Midnight Bites (27 page)

“Not cool.”

“Not illegal,” he corrected. “She'll tire of him soon enough, in a year or two. My advice is to let her have him, rather than risk
becoming her enemy. He'll come back to you. Perhaps a bit worse for wear, but—”

“No,” I said. My cheeks felt like they were flaming, under the pale makeup. “No way in hell. He is
my
boyfriend, and she doesn't get to play with him. It'd be different if he wanted it, but he doesn't.”

Oliver gave me a dark, pitying smile, and bent me over backward. “Are you absolutely sure of that?” he asked. “Because Gloriana can only work that kind of glamour on those who are open to it. Michael's a new vampire. He's never been with one of us. I'm sure he has . . . questions.”

He did. He'd told me that, straight up, and now it scared me. “I'm sure,” I said. My eyes filled with tears. “He can't just . . . take off with her. He loves me.”

Oliver let me up—or rather, snapped me back upright—and glided me backward through a complicated set of twirls. “I'm afraid that love is rarely that simple,” he said. “Or that painless. Ah, look, they're leaving.”

I caught my breath on a cry and pulled free of him, or tried to; he held on long enough to say, “Don't get into the middle of it, Eve. The pull's strong. Michael may not be able to resist no matter what you do.” He smiled, a little sadly. “You may take that from one who knows.”

I yanked my wrist free, gathered up my train, and dashed out the door after Gloriana and Michael.

•   •   •

This was the moment when I had a choice to make. I knew what I
wanted
to do—scream, cry, start a slap fight with the undead skank trying to take my boyfriend. But somehow, I knew that fighting for Michael that way would only make me look small, petty, and ugly beside Gloriana's mature poise.

I didn't know what the alternative was, but I was going to have to find it, fast.

They were halfway down the steps when I caught up. The light out here was mostly provided by the white, ghostly moon, and they seemed identically pale as they turned to look at me. I rushed down toward them. “Michael!” I gasped, and came to a halt one step above them. “Michael, please wait!”

Gloriana smiled at me, still maddeningly sweet. I'd been talking to him, but she was the one who answered me. “Oh, don't worry. I'll bring him back,” she said. “If he wants to return.”

“Go back, Eve,” Michael said. “I'll see you later.”

“You mean, you'll dump me later?” I felt short of breath. Suffocating. “No. If you want to break up, be a man. Do it now, to my face.”

“I don't want to hurt you,” he said, and I believed that. I could see it on his face. “I can't do this right now, all right? Just go home. I'm not—”

“Not yourself? Yeah, that's because
she's
leading you around by the—by the nose! Please,
listen
! I love you. I know you don't want to do this to me. Or to yourself.”

Gloriana wasn't smiling anymore. I could feel the waves of pressure coming off her, closing around Michael. She was working hard at this, I realized. Harder than she'd expected. I might have taken some satisfaction in that, except that I was terrified that all her effort might actually be enough. “Michael,” she said. “Tell her to go away and go back to her
friends
. She's just a child. You need someone . . . more experienced. Someone who understands what you want, and what you need, and isn't afraid to help you through this . . . difficult time.”

He didn't say anything. That, in itself, was a victory, but I could see him shaking again, very lightly. Vibrating, really. When she laid her gloved fingers on his hand, I saw his lips part in a soundless gasp.

“No,” I said, and took a step down, putting myself on the same level with him. I knocked her hand away, wrapped my arms around him. “No, I'm not going anywhere. You've got a roomful of candidates back there. You don't get him, not unless you go through me first.”

Gloriana backed off, frowning. God, even her frowns were adorable, though the anger brewing in her eyes wasn't so precious. I'd surprised her, all right. And now she was starting to realize that she might not be able to hijack Michael as she'd planned . . . and she wasn't pleased. Not at all.

Michael stopped shaking, and I felt him relax against me. Sweet relief. His head came down on my shoulder, and I turned my head to glare at the other vampire. She was expressionless now, not smiling, not laughing, not exuding charm. She looked like a wax doll, and not a particularly pretty one, at that.

“Is that how it's going to be?” she asked.

Michael pulled in a breath and said, “I'm with Eve.” Just that. Just three words, but they made me feel faint with relief and love.

I didn't let go of him.

Gloriana slowly, reluctantly smiled, and the prettiness came back. “I apologize,” she said. “My mistake, of course. I didn't think you were serious about her, or that she'd be so . . . forceful. I misjudged you both.” She put her palms together and bowed—I was almost certain mockingly. “I'm sure we'll see each other again, Michael. Eve.”

