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"I told her but she didn’t listen." Her mate was apologetic and respectful when speaking to Sabian, unlike his young one.

  The male turned and said to her, "You better suck ‘em up, babe. You don’t want a BloodStar pissed at you."

  Sabian thought this was funny, and one hundred percent in line with the mistake Kindred always made. The BloodStar used to be authority figures, but that was a long time ago.

  "What’s your name, brother?" Sabian asked.

  "Mick."

  "Mick?"

  "Yup, Mick. Guess why." He smiled, and Sabian liked him even more. He never made unsolicited friends with Kindred, but it didn’t hurt to have someone available to help with the cause. Sabian would tuck Marley safely into the Kindred Kingdom this time, or it was lights out. Vampire suicide was a two-man job, minimum. Perhaps he’d just found his accomplice. With Mick, he wouldn’t have to go through the hullabaloo of convincing the few vamps he trusted with his death that there would be no more waiting for her next lifetime. If she didn’t make it, Sabian was determined to fall off, too.

  Mick wasn’t impervious to the celebrity of BloodStar, but he wasn’t rendered helpless by it, either. It was a nice change of pace for Sabian.

  "Well, Mick, why don’t you tell your lady…?" He looked at Shanna, eyebrows raised in invitation to remind him of her name.

  "Shanna," she said with syrupy charm.

  Sabian’s voice turned stern, and he held eye contact with her even though he was speaking to Mick. "Shanna—she’ll do well to have more respect for the Masquerade." His eyes lingered on hers, and then he turned back to Mick: "Or she might find herself on the business end of a pyre, know what I mean, Mick?"

  Mick grabbed at Shanna’s arm and began dragging her along back in their original direction. "Aye, BloodStar, I know just what you mean, and I apologize, I do. Just had dinner and she's a bit…affected. Come on you fine young thing, let’s be moving on," he said to her.

  But Shanna wasn’t quite ready. "Hey BloodStar!" she said as she planted her feet so Mick couldn’t usher her away. "How about a taste?"

  There was only so much insolence Sabian could stomach. If this young one’s sire didn’t teach her respect, and her man allowed her to run off at the fang-festooned mouth, then Sabian would have to take it upon himself to acquaint her with the rules of decorum.

  He leapt at her in a blur of speed, and hooked his two index fingers around her shining incisors. She had just a second to gasp her surprise before he yanked toward himself, ripping the teeth she was so proud of from the roots. She squealed and Mick, obviously more seasoned and disciplined, did nothing to help her. He dropped her arm and took a few steps back, watching in silent deference as Sabian tutored the boorish youngster in the ways of respect for her Elders.

  Foul vampire blood dripped from two gaping holes, her pride and joy wrecked in an instant. Sabian knew they would regenerate, but not before morning. This neophyte would have to endure the night without dessert. Now she was all dressed up and nowhere to chomp.

  "Don’t worry, they’ll grow back," he told her, his tone all exasperation and disgust.

  "How am I supposed to hunt?" she said with spongy enunciation.

  "You’re not. You’re supposed to learn some manners, or you might not live to see your first century, understand?"

  She looked at him with insulting disregard while Mick seemed more ashamed than anything else. Sabian was glad Mick kept his distance and allowed his mate to be schooled; it was the mark of a mature, levelheaded vamp.

  Sabian stepped closer to Shanna. "Here’s some advice. The next time you ask for a taste, ask from your sire or your mate. Asking the wrong sort could cost your head, believe it. Sharing blood isn’t meant for a cheap thrill."

  She turned to her mate. "Mick, aren’t you going to do something?"

  Mick pointed at Sabian. "BloodStar, don’t you get it?"

  Sabian’s voice boomed in the empty street. "I am not through with you."

  Shanna turned her attention back to Sabian, whipping her head around like screendoor on a spring with too much tension.

  "As for me," said Sabian, "if I ever have to put up with such impertinence from you again, I’ll demonstrate that warning personally. Do you understand?" He’d unpacked his fangs to add insult to injury, and venom was flowing freely now.

  Shanna turned back to Mick, irate. "Fucking weasel." She stomped off without another look back.

