Read Her Devoted Vampire Online
Authors: Siobhan Muir
Her Devoted Vampire (3 page)
Scanning
the
street, projecting invisibility. He wasn’t really invisible; he merely
projected a suggestion to any onlookers there was nothing of interest to see,
and their gazes slid away. He passed three women chattering excitedly about a
recent shopping experience, and they didn’t even pause to look at him with his
human burden.
Fredrick reached his black Aston Martin
Vanquish S and clicked open the doors. Grimacing at the mess, he laid her
gently in the passenger seat and tried to ignore the destruction of the leather
from her blood. He leapt over the car and slid behind the wheel, starting the
ignition with a deft flick of the wrist.
Oh, Goddess, please let her hold on until we get home!
He
probably should take her to the emergency room, but something held him back and
raised his possessive instincts. One human too many had touched this woman.
He’d be damned if he let some ignorant hack take her away from him.
He
slammed the accelerator to the floor as he sensed her body sliding toward death
in each second, her heat dissipating in the air of the cabin. If they could
make it his home in
open his cell and dialed home, waiting impatiently for Szilvia to pick up.
“Come
on, come on, pick up the damn phone!” He jerked the wheel, and the car skidded
onto
“MacGregor
Residence,” Szilvia’s voice answered pleasantly.
“Szilvia,
get clean water, biodegradable thread, sterilized needles, and lots of clean
cloths ready in the infirmary.”
“What
did you do, Fredrick?” Her voice dripped with acid. He’d been known to make a
few mistakes in the past.
“I’ll
tell you later. I’m already at Samoset and coming in. Be ready.”
He hung
up and concentrated on the dark road that wound to his driveway and the elegant
wrought iron gate stretched across it. The gate swung open, and he zoomed
through, checking on the unconscious woman beside him. She was still alive. He sensed
her heartbeat like the bass thump of a warped techno song, but it was slowing.
“Hold
on. Just hold on a little longer,” he whispered.
His old
brownstone stood on the Little River, not quite the last house on the road, but
it had sufficient grounds to let him live in peace. He skidded to a stop in the
horseshoe-shaped drive and shot out the door, leaving it open as he slid over
the hood. The passenger door almost ripped off its hinges when he jerked it
open, but he cut back his strength before he destroyed his car.
She
moaned softly when he touched her, and his gut clenched.
“Easy,
almost there,” he whispered as he cradled her against his chest.
The
scents of fresh blood and autumn forest assaulted his nose, but there was less
blood on his seat then he expected. The information barely scratched the
surface of his awareness as he strode to the side door of the mansion. He slammed
through, chastising himself for enjoying the scent of the victim in his arms as
he carried her into the infirmary.
But,
damn, she smelled good!
Szilvia,
Cynthia, and Matt awaited him with all the things he’d requested. Szilvia’s
disgusted expression soured when she caught sight of his burden, but the other
two only looked curious.
Fredrick
laid the woman out gently on the table and began to remove her coat. Each time
his hands brushed against her skin, he had to still a shiver. Why was she so
electric? Matt distracted him when he inhaled deeply through his nose.
“Where
did you find her? She smells wonderful!” He tugged on the sleeves of her
jacket.
“
the spike of possessiveness in his voice.
Matt’s
hands faltered, and the women froze, startled.
“You
went to
Fredrick
gritted his teeth against his assistant’s disdain and shifted his stance to
remove the delicious woman’s boots.
“You had
to go to
“Well,
they say some of the best sea food is in
Cynthia’s lips curled with amusement as she prepared the antiseptic and needles.
Szilvia
gave Cynthia an icy stare, but when the black-haired woman didn’t react, she
turned back to Fredrick. “I’m not helping you with a She-Meal.”
Matt
whistled appreciatively, jerking Fredrick’s gaze up the woman’s body. Matt had
opened her shirt. Her breasts pressed against the lycra fabric of her bra hard
enough to show her nipples. Rounded like ripe grapefruit, he imagined their
taut sweetness pressing against his tongue, and his body responded to his
thoughts.
Think of something else!
His mind
helpfully served up an image of her glorious breasts in the finest, softest
Hungarian lace, perhaps blood red, which would complement her skin.
Not helping!
He
estimated the enticing mounds to be cup size D, and while he appreciated them,
he did
not
appreciate Matt’s
delighted perusal.
“Roll
her onto her right side,” he said through gritted teeth, trying to think about
moving furniture or mowing the extensive lawns outside his home. Anything to
keep from ripping Matt’s throat out. “She’s been cut beneath the ribs. It’s
deep. We have to get the blood stopped before she dies.”
“What’s
so important about this She-Meal?” Szilvia flipped her white-blonde braid
behind her shoulder and crooked one hand on her hip. “There are plenty of them
in
doesn’t look that different from the rest of the Ameri-trash around here.”
“Holy
shit!”
Matt’s
exclamation summed up their collective reactions. She definitely had a wound,
but it was only a rough pink scar as if it had happened a month ago rather than
hours. She healed like one of the Elder Races! Who was this woman? His vision
hadn’t warned him about her abilities, only that she was in danger.
What
was she?
“Who is
she?” Cynthia echoed his internal question, her brown-gold eyes glowing in the
light. “She’s not a werewolf. At least, she doesn’t smell like one.”
Cynthia
was the Luna, the alpha female of the
else’s.
