Blood Lust (10 page)

In one swift movement, he grabbed her around the waist and pulled her to him, her back pressed flush against his chest. Then he sank his fangs into the warm column of her throat.

Her blood was exactly as he’d imagined it would be. Sweet and somehow spicy, like her. He couldn’t get enough. He could drink her forever and was dimly aware that wasn’t possible, that at some point soon the blood would run out and he’d never drink from her again.

He could feel her beginning to die in his arms.

“Anthony . . . stop, please.” She’d found her voice.

He growled, angry as he regained some sense of control. This wasn’t how he’d imagined this. He flung her away from him, and she hit the soft couch, bouncing once and then lolling to the side like a rag doll.

He rushed and knelt beside her, running his tongue over the puncture marks to seal them and stop the flow of blood. He continued to lick the sealed wound until the marks disappeared from her throat.

How much had he had? Her cleaner blood ran through his system, diluting the drugs from the therian. He listened to Charlotte’s heartbeat. It was slow, but there. Not yet thready. She’d be okay. She’ll be okay, he repeated to himself as he stood and paced the floor.

What have I done?

His hands shook as he collapsed in a chair opposite from her, watching and listening for any change in her vital signs.

This wasn’t how he’d pictured this. He’d had better control of the hunger for centuries. He’d imagined seducing her, fucking her, then drinking from her, but never killing her. He never wanted to kill her. She hadn’t been afraid of him. Until now.

Of all the humans who instinctively pulled away, who turned and walked the other direction when they saw him coming, she’d been the only one who hadn’t backed down, who’d mouthed off to him, in fact. Repeatedly, and with great abandon. If he’d liked making Greta nervous on his trips to the bookstore, he’d loved trading banter with Charlotte even more. He savored the fearless way she verbally put him in his place.

It was the true reason he’d resisted drinking from her. Although he could erase her memory, he’d never wanted to see recognition and fear darken her face because of him. He didn’t want her reduced to another meal, another victim.

The drugs had shifted his desires. Yes, he’d dreamed of her begging, but not for her life. His fantasies had run more along the lines of her begging him to bend her over a counter to take her from behind. Of taking her throat and drinking just as she reached orgasm, while she begged him never to stop touching her.

He shook himself back to reality. She opened her eyes then, and he could hardly look at her. Her pulse sped, still calling to the monster inside to finish the job. He moved to her and gripped her hands; she fought him until she realized the futility of the act. She closed her eyes and looked away, tears tracking down her cheeks as she waited for him to finish her off.

He listened to her mind as it raced with horrible scenarios. Half of him wanted to act them out, and the other half was horrified he’d put those fears there to begin with.

“Look at me,” he commanded.

She did, her lower lip trembling. “Anthony?” Betrayal. Hurt. Fear. He couldn’t stand it.

He held her gaze, putting the full force of his power behind it. “Forget. Forget everything.”

Charlotte collapsed back on the sofa, and Anthony picked her up and put her in her bed. He wanted to heal the cuts on her foot, but he knew he didn’t have the control not to start drinking again. Instead, he settled for removing the shards of glass from her skin and tucking her under the covers.

When he’d left her, he found a broom and dustpan in the pantry and swept up the debris from the lamp, righting the end table as he made his way back into the kitchen to throw away the broken glass. He stopped one last time by her bedroom. She looked peaceful.

He took a deep breath and let it out in a shuddering whoosh of air. It didn’t matter. She wouldn’t remember what he’d done. She’d go back to smarting off to him. He’d go back to baiting her. And the next time he drank from her would be different.

She woke to the sound of a dog whining and scratching at the door. What the hell? Where was she? The next question came tearing through her brain without preamble. Who was she? She scrambled out of bed, her sleep-filled eyes flitting around the room seeking to light on something recognizable.

The bedroom would have been calming if not for the lack of recognition. Pale blue walls, white wicker furniture, and a handmade quilt in pale blues and lavenders with a hint of spring green filled her line of vision. Fresh flowers bloomed happily in a vase on the bureau. The room smelled like a spring meadow, courtesy of fabric softener, no doubt. Her feet sank into thick carpeting.

Ouch.

She perched on the edge of the bed and lifted her foot to find several small cuts, then limped to the full-length mirror to get a look at the stranger in the room. Red hair, green eyes. She wrinkled her freckled nose. Cute. Now who the hell was she?

She was wearing a cami top and pink capris pajama pants. There was blood on her clothing, but not in a place it could have gotten from her foot. She lifted her top and turned to see if there were more injuries. She wasn’t even sure it was her blood. Had she been injured in some sort of fight?

Had she hit her head? She ran her hands over her scalp, not finding any bumps. The dog continued to whine outside.

When she opened the back door, an Irish Setter with bright eyes bounded in, his tail wagging. He sniffed her, then growled, whimpered, and went to lie on the opposite end of the floor, covering his nose with his paws.

Weird.

Her eyes scanned the room until she found a purse. Jackpot. Inside the red leather bag was a leopard print wallet. She spotted a driver’s license and removed the thick plastic card from the sleeve.

633 Oak Circle. Cary Town, Washington.

According to the birth date, she was twenty-six. The name didn’t feel right though: Charlotte Devlin. She didn’t feel like a Charlotte. She sorted through the rest of the wallet’s contents and discovered a library card that read: Charlee Devlin. Better.

“Now what?” she said to the dog. “I don’t suppose you have ID too?”

He slunk warily to her, looking as if he expected to be tackled to the ground. Charlee hoped she wasn’t a dog abuser. She didn’t feel like a dog abuser. When he reached her, she felt around his neck for his collar. The word “Sammy” was engraved on a shiny gold heart, with a phone number underneath it.

