The Hard Way (Box Set) (28 page)

But would it be enough to help them both escape the 13th Floor?

This is not a happy story.

This is not a sad story.

This is a story about a place that exists betwixt and between.

The thirteenth floor, the object of superstition and fear, has been the subject of much debate and speculation. Its mysteries are vast and ever changing, the power it holds immeasurable.

But only a select few ever enter its halls… and if they exit, their lives will be forever changed.

“How long have I been here?”

Leaning back in his bed, Johansen Blakeley sighed and looked around the same hotel room he had been looking around for… gods knew how long.

He remembered coming here, to this floor, and thinking there had been some kind of mistake. He remembered walking out of the elevator, his curiosity moving him. This floor wasn’t even listed on the elevator buttons. He’d thought maybe it was one of those old superstitious things, that thirteen was an unlucky number so they’d left it off. But when he stepped off the damned elevator, the doors had slammed shut quicker than a maiden aunt’s legs at an all-nude male review. He turned, but the elevator vanished as if it had never been there. But if it had never been there, how had he made it to this accursed floor?

He had stared down a long, seamless, never-ending hallway, looking at the doors that lined the walls like miniature soldiers. He had tried every one of those doors, even the ones from which weird sounds and lights emanated. Only one door would open for him -- the door to a room that seemed to have everything he needed.

The bed eased the aches and pains of his bad back, and the radio played all his favorite music, though there was no television. The bathroom was stocked with the toiletries he had at home -- expensive brands, not the usual hotel offerings. Even his favorite meals were delivered to him each morning, placed on a silver rolling dinner cart that contained absolutely no flatware he could use to injure himself or anyone stupid enough to confront him in his captivity.

He had all the comforts of home, clean linens and towels on command, and gourmet food delivered the moment he discovered he was hungry.

All he lacked was a way to get out.

There had been a woman early on in his stay -- a young thing who turned her nose up at anything she decided was not perfect enough for her. She’d been with him for a few agonizing days when he’d first arrived, her door connected to his somehow. But after dealing with her bullshit, he’d taught her a few things about humility.

Refusing to give in to her tantrums and her desire to have him wait on her hand and foot, he purposefully isolated himself from her, denying them both a bit of the live contact she seemed to crave. But he had refused to relent until she learned that the sun and the moon didn’t rise and set on her ass. It took some doing, but after a time she’d come around and shown that she truly was a decent being.

Mommy and Daddums had created the perfect bitch image to disguise the fact that she had a genius level IQ and more common sense than would be healthy for her, should she let the world know. After discovering she was afraid she wouldn’t be accepted if people knew she was smart, he spent some time talking to her.

And, more importantly, he listened.

After a time he began to respect her. Respect turned into desire and before he knew it, he was ensconced deep within her tight body, her research into tantric sex teaching him a thing or two during their nightly romps.

She grew in confidence as she discovered her self-worth. It was beautiful, and the most meaningful relationship he had ever had.

Then she was gone. He couldn’t even remember her name. And now the only meaningful relationship he had was with his left hand. Even that left him with nothing but time to kill, and things were starting to get sedentary with Rosy Palm and her five sisters.

Now that he didn’t have the woman around, he began to recall one of the reasons he’d gone on this trip in the first place.

He, Johansen Blakeley, was a coward.

The ironic thing was that he was just as vain and superficial as the Little Miss who had disappeared without a trace days before. Or was it weeks? He couldn’t tell -- there were no windows in his luxurious cell. God, what he wouldn’t do for just a glimpse of sunshine, to feel the warm air on his face, to feel a breeze pressing against his body, fresh water between his toes.

But he, in all his vanity, had run away from his home and the responsibilities that awaited him there. Just because he was too good to deal with -- he shuddered to think of it -- humans.

When his portal had opened up at this human building, he’d thought his arcana had gone awry. But when he’d recast the spell, he’d discovered his magics wanted him there.