He didn't answer her. He was frighteningly quiet, I thought. Gloriana looked up, toward the top of the steps, and I saw her face change into something that was momentarily very, very ugly.

Amelie was standing up there, shining in the moonlight, radiantly silver. Beautiful, in a way that Gloriana would never be, for all her charm and good looks.

“Come back to the party,” Amelie said. “Your swains are missing
you, Glory. I'm sure you wouldn't want to be responsible for any more broken hearts tonight.”

She turned and walked away, and I heard Gloriana make a light hissing sound, almost like a snake. She gave Michael one last, sidelong look, and then I felt something . . . snap, as if pressure had broken around us.

As she walked away, Michael tightened his arms around me, almost lifting me off my feet, and whispered, “God, Eve—God, I'm so sorry.” He was shaken, and he sounded angry—not at me; at himself. “I couldn't stop myself. It was like being—it was like a dream. But I didn't want to wake up, either.”

“Oliver called it glamour,” I said. “I can't feel it, though.”

“No, not unless she wants you to. She's—narcotic. It's terrible, but it—feels so good.”

I closed my eyes for a moment and strangled my inner drama queen before I said, very carefully, “Michael, if you really . . . need her . . .”

Michael Glass raised his head. The moonlight was shining full on his face, and I could read everything there, all the conflict and the love and the desperation. “I want you,” he said. “I want to stay with you. I love you. God, Eve, I love you.”

The intensity of the way he said it made my heart lurch painfully. I wanted to cry in relief, but I managed to hold the tears back. “Then don't do that again,” I said. “Promise.”

“No,” he said. “You promise
me
something.”

I blinked. “I . . . promise never to dance with Oliver again?”

He didn't laugh. “Promise me you'll marry me,” he said. “Promise me that you're not going to leave me. I need you, Eve. I've always needed you and I always will. Please. Promise me.”

I wasn't sure I'd heard him right, not at first.
Marry.
It wasn't that I
hadn't thought about it, dreamed about it, but . . . hearing him say it, right out loud, that was—terrifying. And thrilling. And terrifying, again.

I didn't know what to say, except, finally, “Yes.” It came out a whisper, timid and slow, but it seemed to ring like a bell on the still air. I said it again, stronger. “Yes. Oh, God,
yes
.”

He kissed me. It wasn't his normal kind of sweet, gentle kiss—this was full of the same intensity, the same desperate focus. I wanted him in all kinds of ways, with identical ferocity. He was growling, a little, in the back of his throat, and sliding his hands down my arms.

Then he picked me up and carried me down the steps, into the shadows. It was wild, and crazy, and stupid, but neither of us cared just then; we just
needed
.

And that moment came, when his teeth grazed my neck. I thought about Gloriana, about that need inside him she'd used against him. I thought about all my long-held vows to myself, and weighed all that against how much I loved him.

I put my hand on his cheek. “Michael.” He licked my skin, just above the veins. “Michael, do it. Go ahead.”

For a second he didn't move, and then he slowly pulled away and looked down at me. I couldn't read his expression. “You're sure,” he said. “You're really sure.”

“I'm sure. Just, you know, don't—”
Kill me,
I thought. My heartbeat was thumping so fast it sounded like war drums. “I don't want to be turned. You know that.”

“I know,” he said, very softly. “One more time. You're sure.”

“Yes.” This time, I heard certainty in my own voice, and a kind of peace settled over me. “Yes.”

I can't remember what it felt like, not really; it was overwhelming, and scary, and wonderful, and so, so much better than I'd ever
imagined. He licked the wound gently, until the bleeding stopped, and then gently kissed it. I felt dizzy and woozy and unbelievably high—vampire bites can do that, if they do it right. If they take the time. Or so I'd heard.

I sank against Michael's chest, and he held me. “Okay?” he whispered. I made a wordless sound of pleasure and snuggled in against him. “Thank you.”

I laughed. “It wasn't a gift, Michael.”

He kissed my nose. “No,” he agreed. “But you are. I don't know what I'd be without you, Eve. But I don't want to find out.”

“Not even if Gloriana comes calling?”

“Especially,” he said, very seriously. “You were amazing, by the way. You made her look . . .”

“Cheap?” I said cheerfully.

“Immature,” he said, and kissed my hand. “You looked like the sexiest woman in the world.”

“Well, in fairness, I
am
the sexiest woman in the world.”

“And you're always right.”