“Sammy. At least I’m a responsible pet owner. Now I know two names. I can totally build a life with this.”

She went to the kitchen and filled a cereal bowl with food she assumed she liked and sat at the table with it. A light from a gray box blinked in the corner.

“More clues.” She pressed the button on the answering machine, and a stilted automated voice came on.

“You have seventeen messages. First message 9:30 am: ‘Charlee, where the hell are you? You were supposed to open the store. I got here, and there was a line down the block. Call me if something’s wrong.’ ”

Beep.

“Second message 9:46 am: ‘This is Greta again, you’re not usually this late. What’s going on? The store opens at eight. Call me.’ ”

Beep.

Charlee glanced at the clock on the wall. Eleven-thirty.

“Third message 9:55 am . . . ”

The pounding on the door overpowered the next message which, going with the odds, was from Greta as well. When she opened the door, a woman with short pixie-cut brown hair stood on the other side, all color drained from her face.

“I’m going to go out on a limb and assume you’re Greta,” Charlee said.

“Huh?” The brunette paused for a second, like she didn’t know what to do with that statement, then rolled ahead. “At first I was just pissed you weren’t there on time because I had the craziest, scariest night of my life and wanted to tell you about it. But then it got later and later, and I got worried. It took me awhile to find someone to cover the store so I could come look for you. Didn’t you get my messages? Why didn’t you call? You have no idea what happened to me last night!”

“I have no idea what happened to me last night.”

“That’s the second time you’ve said something strange and Charlee-like, but not Charlee-like. What is going on with you?”

The redhead took a deep breath. It wasn’t that she wasn’t freaked. She was definitely freaked. But she was in her house, everything seemed safe enough, and whatever had happened to cause her amnesia, crying about it wasn’t going to make her memory come flooding back.

“I don’t remember who I am. Or anything about my life. I just know my name is Charlee because I found my wallet, the dog’s name is Sammy because he has a collar, and your name is Greta because you left messages on the machine. And I just woke up a few minutes ago.”

“Okay, that’s so completely not funny.”

“Which part? That I just got up or the memory-loss thing?”

Greta’s brow furrowed. “How can you be so damn calm about it? If it were me, I’d be hiding under the bed in my fur.”

“In your what?” Charlee wondered what comfort a fur coat brought in times of crisis, especially with such warm weather.

“Nothing. Never mind.”

“I don’t know why I’m not more upset about this. I keep thinking of it as an adventure or puzzle to solve, like a mystery. Does that sound weird?”

Greta smiled. “Not for you. I was on the run for my life recently, and you were all ready to go with me. I think you wanted to start a romance book club.”

Charlee nodded. “That feels right, but now I’m at a dead end. I guess I could look through pictures and home movies if I have any, and you can tell me what you know.” She paused a second, thinking. “Maybe we should take me to the doctor. Isn’t that what normally happens in these situations?”

“I’ve got someone better.”

***

Once they’d left the safety and somewhat controlled circumstances of her house, Charlee’s trepidation grew. It had been hard enough waking in a strange house with a strange dog, both of which were nevertheless comforting. But to ride through a town she couldn’t recognize as people waved to her from the streets was unsettling. She’d fiddled with the radio and had leaned her seat back to listen to music for the rest of the trip. Anything to distract herself from the smiling faces that knew her.

“We’re out of the area you’re supposed to remember now,” Greta said.

Charlee’s eyes snapped open. “You know me well don’t you?”

Greta laughed. “We go way back. If it makes you feel any better it took me about ten minutes to figure out what was going on, and even then it was just a guess.”

“Lucky guess.” Charlee put her seat back up. They were driving through a heavily wooded area now. The redwoods stretched for what seemed like miles straight into the sky around her, enclosing the long, winding road. She rolled her window down and took in the fresh air.

A few minutes later, the car stopped in front of one of the cutest cottages she’d ever seen. It looked like it could have belonged to the witch in Hansel and Gretel, minus the baked goods as building materials. When she stepped out of the car, she heard a babbling brook and birds chirping excitedly in the trees.

“What is this place?”

“Probably my new house. My lease is up soon. But I’m not sure yet, we haven’t talked about it,” Greta said. “Damn, I wish you could remember because I wanted you to have full back story when you got here.”

Charlee moved closer to the door and stopped. “No.”

“What is it?”

“Oh hell no. Nuh uh. Take me back.” Her skin crawled and goose bumps popped out over her arms. It had all seemed so peaceful and nice until the moment she’d stepped closer to the house. Now the only thing going through her mind was panic. The feelings didn’t match the idyllic scene in front of her. It was a paradise, but something low in her gut screamed, run!

“This isn’t like you,” Greta said.

“Then maybe we should listen to it. Something is very wrong with this house. I don’t know what it is, but I can’t go in there.”

“Oh! Hold on a second.”

Greta walked up to the porch leaving Charlee to question the other woman’s intelligence. After a brief rap of knuckles against wood, the door opened, muffled words were exchanged, and then the feeling about the house dissipated. It was suddenly as welcoming in her head as it was to look at.

Greta called from the front porch, “We’re going to wait just a few minutes, while Dayne straightens the house. He wasn’t expecting company.”

Charlee nodded. She wondered if she was insane, but she couldn’t work up the fear and warning she’d experienced only moments before. She felt so stupid now.

Minutes passed and a man came to the door calling out that he was ready for them. He had dark hair and a voice that could melt chocolate. He also had a strong jaw, and his build suggested he might be preparing to star in a cologne commercial sometime soon. Charlee raised an eyebrow at Greta.

“Don’t worry, we just got together. I was going to tell you about this today. You’re not forgetting anything juicy, I promise.”

“That’s a relief. You did good. He’s a hottie.”