Broken Heart 02 Don't Talk Back to Your Vampire (2 page)

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

refuses to admit she has feelings for him. Stan not only admits his feelings, he talks about them nonstop to anyone who'll listen. But he's a human and Linda's a vamp. Linda refuses to Turn anybody ever, so they have a doomed relationship. There, aren't you happy you asked?

2. Why wasn't the binding sex scene between you and Patrick in the book?

Aren't you a pervert! Heh. Kiddin'. That was a very private (and hot, hot,
hot)
twelve hours. Patrick and I decided to keep that bit o' naughty to ourselves.

When Lorcan O'Halloran, four-thousand-year-old vampire and professed Druid, fell at my feet, it wasn't to beg forgiveness for killing me three months ago.

Sunrise was imminent, but there I was on my front porch, teeth brushed, hair shining, wearing Happy Bunny jammies and matching socks, waiting not for a lovers' rendezvous or for the return of my teenage daughter, Tamara (she was listening to Marilyn Manson in her room…
shudder)
.

I was waiting for a dog.

Well, he was more like a wolf. I'd befriended the poor creature almost a month ago—and I had fallen in love with the brute, whom I'd named Lucky. He hadn't come by tonight and I was worried. Ever since I got undead, animals
loved
me. They showed up at my house, hung out in my yard, and followed me everywhere. No one could account for this sudden odd attraction; I was starting to feel like a heroine in a Disney cartoon.

I was Broken Heart's librarian, a job my paternal grandmother had held until her death a year ago. We shared the same name—Evangeline Louise LeRoy—but that was our only link. My father died when I was two years old, and my mother had lost touch with the LeRoys long ago. Inheriting the job and the mansion/library had been a lucky break for me and Tamara. We needed a fresh start. I was ready for a different kind of life.

Admittedly, becoming a vampire wasn't what I'd had in mind. And neither was becoming an undead Dr.

Doolittle.

Lucky usually loped in from the pocket of woods near my monster house, which was part residence and part Broken Heart library (think of it as a smaller, weirder version of the Winchester Mystery House). He always sat at the edge of my yard, watching me feed the other animals. I can't explain why I felt so connected to him, especially since so many other creatures vied for my attention. He always looked sad and lonely, and he never got close enough for me to pet him. It was almost like he wanted to be comforted, but didn't feel worthy enough.

What female can resist the lure of the tortured bad boy—two-legged or four-legged? He seemed scarred somehow. I wondered what had happened to him. Had he lost his mate? Most wolf species
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

were loyal to their mates—serial monogamy, it was called—but not every sort of wolf mated for life.

When I looked at Lucky, he just struck me as the type who was soul mate material.

I don't know why I looked up. Lucky had never arrived by air. Worry turned to confusion and then to horror when Lorcan fell out of the sky and rolled across my yard. I watched him struggle to stand and then weave toward the porch. While I stood rooted to the spot, he climbed the steps and reached for me.

I reared back and yelped.

Here was the man who'd killed me. He was the reason I was a vampire.

"Don't be afraid. Please." He swayed like a willow tree in a thunderstorm and collapsed at my feet.

Zarking fardwarks!

I crouched beside him and pushed away the silky black hair that covered his angelic face. He was beautiful—in the way that Satan was beautiful. You'd give him your soul and he'd eat it for breakfast. No, thanks. I'd already known that kind of devil.

"Lorcan?" I whispered. I felt monumentally tired. Sunrise was near. Either I took him inside or I left him on the porch. Since he was the brother-in-law of my friend Jessica, who had married Lorcan's twin brother a couple months ago, I probably shouldn't leave him to fry in the sun.

His eyes fluttered open, and that solemn gray gaze made me think of a lonely, scarred landscape. " 'On that bleak hill-top the earth was hard with a black frost, and the air made me shiver through every limb,' "

I murmured.

"
Wuthering Heights
," he said hoarsely.

Then he smiled.

