And despite her protests, he knew he’d never fear her rejecting his sexual advances. Perhaps a struggle, but that only sweetened his want.

It neared midnight. Though he’d fed just last night, he felt strangely empty. The blood hunger lingered. The witch’s blood had not satisfied his need.

Odd, that. But besides the pangs of hunger, he actually felt vigorous. Much more so than he had for the past two months. Recovery was coming along nicely. Had sex with the witch done that?

He recalled Gabriel mentioning that taking the witch’s magic could make him stronger. Had he seeped away some of her magic when drinking her blood? Through sex? And had it worked to make him feel so…alive?

“Too easy. Couldn’t be.”

He paused before a flower shop and studied the art nouveau design painted around the front window. It was called Pushing Up Daisies, and seemed to cater to the Goth crowd, judging from the skulls looped in and out of the gray ribbons dancing around the shop’s logo. And it was still open this late at night.

“Perfect.”

Nikolaus stalked inside among tight rows of blood-red roses and white lilies. Stone gargoyles and dragons clung to walls or peeked out from behind frilly ferns. Everything sparkled with a fine coating of glitter, as if a faery had been sliced open and shaken over all.

Faeries were not Nikolaus’s favorite creatures. They were tricky and malicious, and the women, while sexual athletes, were too interested in their own pleasure to consider their male partners. Besides, their ichor tasted nasty—not his favorite bite.

A particular iron cross, situated between a vine of climbing silk lilies and some sparkly springy stuff made Nikolaus veer down the next aisle to avoid the holy. Not that holy icons disturbed him; it was sort of a learned behavior from Gabriel. The device, no matter it a cross, rosary or what-have-you, had to actually touch a vampire to do harm, and said vampire had to be baptized and to have once believed.

Nikolaus also avoided lingering over bunches of similar items. For some strange reason he’d figured out early on, vampires have a propensity to count. More than once he’d gotten lost beneath a tree on a warm summer evening, neck craned back, finger marking out the leaves as he simply counted, despite himself.

When he spied the black roses, he went immediately to them.

“Gorgeous, aren’t they?” the female behind him noted. Must be the cashier. She wore a colorful head of dreads and three nose rings. Cinnamon drifted from her cleavage, a scent that lifted Nikolaus’s hunger. Thin and fey, she smiled easily. “We can’t keep them in stock. The Goth crowd, you know.”

He didn’t know that crowd, beyond that they liked to play at being vampires.
If they only knew
. Blood drinking wasn’t all it was cracked up to be—because wouldn’t a nice juicy steak fit the bill? And the ostracization from society? He’d take mortality, if offered.

Then again, screw mortality. Nikolaus had become accustomed to his vampiric nature; he’d now been a vampire longer than he’d been mortal. It fit, if a bit too snuggly at those times when he pined to stand in the sunlight.

“How many do you have?” he asked.

“Total?” She smiled a sexy crooked smile and rubbed the back of her head, which set the dreads to a colorful bounce. “At the moment, about six dozen.”

“Give me all of them. And have you red?”

“Of course.”

He envisioned the red silky petals, nestled among the black. Red like blood.
Her blood drooling down your lip
. Red silk slithering across her curves.
Trailing across your dark hair as she slides up to tease you with a peek.
Would Ravin Crosse wear a dress?
And dance for you, shaking her hips in a sexy come-on
.

“And the same amount of red.”

The cashier nodded approvingly. “Shall I have them delivered?”

“No, I’ll take them.”

“Twelve dozen roses? Mister, you’re big and all, but that’s a lot of flowers to carry down the street.”

“It’s okay.” He slid a Centurion card out from inside his jacket pocket—million dollar credit limit—and handed it to her. “I’m in love.”

“Hold her arms, man. And slap a hand over her mouth to shut her up.”

Nikolaus paused at the edge of a street corner a block down from the strip joint Déjà Vu. He easily picked up two male voices. Down the alley, to the right, he picked up the strong scent of aggression. Yet even stronger, fear. Female mumbles carried to him as well. A distressed female.

“Hurry, man, before someone comes.”

Detouring around the corner, Nikolaus separated the huge bouquet he’d been holding and fisted it in two clumps. Arms pumping, he stomped onto the scene.

Two young men, looking like teenagers, but with the sallow, sunken cheeks of junkies, held a wide-eyed blond girl with a skirt high enough to advertise against the brick wall. She might be a prostitute, but this was one job she hadn’t asked for.

“We don’t need any!” one of the men yelled at Nikolaus. “Take your stupid flowers to the corner, dude. Just leave!”

Swinging up one bouquet, Nikolaus clocked the man holding the woman’s arm pinned under the jaw. Black and red petals flew. The man let go of the girl and grabbed his bloody jaw.