“You are so brilliant.”

He helped me to my feet, and got handsy settling my dress back around me comfortably. Then he held me in place and stared down at me for a long moment.

“Am I really sexier than Gloriana?” I asked.

And that got me a slow,
very
sexy smile. “Sorry, don't think I know anyone by that name.”

And then he took off his suit jacket, wrapped it around my shoulders, and walked me back up to the party.

Dedicated to Cassie Gilmon for her support of the Morganville digital series Kickstarter, 2014

And now, we have our next original short story . . . and another one for Myrnin, because Cassie wanted it that way! Technically, it's Myrnin and Oliver, who have a strange affinity, mostly because they're both capable of being utterly weird and cruel when pushed, but also capable of kindness. Myrnin's kindness is on display here, but so is his weirdness, and Oliver's cruelty. A little of everything, and a creepy tale of a pursuit that ends in a sinister house with secrets, ghosts, lies, and monsters.

Some of the monsters, they've brought in with them.

Fun factoid: I borrowed (as I am prone to do, with vampire tales) from history for this, specifically the gruesome story of the Bloody Benders, who ran a combination store / traveler's inn, with murder on the side, in 1870s Kansas. The names I used were correct to that period, and I have a fondness for bizarre names, having great-aunts named Pearly Lake and Precious Jewel in my family tree. Rumor says there was also a relative named Holy Bible, but I can't swear to that one.

“I
feel this is all going to come to a bad end,” Myrnin said, and clung to the handle above the passenger-side door as the car shrieked around another turn. It was a black and moonless night, and without headlights, a human driver would certainly have crashed by now, but the driver was far from human.

However, Oliver also wasn't a terribly
good
driver, even as a vampire, and the tires jumped the curb. A mailbox impacted the side of the car just behind where Myrnin sat and went flying, spilling a sad scatter of bills and letters.

“Shut up,” Oliver said, as Myrnin opened his mouth to comment. Myrnin obeyed, because the tension in the man's voice was on the edge of violence. “I hate these . . . mechanical beasts. No wonder Amelie insists on a driver.”

“
I
can drive. Claire taught me.”

“Bad luck for all the others on the road, then. Shut up. I'm trying to concentrate.”

“You will never catch him like this.”

“Why not?”

“He's a better runner than you are a driver?”

Oliver whipped the wheel unnecessarily hard to the left, and
Myrnin found himself flung hard against the restraint—the
seat belt
, as Claire insisted on calling it, though clearly it was not a belt at all, and certainly not a seat, but more of a harness. Despite that quibble, he did like the safety measures modern society had imposed. Quite a lot of carriage accidents could have come to better outcomes with the minor addition of such things.

The restraint came into play again as Oliver forcefully applied the brakes, and the vehicle skidded to a loud stop, accompanied by smoke and the smell of distressed tires. “He's off the road,” Oliver said. “We'll have to run him down on foot.”

“Thank Jesu,” Myrnin said. “I'd rather run a thousand miles than endure your substandard mechanized skills again.”

“Feel free to bugger off home, then.”

“I will not!”

“Then do me the kindness of being silent. I'm
listening
.”

Myrnin shut up, because even among vampires, Oliver had a reputation for acute hearing, and one saving grace of Morganville, Texas, was its remote location. Unlike in modern cities of any significant size, the nights here were clear and silent. Easy to hear disturbances, at least with vampire senses. Easy to hear the breathing and heartbeats of potential victims . . . but not so easy to track a fleeing vampire. Vampires were stealthy by nature, sometimes even to one another.

The creature they were tracking was more dangerous than most, and Myrnin was starting to wonder why he, of all the Morganville vampires, had decided to take up this challenge. He was, after all, more of an ambush predator than a stalker. He didn't like the pursuit as much as Oliver; it always felt like far too much effort, and fun as it sometimes was, he often felt so guilty, after.

This was for a good cause, at least, and he
was
operating under orders. Amelie's orders. Or he'd not be voluntarily spending time
with Oliver. His issues with the man stemmed back five hundred years or more.

“This way,” Oliver said, and was out the driver's side of the car and moving with speed before Myrnin could so much as fumble his way clear of his seat harness. He snapped it in a fit of pique. Useless things, good for nothing but saving humans.