That smile went through me like a bolt of pure electricity. I was stunned by my response. Maybe it was because I had never seen Lorcan genuinely smile—his lips often curved in sad imitations, as if he were afraid to show real joy. Not that I'd ever had cause to get closer than ten feet to him, but still… my undead heart did a ferocious tap dance. I had never seen a man so heartbreakingly handsome. Other than his twin, of course. Patrick had a more ebullient spirit, especially since marrying Jessica. Lorcan, on the other hand, wore sorrow like a favorite coat. I had never seen him without it. Maybe he liked being penitent and grief-stricken.

Lorcan's hand warbled up like a bird with a broken wing. He cupped my cheek. "Evangeline LeRoy.

Beautiful, you are."

The Irish brogue was thick, and hearing my full name uttered in that lyrical tone created another shock of electric lust.

"We need to get inside." I pulled him to his feet and he wrapped his arm around my neck.

The front door slammed shut behind us. To the left was a formal living room that I never used, except to get to the stairs that led to the second and third floors. The furniture was still draped with dustcovers. To the right was the double-door entrance to the library. In the middle was a long, narrow hallway. First
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

door on the left led to my tiny office; second door was a private bathroom. Last door on the right—painted black, white skull and crossbones in its middle—was the entrance to my fifteen-year-old daughter's room: the lair of Tamara. Da. Da. Da.
Dum
.

As Lorcan and I walked past, the door swung open and my daughter popped out. Music blasted—a cacophony of screams and metallic bashing that made me flinch. "G'night, Mom." She gaped at us. "Holy shit!"

"Don't cuss," I said automatically. We both loved language, and swearing seemed such a waste of good wordage. However, Tamara had been cussing more and more often lately, probably to see how far she could take it before I did something disciplinelike. She was fifteen going on fifty. Despite her deep immersion in all things dark (and as the child of a vampire, could you blame her?), she was a sweet kid.

"Holy Zarquon's singing fish," intoned Tamara. She knew I loved the
Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy
series. "Not quite as satisfying as yelling, 'Shit!' "

"Speak for yourself. I find 'zarking fardwarks' rather felicific."

"Wowser," she accused.

"I am
not
puritanical."

"You're not taking him into the basement, are you?"

"If you used your eyes, you could see that he's hurt and needs help."

Her gaze took in the six feet of hunk and she whistled. "His clothes are a mess, but did you see his abs?

You could scrub clothes on that washboard. Yum!"

I rolled my eyes. "Can you control your hormones, please?"
I'm having a hard enough time with my
own
.

Finally chastised, she hurried forward, getting ahead of us. I dragged Lorcan through the large kitchen and toward the thick metal door. The only safe place in my decrepit three-story house was the basement, where I had relocated after becoming, as my daughter put it, vampified.

The steel door was the Consortium's idea, as was the metallic glaze that coated the basement's walls—über-protection against light, which could kill a vampire. Not just the sun's rays, either; any bright, hot light would do.

Tamara opened the door. She patted my shoulder. "Sorry for being splenetic." She grimaced, obviously torn between being cool, indifferent teen and caring, worried daughter. "What should I do?"

"Just go to bed, baby. Everything will be fine by tonight."

She nodded. Lorcan and I hit the stairs, and the door clicked shut behind us. Even though it was pitch-black dark to human eyes, I could see just fine.

My sleeping quarters consisted of mountains of books, a huge yellow LoveSac—which looked like a giant's punctured tennis ball—and a king-sized cherrywood sleigh bed, complete with Tempur-Pedic mattress and extra-large, fluffy pillows. I was a pillow whore. There were six propped against the
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

headboard. I was also a sheet snob: If it wasn't three-hundred-thread-count or higher, I wasn't sleeping on it.

The LoveSac was obscenely comfortable; I had napped in it many times. I thought about chucking Lorcan into it and throwing a blanket over him. Guiltily, I looked at the bed. It was the ultimate in sleeping accommodations, especially with its very soft sheets and plumped pillows.

"Eva," whispered Lorcan, "my chest hurts."

Guilt stabbed me anew. As gently as I could, I laid him on the bed. I flicked on the lamp that sat on the small bedside table. The pool of weak light wasn't much, but with my vampire sight I could almost see molecules in moonlight. Lorcan looked a mess, all right. His black pants were dirty and torn; his black dress shirt was in shreds. Blood streaked his chest, though the wounds were already healing. Dirt smudged his face, but in a boyish way.