The snap of a switchblade alerted Nikolaus. As did the acrid scent of defiance. The aggressor waved it before him.

“You—” Nikolaus pointed to the girl “—leave. And you two stay.”

The girl slipped by and ran down the alley, spike heels clicking frantically.

The switchblade cut the air before Nikolaus’s face.

Blood trickled down the chin of the one at the wall. “He cut me, man, with those stupid rose thorns!”

The scent of blood gave Nikolaus a thrill. The blood hunger would not relent, nor did he wish it to. He dropped the other bouquet and, lowering his gaze on the man with the knife, sent the persuasion into him. “Stand down,” he said calmly.

The knife dropped, though the man still held it near his thigh, and his shoulders relaxed as he took on the reverie.

“What are you doing, man?” The one at the wall bounced nervously.

Nikolaus gripped the bleeding man by the throat and shoved him against the wall. “He’s decided he likes to watch. You wanted to get lucky? Try me, asshole.”

Pressing his palm over the man’s mouth, Nikolaus bent to bite his neck. The adrenalized blood rushed through his system, threatening a high that he desired, yet didn’t want to deal with later. So he only took a taste, then licked the wound and dropped the idiot in an unconscious heap.

Turning to the one still holding the knife, Nikolaus gestured with one finger that he approach. The man did so and conveniently tilted his head to the side.

“Thanks,” Nikolaus said, and bent for another bite.

Thankfully, there were ingredients remaining from the previous batch for the love spell. Except the child’s innocence, which Himself was able to produce upon his palm with a wicked grin.

“How young?” Ravin asked as she scraped the ashy substance from his fingers and into the spell pot. “No, don’t tell me.”

“Twelve,” Himself said with a satisfied grin. “Orphaned just this morning before school. Sweet, eh?”

Slamming the copper cover over the pot, Ravin closed her eyes and wondered why she even cared. She’d gone beyond caring about mortals decades ago. Didn’t matter to her what happened to them. They existed in a completely different realm than hers. Hers was all about vengeance and taking what she needed. Theirs was a pitiful quest for survival unfulfilled by the religious promise of everlasting life.

But she could relate to any child abandoned or endangered.
Or orphaned
. It wasn’t right; it was never right.

“If I’m not mistaken,” Himself—a la Johnny—said from the other side of the granite kitchen countertop, “that looks like a vampire bite to me.”

She’d forgotten about her nakedness. Now would have been an excellent time to own an apron.

Ravin swiped a palm over her right ass cheek. The swelling had gone down some. Because of the vampire’s healing saliva?

“Ha.” She tried to make her voice sound glib. “Imagine that. A vampire biting a witch. Did you see any piles of ash when you arrived?”

“Don’t be flippant with me, chit. That’s a vamp bite. I know my havoc. And you’re a witch, enemy numero uno to vampires. Explain.”

“Don’t you know everything?”

She swung around and rested her elbows on the counter—she wasn’t shy about her nudity, but it felt wrong exposing herself to her movie idol. Of course, the thrill of fandom had been shattered by the brimstone and attitude. Johnny was so history in her dream catalog.

“Can’t you look into my eyes and tell me everything I’ve done for the past twenty-four hours?”

“I can tell you what you’ve done every hour of your life, every breath you’ve taken, every breath you’ve stolen—but you won’t like it.”

Ravin knew that was a warning against a sort of soul-read only Himself could perform with but a touch. Putting up a palm, she nodded. “Yeah, don’t look. It was a vamp.”

“But—”

“He’s immune to my blood,” she said, because it wouldn’t make things any easier to beat around the bush.

“Delicious danger.”

“Whatever.”

“Someone must have spilled a love spell all over themselves last night,” Himself sing-songed. He reached up and snapped a segment of leaf from the spider plant and shoved it in his mouth.

“Only because he breached my wards with supernatural ease. An angry vamp, with blood in his eyes for me, comes charging through my door. Doesn’t even need permission, just walks right through my wards and slams down the front door.”

Which reminded her…she needed to fix the front door and reinforce the wards. Were there any protection spells against a vampire who was immune to her?

“The same vampire I thought I’d killed months ago. He’s a phoenix.”

“Oh, this is rich.” Himself chuckled grandly, nearly toppling from the stool. “Well, if he is a phoenix, that means he’s suffered your blood and survived. Makes him immune to your particular blood, ever after. You two are bonded, which also negates the need for permission to enter your property.”

“Peachy.”

She stirred the officious brew as it began to boil. A snap of her fingers set it to a fine bubble. Water magic was easy. She’d learned to boil water when she was a kid, nothing more than a parlor trick.