Considering he'd been made vampire as an older man, Oliver was extremely lithe; even with longer legs, Myrnin had to run uncomfortably fast to keep pace. He couldn't detect the man they were following, but keeping track of Oliver would do well enough. The riding boots he wore weren't good for running, but he was somewhat grateful that he hadn't chosen the bunny slippers tonight. They were certainly not made for harsh terrain, and the area in which they'd gone was littered with rusted metal scrap, discarded lumber, and snakes too slow to slip out of the way, but still fast enough to strike at him in the darkness. Dangerous footing, even for a vampire.

He managed to pull next to the still-running Oliver and said, “There are snakes, you know.” As a vampire, he had the dignity of not having to gasp it out.

“If a snake bit you, it would die of disgust, and you should die of embarrassment,” Oliver said. “He's stopped.” Oliver immediately slowed to a walk, and Myrnin fell in beside him, happy for the change. His eyes picked up the starlight and painted a vivid, though shades-of-blue, picture of a leaning old farmhouse with broken windows and a yawning door. Someone had spray-painted slogans on it, layers upon layers of meaningless words. Some things never changed throughout the ages, and graffiti was one of them, from ancient Egypt to modern times. It was as though humanity had a burning need to make a mark, wherever it set its hand—and the mark was all too often an insult.

“How do you want to go about this?” Myrnin asked.

“Keep it simple. You take the back. I'll take the front. We crush him in the middle.” A short pause, and then, “Be careful.”

Myrnin raised his eyebrows. “I'm touched that you're so concerned for me.”

“I'm not concerned for
you
, fool. I'm concerned you'll let him rip you apart and escape. It would be very inconvenient for me to run him down again.”

“Ah. It makes so much more sense now.”

Myrnin dodged to avoid a blow from Oliver's fist, and moved around to the back of the farmhouse. They were just outside Morganville, and he could feel the difference here. It felt alien, unknown, uncomfortable. He didn't like leaving town anymore. Morganville had become so much his haven, and his home. There, he was protected. Out here he felt small, and vulnerable. Too many memories of being hunted through the streets, hounded in the open. Shut up in torturously small cells. Vampires might be strong and fast, but they were just as vulnerable as all the other mighty creatures that humans had made extinct.

Out here, he was as much prey as predator.

The back door of the house was boarded shut, but he slithered in through a broken window and landed without a sound on the warped wood floor. It was rotten, but he could sense where the fragile spots were, and stepped carefully to avoid any betraying creaks and snaps. There were spiders here,
lots
of spiders, but he rather liked them—elegant creatures, so perfectly suited to their lives. Hard to tell how they felt about him at the moment, though, since they seemed to be scattering out of his way.

One thing he did
not
care for was the scorpion that scuttled out of the darkness to aim its stinger at his booted foot. Clearly, he was
not
amiable. Myrnin bent, picked it up by the segmented tail, and held it up to his face, frowning at it as it snapped its claws toward his nose as
it twisted and turned. “Rude,” he said to it. “Learn your manners, now.” He threw it out the window, and watched it dart across the sand, still jabbing the air furiously with its barbed tail.

Then he sensed something looming over his head, and looked up to see a face staring down at him. Or . . . no. Not a face. In that split second it looked like a face, a formless dark thing watching him, but then it solidified into shadows and an unfortunate pattern of mold.

Still . . . he felt watched.

There was also a corpse in the room, but it was not watching him. It lay in the corner on its back. The young man was clearly dead, and had been for days. Pale and bloodless, he bore neat holes in his throat, and his eyes were closed.

“I've found the missing boy,” Myrnin called. “Dead.” He didn't really need to say that. Neither he nor Oliver had been deluded enough to believe they'd find him alive.

“Our quarry's moved upstairs,” said a voice at Myrnin's side, and he flinched just a little. Oliver had, once again, managed to creep up without drawing his attention. “Amelie's not going to be well pleased with this. We'll need to get the boy decently buried and compensate his family. You retrieve the body and I'll go up and find this . . . I can't properly even call him a vampire.”

“The boy's long gone, and he can wait,” Myrnin said. “This . . . might take both of us. Whatever this . . . thing may be, he is not quite sane.”

Oliver sent him a look. Not the normal look of disdain and dismissal, but . . . something else. Something more serious. “Well, you would know,” he said. “But I think you may be right.”

Oliver led the way up the steps, and Myrnin was careful to avoid the fragile center of the wood treads; this house, with its alarmingly off-true walls and stench of rot, was ready to collapse in the next strong wind. Surprising that it hadn't already, considering its state.
There was threadbare carpet at the top, and some ancient, faded photographs of a posed family lingered on the walls. A bedroom to the right held a tilting four-poster, a decaying mattress with pillows and the type of coverlet unpopular fifty years past. Clothes remained rotting in the wardrobe.