  "Mick."

  "Yes, BloodStar."

  "My advice is to walk away from this woman right now, tonight." Whereas previously Sabian hadn’t the heart to warn Mick of Shanna’s impending desertion, now he was all too eager to give notice.

  "Not to disagree, BloodStar, but seems she’s the one walking away."

  "She’s just humiliated, but that one is not stupid. She needs you, for now. She will leave eventually if you don’t, and in a matter of weeks, I bet. She is wild, probably beyond training, and I can tell you that her soul is as foul as her attitude."

  Mick looked at Shanna’s distant figure through the snow that had begun to fall, and nodded. He was crestfallen, and his pride in his young, beautiful woman was vanquished. Then he looked to Sabian, nodded again, and said, "Good riddance, then."

  "Just like that?" Sabian asked.

  "I trust your judgment more than her promises."

  "But you don’t know me." Sabian had a feeling where this was going.

  "I don’t have to," said Mick. Then he placed his hand over Sabian's heart, and said, "Same as I told her. BloodStar, get it?"

  "Call me Sabian. I’m no BloodStar."

  "Oh, I don’t know about that. I’m happy to oblige, but you’re a fool if you don’t know what you are, due respect." Mick leaned in as if to share a secret. "I heard your BloodSong three blocks before I even saw you."

  "Wrong. My blood makes no music, and if I were BloodStar, a million things would be different today." Why the hell was he talking like this with a stranger?

  "Aye, and I hear you, but it’s not in all the things you’d have turn out different, where you find yourself, or even who you find yourself with, eh?" Mick leaned in again, squinted his eyes that were now luminescent, and dropped his voice an octave. "It’s the blood; it’s all there is. I know you know that. All I hear this night is your BloodSong." Mick shook his head. "Beautiful…and sad."

  Sabian stared at Mick. There was too much in those last three words. He shook it off. He was here to feed, not to have a Freudian moment in the street with a stranger. "Well, friend, I am sorry about how things turned out with your mate," Sabian said.

  "Aye, and I thank you, but night’s young, isn’t it now? Aint no comfort like the crimson comfort, eh? Happy hunting to you, BloodStar." Mick turned and began walking away along his initial path, his woman long gone.

  "It’s Sabian," he whispered, wanting to shed the title he didn’t deserve. "Sabian."

  "As you wish," said Mick over his shoulder, walking beyond the streetlight’s glow and out of Sabian’s life, at least for a time. They’d cross paths again eventually. Vampires always did.

  As always, it was back to the hunt, and within minutes, Sabian caught the energy of a young, heartbroken woman inside the bar up the street. She cried quietly and with dignity, if there was such a thing as dignified tears, while her friend on a cell phone arranged for a ride home.

  Sabian wanted to get back to Marley, but needed to satisfy a few urges first, in the name of safety, of course. Sabian took a seat a few tables behind the girls, and ordered a beer, again for anonymity. Someone who sat at a table in a dive bar and didn’t order alcohol stood out amongst the other patrons. Their ride would be along within the next 20 minutes, he heard, and that was just enough time to set up his seduction scene.

  Chapter Eight

  When Marley woke up it was dark outside and the wind was stronger. Its whistle through the screen outside her window had graduated to a shriek while she slept.

  It took a diesel tugboat to drag her back to the harbor of
consciousness; she moved through the fog like she was coming off a three-Ambien night. Her eyes fell heavy again, then shot open. She had a distinct understanding of the afternoon, and another murky memory fought to clear as her brain granted recollection.

  She’d gone for a hike, and he—Sabian—was there with her on the trail. Then, when she got home, he was in her apartment. They talked, and most of what he said was unbelievable, but she knew it was true, felt it. But that wasn’t the problem.

  The problem was the suspicion starting to gain a foothold; it was almost absurd.

  She remembered his touch, the kiss, and his claims of ownership over her love, her soul. His words made her uncomfortable; they also connected her to him, exhilarated her.

  She’d wanted him. Almost had him.