The staff, dressed in livery, had been more than helpful, telling him his reservation had been confirmed and all he required was awaiting his pleasure. So he had made his way toward the bank of glass elevators that rose and fell in the main lobby.

He was well versed in human politics -- after all, his ill-conceived fiancée was human, so his father had demanded that he learn. He spent his formative years learning about humans, studying their history, their bloody wars and conflicts. Early on, he had come to the conclusion that humans were nothing more than a barbaric waste of life’s breath that would be better off wiped out of existence. But since several of his allies were dependent on the blight called humanity, he made no move against them.

Eventually, he forgot all about his fiancée and where said fiancée had come from. He moved on with his life, never forgetting the treachery and horror that was humankind, but still learning and maturing in the way of his people.

It was a shock to him to wake on his natal day and realize he had reached the age of majority, that he would soon be married to his promised human fiancée. Thinking maybe his thoughts of humankind had been clouded by the shortsightedness of youth, he made several trips to the human world and what he saw horrified him even more.

There was war and famine, and murders most disgustingly foul. Father killed mother, brother murdered sister, and they all seemed to take delight in sharing and exploiting the misery of others. He had been appalled by the lack of compassion and the discounting of human life as more a commodity than a gift from their creator.

It saddened and sickened him.

After almost getting his head blown off while exploring a neighborhood where the poor regularly congregated to steal from the weak, he decided there was no way he would take one of these barbarians to his bed. So he did the only thing he could think of that would gain him some time to figure out how to get away from the human stigma. He fled.

And he’d wound up here, in this hotel room, wondering how much time had passed. Did his mother and father miss him? Did his people notice their prince had gone missing? Had his human fiancée brought the wrath that was humanity at its worst upon his people?

That calamity called humankind was a mystery and a puzzle he dared not explore. And yet, here he was, surrounded by human trappings, still pondering what to do.

“How many days have I been here?” he asked, running his hands through his long, blue-black hair.

“I don’t know.” A voice startled him, making him turn swiftly toward his open door. “But if you showed me the exit, I would be real obliged.”

“Who the fu --”

“Oh, looks like we got a live one here!” the strange female crowed as she stepped further into the room. “Now, sugar, can you show me the way out of this place? As charming as it is, I have people to do and things to see.”

Johansen stared at the woman, his senses telling him that no matter what she appeared to be, she was no human being. She was exotic and rather pleasing to the eye. Her kinky bush of hair blossomed on top of her head in a furious red mass. It was held back from dropping into her eyes by a black leather band that emphasized the delicate oval of her face. Her red-brown eyes, almost the color of leaves changing in the fall, dominated her face, holding his attention with the emotions that clearly flowed through their depths.

Her nose was a broad spade that told of African descent as clearly as her wild hair and full red lips. Her long, graceful neck led to thin shoulders artfully draped in a long leather trench coat. She seemed to be long and lithe underneath the enveloping coat, with the look of a fashion model or someone who danced for a living. On her feet were a pair of low-heeled gladiator sandals that had to be strictly for fashion, as they were composed of small leather straps and would offer no warmth to her feet.

Right now, her hands were placed on her hips, her eyes scanning him intently.

“What are you?” Johansen winced at the rough sound of his own voice. Had it been that long since he’d spoken in tones louder than a mumble? He shook his head and cleared his throat to give it another try. “You’re clearly not human.”

“Not anymore, sugar.” She laughed, her voice deep and melodious. “Not for a good long time.”

“Then what are you?”

“Confused is what I am.”

Johansen blinked once, and then again for good measure. Maybe she was crazy.

“And what’s with all these doors?” she asked, dropping a rather large purse on the floor before walking deeper into his room. “This is the only door that would open.”

“I… I don’t know,” Johansen finally settled on saying. She was asking many of the same questions he had asked himself, questions he still had no answers to.

“Well, tell me what you do know,” she chortled amiably. She walked to the bed and settled beside him.

“Um… How did you get here?”