He wondered what had happened to the family who'd once lived here and so evidently vanished without a trace . . . and then decided perhaps it was best not to know. This whole place trembled with fear and tragedy. No wonder their quarry had been drawn to it as a lair.

Oliver tapped his shoulder and pointed down the hall to the other small bedroom. The door was shut, and starlight glinted on the old glass knob. Myrnin steeled himself, and nodded his readiness.

Oliver took hold of the knob and turned it.

The attack came
through
the door with shocking suddenness, smashing the old wood into splinters, and then the vampire was on them, screaming. It was armed with a knife, a sharp, oddly shaped thing that sliced the light as it arced for Oliver's face. Oliver fell back, and Myrnin lunged forward over him and caught the attacker around the chest. His weight and momentum threw it backward, but the dry wood beneath them shattered on impact, sending them both crashing through the floor and down into the room beneath.

It would have stunned a human, or broken his back, but vampires were made of hardier stuff—and this creature was unnaturally fast and strong. Myrnin grabbed for the right hand, the one with the knife, while trying to keep the snapping, ravenous fangs from his own throat. There was no room for fear or strategy. He couldn't plan, couldn't think of anything but simply surviving from one second to the next, until Oliver dropped through the jagged hole from the floor above, grabbed the vampire's head in both hands, and twisted it all the way around to snap its neck with a dry clicking sound.

That didn't kill it, but it effectively rendered it helpless for a while.
Oliver slung the thing off to the side and offered Myrnin a hand up, which he accepted without shame. He felt battered and greatly lucky to be alive.

“We need to kill this thing,” Myrnin said. His voice, he was surprised to hear, sounded rational and quite precise. “We
must
kill it. Now.”

“My orders are to bring him to Amelie,” Oliver said.

“Couldn't he just . . . fall and accidentally dismember himself?”

“No matter how much I long for that, no. I follow her orders.” Oliver grabbed the prisoner's arm and hauled it up. The head lolled unnaturally. “You did remember the bindings, I hope?”

“Of course.” Myrnin searched his pockets, seared his fingers raw on the touch of silver braided wire, and folded a much-abused handkerchief over the flexible length to draw it out. He wrapped it tight around the wrists, then added a silver hook to link that binding to the broken throat. The neck was healing, of course. Slowly, but steadily. It would bear careful attention to make sure the creature stayed helpless.

He tied the ankles with the same length of silver wire, and tested the tensile strength. The bindings seemed solid enough.

The prisoner's shoulders twitched, and he seemed to be staring at Myrnin with wide dark eyes. There was a wild menace in that face, and something far, far worse.

“Careful,” Oliver snapped, and kicked at the bound body; the head bounced, but the neck was no longer limp. It recovered shockingly fast. “Look at me with such disrespect and I'll take those eyes right out. Understand, Lucian?”

“It has a name?”

“Unfortunately we all have names. And pasts; his is a particularly unpleasant one. I don't know who had the awful stupidity to make someone like this into one of us, but I hope his maker's long dead, or
he'll join this monster's bonfire.” Oliver hauled the prisoner—Myrnin refused to use a name for it, even in the noisy privacy of his own mind, because names gave things power—to its feet. It shuffled awkwardly in the silver ankle shackles, which was all to the good, as far as Myrnin was concerned. “Let's go. The faster I have this finished, the better I'll like it.”

“What about . . . this place?” Myrnin gestured at the house around them without giving it another look, because once had been truly enough for a lifetime. “It's a certainty there are other victims in here.”

“It's a police matter. Something for Chief Moses to deal with, although I suspect most of the victims will be transients. He'd not have gotten away with his killing so long if he'd been preying on Morganville residents exclusively.”

Pity poor Chief Moses, then. Myrnin shuddered. “Better to burn it to the ground,” he said. “It'll bring their loved ones no peace to tell them how they died.”

Oliver stared at him for a second, with a very odd expression. “It's always better to know,” he said. “Better haunted by ghosts than always searching for what's not there.”

That sounded oddly like experience speaking, and Myrnin almost asked, but all he really wanted was to be out of this oppressive place, with all of the house's evil humors.

Oliver muscled his captive out a broken window, and Myrnin walked toward it to follow . . . and that was when the window disappeared. Between one tick of time and the next, it just vanished, as if it had never been. Instead, there was just a wall, with its skin of wallpaper peeling from the bones of plaster.