  Then something happened and he left, only she couldn’t quite remember that part. He’d told her she needed to know him first, and that things were happening too fast. He said he couldn’t do something and that’s where it all ended.

  But the memories didn’t actually end there. There was one more thing.

  Marley had an image of Sabian hovering above her as she looked up at him from her bed. He smiled and her arms went up and around his neck, pulling him closer. This would have been a pleasant goodbye except she hadn’t pulled his lips to hers.

  She had pulled his fangs to her neck.

  Fangs.

  Her hand shot to the bedside lamp so fast the knocked it to the floor. She swung her legs off the bed, sat up, and said, "No."

  Marley made this simple declaration to the dark, empty room, assigning the negative to what she couldn’t accept, textbook denial. She traced her jugular and squinted against a small, sharp pain.

  She launched off the bed and found the lamp while her fingers continued to poke and prod the tender skin of her throat. Why would she pull him toward her like that? Hell, why would he have bitten her? That was urban legend stuff. Marley tried to fill in the blanks; so much didn’t make sense. It was absolutely a memory, not something she conjured from thin air, but it floated with no real reference point because—well, because she really didn’t remember. It was more like a flashback.

  But no other conclusion fit. What was that old Sherlock Holmes axiom? Eliminate the impossible, and whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. Where was Sir Arthur Conan Doyle when you needed him? Was she even qualified to judge what was and was not possible?

  With the room now flooded in the soft, yellow light of the lamp, she rubbed her face vigorously, turning her skin the color of summer watermelon. It took actual negotiated courage to walk to her dresser mirror. She got as close as she could, looking at her throat from every possible angle. She saw nothing. Maybe she was just being paranoid. Wouldn’t there be puncture marks? She felt along the area again, and sure enough, a slight sting, but it was fading.

  She couldn’t be alone. What if Sabian came back? Wait, did she want him to come back? Was she scared of him now?

  Stupid question. Of course she wanted him to come back. Neck biter or not, she was caught.

  And, duh—yeah she was scared. But wasn’t she frightened when she all but dry-humped him on her bed earlier? Fuck yeah, she was, and still, she begged for it. Literally.

  Mother fucker, what the hell was happening?

  Marley threw on some sweats and pulled on her Ugh boots. She would field-trip her happy ass to The Basement. She didn’t have the energy to go through the pain in the ass hassle of putting on makeup, and jeans would certainly be too tight to comfort her in her time of confusion. She didn’t have to impress anyone at The Basement. Marley needed to get in the right headspace, and her favorite microbrews were on tap. She was in no mood to socialize, too freaked out by the pain over her jugular, and a nice buzz sounded quite attractive.

  Only a buzz, just a couple beers, she told herself. It was time to take comfort outside the bottle…almost. Like the job thing, maybe this new leaf turned on Monday.

  She walked into the living room, looking left and right for the source of the fear she couldn’t shake. There was no one in the apartment with her, but she still felt watched. Unlike her feeling on the trail earlier, it didn’t feel like Sabian.

  She wanted him. This feeling was terrible. Never in her life had she allowed herself to pine for a man. Perhaps she was his groupie after all.

  That was enough to propel Marley out the door. It was time to go, beer-thirty to be exact. How convenient this town was with its marriages of coffee and alcohol. She would lose herself in some New Belgium brew, and forget about the fact that she was in danger of becoming the kind of girl she hated, the kind of girl who defined herself according to her feelings for a man. Her usual cozy table, laptop, and enough alcohol to make her brain go just a little boingy sounded about right.

  She pulled her beanie on tight, threw on a jacket, and grabbed her keys and backpack. She opened her door and turned her face from the wind chill; it was fricken freezing outside, but Marley was on a mission. She hunkered down into the hood of her jacket, and headed for The Basement.

  The whole bitter-cold walk there, Marley couldn’t shake the idea of Sabian biting her. The image lingered, transparent and dominant in front of everything else her eyes happened upon.

  What, then? Was she really thinking it? It was patently ridiculous yet somehow she understood it was true at the same time. He talked their past, but she just met him. He alluded to hurting her: "I can’t let anything happen this time." His words were a skipping CD in her brain. It wasn’t exactly the stuff of warm fuzzies.