“She’s
not a vampire, either,” Fredrick said quietly. “I don’t know what she is, but
my vision wasn’t wrong to go after her.”
“You had
a vision about her?” Szilvia asked in a horrified voice as she looked at their
patient.
Szilvia
held the position of Fredrick’s second in command. She oversaw all of his many
financial interests, and her expertise in management showed with profitable
results. However, he’d noticed her attachment to him had grown, and her disdain
for his “She-Meals”, as she called them, bordered on palpable. She’d once
admitted her love for him, but his own feelings never mirrored hers despite their
decades of association.
“So
this
is why you went tearing out of here
earlier,” Matt said as he eyed their patient. “I can see why. If she’s not a
werewolf or vampire, and she’s definitely not human, what is she?”
“Maybe
she’s Fae,” Szilvia said, her voice surprisingly mild.
“No, she
doesn’t smell Fae.” Cynthia sponged the dried blood off the woman’s side. “In
fact, she doesn’t smell like anything, not even like the humans.”
“Whatever
she is, let’s get her cleaned up and into a bed,” Fredrick said.
Too bad it isn’t into mine.
“We’ll
figure out what she is when she wakes up.”
He slowly
dragged the soft towel over her side, pretending not to notice when his fingers
extended beyond the fabric. One brush of her skin reenergized his erection, and
he had to take his hand away before the others noticed. Cynthia raised an
eyebrow, but said nothing as she examined the wound track. The woman’s
regenerative qualities turned the scar into nothing but a thin white line
running from just above her left hip almost to her spine.
“Wow.”
Cynthia met Fredrick’s amazed gaze. “Think she’ll wake soon?”
Fredrick shook his head. She seemed to be
breathing well enough, but there were no signs she was coming around. He worried
she might have retreated too far to come back to a damaged body. But if she
could heal this quickly and this well, why would she need to retreat?
“What’s
her name?” Matt asked as he frowned down at their female conundrum.
“I don’t
know.”
“You
don’t know?” Szilvia’s acidic voice had returned. “You just rescue a bleeding
She-Meal, bring her here, and
you don’t
know her name?
”
“I
didn’t have time to ask,” he told her quietly, ignoring her taunting. He’d
learn the woman’s name. He had plenty of time now that she’d arrived.
“Check
her wallet. I’m sure she has some sort of identification on her. They generally
do these days.” Cynthia
handed Fredrick
the ruined coat.
Why didn’t I think of that?
He hid his chagrin by searching through its pockets.
He
pulled out the book, now ruined by all the blood, and tossed it aside. It hit
the floor with a wet thud. More searching revealed a black cell phone with a
cracked LCD screen, ChapStick, a set of keys without a car key, a pocketknife,
and simple nylon wallet. He snatched the wallet and opened it to the ID carrier,
ignoring the tremor in his hands.
The name
printed in bold black letters at the top of the card read, “Bridget Shanahan.”
Satisfaction rolled through him.
Hello,
Bridget.
Chapter Three
Bridget
opened her eyes and sat up with a gasp. Fear and adrenaline coursed through her
as she searched the world around her for danger. The room around her appeared
quiet and empty. Plush chairs and lacquered tables filled the space, but no one
sat at any of them. She shifted her feet to the floor, momentarily tangling
them in her glittering emerald skirt.
Hello. Why am I wearing a dress?
Fear gave way to curiosity as she
fingered the smooth silk fabric covering her body. When did she get this dress?
And why did she feel like she’d woken up at a swanky dinner party? She extended
one leg and admired her shimmering leucite heel. Even her toes sported emerald
green nail polish. She raised her head and looked around.
Soft music played from the
speakers recessed around the room, and warm golden light poured from the track-lighting
above the counter. The display case shelves held row upon row of decadent
pastries, and the scents of cinnamon, chocolate, and coffee met her nose.
Am I back at Snickerdoodles?
Bridget
scanned the room for something familiar, but everything seemed just off kilter,
as if the lines of the room didn’t quite match up. She leaned forward to see
the windows around a large potted palm, and a soft, cream-colored, cashmere
shawl fell off her shoulder, covering her hand.
Bridget
gasped as her eyes caught on a spreading crimson stain marring the creamy
color. She lurched to her feet and threw the shawl away from her, praying she
hadn’t ruined her dress or the leather sofa. Where had the blood come from? Despair
flooded through her as tears sprang to her eyes. Intense pain stabbed her side,
and her knees buckled. She collapsed back onto the couch and groaned, clutching
her ribs with one hand.
What had
happened? One moment she’d been reading a trashy romance novel in the
coffee shop, the next she
reclined on a leather couch dressed for an
evening on the town with a bloody shawl
and
a body injury.
Wait. That makes no sense. I forgot the book, didn’t
I?
She shook her head, but the pain remained.
“Bridget! Bridget Shanahan!”
Her head jerked up at a man’s
voice calling her name. Her pain receded as she focused on the sound of the
door opening, and a blast of cold air buffed her bare shoulders. A man dressed
in an elegant tuxedo with an emerald green cummerbund and bowtie bolted into
the room, almost knocking over several chairs in his haste to reach her. He
threw himself
to his knees on the floor,
his black trench coat fanning around his legs like a cape. He wore a look so
full of concern Bridget wanted to ask what was wrong.
“Holy Goddess, are you all right,
my dear?”