“Well, one day my father had an odd twinkle in his eye as he stared at my mother, who twinkled back. Clothes went flying, and Mother spread her legs…”

“I mean how did you get onto this floor?”

“Oh! Well, there was this elevator with these three really hunky guys. I was staring at their asses when they got on.” Almost blushing, she stared down at her nails and then up at Johansen’s face before she continued. “So naturally I had to follow. But when this floor opened up, um, they kind of shoved me out here and the elevator door closed. And damned if it didn’t disappear!”

She looked up again, and Johansen grinned for the first time in magic knew how long.

“It, meaning the elevator and the men,” she sighed. “And so here I am.”

“Here you are stuck,” Johansen informed her. “Once the elevator is gone, I don’t think we can get on and off the floor.”

“Ever?”

“I don’t know about forever, but I’m not really sure how long I’ve been here.”

“Alone?”

“Well, there was someone else, but… but she’s gone now.”

“And you are?” the woman asked.

“Confused as to who you are.”

“You may call me Ash.” She chuckled, propping herself up on her elbows to get a better look at him.

“Ash,” he repeated slowly, savoring the name.

“And you are, beautiful?” she asked, one eyebrow arched as she took in the calm face and the big blue eyes.

“Johansen. You may call me Johansen.”

“Johansen,” Ash repeated, rolling the name across her tongue. “Johansen.” Her eyes closed as if she were making love to the word.

Johansen swallowed hard, his eyes on her face, those eyes that even while closed had some unnamed effect on him. The lips that her pink tongue -- a long pink tongue -- ran slowly across, leaving a glistening trail of wetness…

“My, it has been a while, little Dryad.” She chuckled, drawing his gaze to her now open eyes. “It’s been a while, indeed.”

“You… you’re playing with me?” he asked, his head cocked to the side as he reevaluated his newly formed opinions of Ash.

“I have yet to begin playing with you, little Dryad,” she mused, dropping her coat to expose the bits of nothing she called an outfit, her eyes narrowing as her pupils turned a bright red. “Not done playing by a long shot.”

She was on him in a flash. Before he could even move or think to shove her away, her tongue was lapping at his neck and he felt his body going still.

“Prey is prey, little Dryad,” Ash murmured as her teeth caressed the thick skin of his neck.

She could feel the heat from the blood there, just beneath the surface. Could smell the salty sweetness of his life fluid pulsing just beneath her mouth. Her fangs began to tingle and elongate as she nuzzled deeper into his neck, pulling in the heat and the living scent of him.

“Wh-why?” she heard him force through his still throat, the vibrations of his words sending tingles through her body.

“I’m a vampire, Johansen,” she soothed, one hand running through his long blue-black hair, tugging some locks from underneath his body to toy with as she would. “It’s what I do.”

He shuddered as he closed his eyes and tried to draw in enough energy to move. A Dryad away from his lake was nearly powerless. How long had it been since he rejuvenated himself in his home waters?

“Stop struggling and we both can enjoy this. It’s is not all that difficult.”

“Don-don’t want it,” Johansen managed, his blue eyes starting to glow as he contemplated the once-human creature atop of him.

“It’s not about what you want.” Ash rolled her eyes as she stared at the creature below her. “It’s not always about what you want, little spoiled Dryad.”

“How…”

“How did I know who you are? Simple, little one. You smell of water and salt and all those delicious non-human things that magical folk smell of. Your eyes --” she released his hair to cup his chin and lift his head higher “-- those delightful blue orbs glow. Did you know that, little Dryad? They glow. That’s because of the connection between vamps and Dryads.”

A surprised look crossed his face. She sat back a little, straddling his body, her thighs around his chest, and stared deep into his eyes. “Oh, you don’t know?” She chuckled. “Just what are those idiots teaching kids nowadays?”

She once again bent to lick his neck, holding him paralyzed somehow as she tilted her head to the side in obvious and deep contemplation. “Now, where shall I begin your education, little one?”