  Jesus Christ, was he a vampire? A fucking vampire who believed in reincarnation? Past lives? That part was actually easier to swallow than the bloodsucker theory. At least there was some research on the subject. Hell, there were entire religions based on the idea.

  Now that she was away from him physically, the whole thing was a big helping of nuts with a side of spooky, but when he was right in front of her, all that seemed trifling. Since when were vampires, blood and murder negligible?

  The biggest question was not whether Sabian could be trusted with her. No, the biggest question was could she be trusted with him? He had this effect on her—he made her forget all the things she’d learned and promised herself over the years. He made her ignore her better judgment. The worst part was she actually acknowledged her instincts when they screamed danger before deliberately discarding them. What the hell was that about?

  She walked down the back stairs into the deserted lobby of The Basement, glad to get out of the wind-chill. She took off her beanie and shook her curls loose. She plugged her laptop in to an outlet near her usual table before she took off her coat. It took a while to get going, and finished booting up just when Ben came by.

  "Hey there pretty girl! I didn’t think I’d see you today. We close in about twenty minutes. You’re just in time if you want something."

  Marley looked past Ben at the taps, and decided she’d go with her old standby. It just wasn’t the kind of night to be adventurous and try something new. She was already up to her neck (ha ha, very punny) with the unknown.

  "Yeah, give me a Fat Tire," she said.

  Ben raised his eyebrows and gave her an approving smile. "Ooh, going for the real stuff, huh?" he teased. "I don’t think I’ve ever seen you drink anything but coffee."

  She looked at him, a little shocked. Since she rolled into this town, all she ever heard from the few friends she’d made was that she drank too much, she drank too hard, she was going to kill herself one day. Her answer was always some variation of "Well, I’m still kicking, so I guess what doesn’t kill me makes me stronger."

  Maybe she should be nicer to Ben. He might be the only person left who didn’t see her as a belligerent drunk. Then again, he was never invited to the parties, so he just hadn’t seen her in her natural habitat. God, that whole life, if that's what she wanted to call it, was getting old.

  "You might be the only person who’s ever said that to me," she told him.

/>   Ben beamed, obviously feeling he’d gained some points. "Where’s Jenna?" he asked. "Shouldn’t you two be out cock-teasing some eighteen year old frat boy?"

  It was easy to forget Ben could be funny sometimes. Too bad he was just so desperate.

  "I haven’t talked to her in a couple of days. She’s kind of pissed at me."

  Ben raised his eyebrows.

  Marley continued. "Yeah, she tends to see the opposite of what you see, you know, more alcohol than coffee."

  "Yeah, I heard, but I think she’s over it," said Ben.

  Marley shrugged. "She doesn’t work tonight?"

  "Nah. I talked to her earlier when she came by to pick up her check. She said she was going to try to hook up with you."

  "Nope. Maybe she’s out with her man," Marley guessed.

  "I don’t think so. She said Sam wasn’t around tonight, so she was going to see if you wanted to check out a chick-flick or something."

  Ben was inching toward the other chair. Just because she was allowing for the fact that Ben was an entertaining guy did not mean that Marley wanted to encourage him to stick around for small talk. She turned her attention to her laptop and started tuning him out, but he wasn’t put off that easily.

  "You know," he said, "I’ll be done closing up pretty quick. If you’re looking for something to do, I don’t mind chick-flicks."

  Marley looked up at him, and he executed a perfect Danny Zuko nod and smile.

  "Yeah, I said it. Chick-flick. What? I’m confident in my manhood."

  Damn if he wasn’t charming sometimes, but Marley just didn’t have the energy. "Ben-."

  Just then the door opened, and instead of the usual "ding-dong" chime that signaled the entrance of customers, a wicked Vincent Price laugh sounded. Ben had changed the door chime to a Halloween theme, and some of the charm Marley just acknowledged slipped away. He was just a dork at heart, and for that, there was no absolution.

  Two crew-cut men sporting off the rack suits walked down the main stairs. They were both armed, guns visibly holstered at their sides and knives sheathed at their waistlines.