I dug out a box of wet wipes from a paperback pileup on the floor and cleaned his face. Even though his shirt hung in tatters, I hesitated to take it off. Exhaustion poured heavily through me, and I knew I probably had only minutes before I passed out. Vampires really didn't have much choice about their sleeping habits—sunrise, you sleep, and sunset, you wake. No alarms needed.

"Your shirt," I said. "Can you—"

He muttered something in Gaelic, and to my utter shock the shirt disappeared. His bared chest with its dusting of dark hair was revealed in full. Tamara had been right—washboard abs. Yum.

"Jessica told me Patrick pulls that trick all the time," I said as I took wet wipes to the dirt and blood. I tried to sound blasé, but very few vampires had the power and talents of Patrick and Lorcan O'Halloran.

Making clothes disappear—and reappear—was rather impressive.

"I can do the pants, too," he said. His eyes flickered open and I saw amusement glitter in those silver orbs.

"No, no." I considered his jeans. "Unless you're hurt… somewhere."

"Oh, I do ache, love," he said in a liquid voice. His hand drifted to my hair and fluttered like a butterfly caught in a web. "I ache for you."

I knew then that he was delusional. If he wasn't out of his head, I might fall for those seductive words. It had been a really long time since I'd felt wanted, much less loved. Annoyed with the direction of my thoughts, I tucked Lorcan under the covers and grabbed a pillow. At least the LoveSac offered
some
comfort.

As I rose from the bed, Lorcan snagged my wrist. "We can both sleep here. I won't bite."

"Yeah, right."

I hadn't meant it as a reminder that he had a lethal bite. I couldn't snatch back the words now. Why pretend he hadn't killed me? Still, when his eyes went flat and he let go of my wrist, my stomach dropped to my toes.

"Forgive me, Eva."

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

The words were drenched in anguish. I felt as though I'd held something pretty and fragile—and it disintegrated because I'd gripped too hard.

Feeling penitent myself, I brushed his long black hair away from his face. "Rest now," I said. "You can tell me what happened to you tomorrow."

"
Damnú air
! Stop being so nice." He yanked me onto the bed and I fell beside him. The struggle to get up and away from him ended in an instant.

Dawn was breaking—I didn't need to see it to know it. I felt the heavy blanket of sleep draw over me.

But as the familiar darkness encroached on my consciousness… I felt Lorcan drag me into his embrace.

Some vampires don't dream.

I don't remember dreaming, either. Not until Lucky arrived. The first night he crept into my yard, sitting dolefully at its edge and staring at me with such sad longing, was also the first night, or rather day, I dreamed.

It was the same dream every time—as vivid and as colorful as a well-kept photograph. I stood in a dark, thick forest, but in a little clearing where the tall trees cupped the night sky.

Looking up, I could see the round, pale moon and the single black-stoned tower that imprisoned something I wanted very badly.

I couldn't name this treasure. I didn't know
what
was in that tower. I just felt an incredibly sweet yearning… as if my life would be complete if I could reach that tower and take what was in it.

As usual, I wore a royal blue dress. It had wide sleeves, a square neck, an empire waist, and a straight skirt. My hair, which I never wore long, was piled onto my head, except for a few ringlets that draped my neck. On my feet were thin slippers the same color as my dress. I loved fairy tales, so it wasn't difficult to find a cause for my appearance—or for that matter, the dream's setting.

Just as I did every time, I plunged into the dank, creepy woods. Skeletal limbs pulled at my hair and tore at my dress. I pushed onward, desperation raking me with icy claws. I lost my shoes; my bare feet sank into the mud and were scored by sharp rocks.

Low growls echoed behind me and the chill of desperation turned into an arctic sensation of fear.

Pushing through low branches and thick underbrush, I finally managed to reach the base of the tower.

The growls grew louder, more menacing.

I hurried around the tower, searching for a way inside. There was no door, no hole in the stonework,
nothing
. In all the dreams before, I had never found the entrance.