I Want You to Want Me (5 page)

“What night was that?” He could feel nausea rising, making it hard to swallow.

“Early April, I think.”

Vittorio nodded. She’d killed herself right around the time he’d seen her. Or she’d been killed.

Maksim waited. And waited. Frankly, demons were not known for their patience. But his frustration was compounded by the fact that he couldn’t simply enter this vampire’s mind, take the information he wanted, and be done with him. His mind-connect couldn’t work with other preternatural creatures.

So he had to find out the answers he wanted, the old-fashioned way. Eavesdropping. Tedious—especially when he wasn’t in the position to do so.

He leaned back on his barstool, trying to peer through the doorway that led to the back room. Vittorio still sat at the bar, his profile to him, nursing a drink and occasionally chatting with the female bartender back there.

The vampire looked decidedly ill. Although the lighting in this joint was hardly flattering. And the undead often did look a little peaked. But still Maksim got the feeling that it wasn’t the unflattering lighting and lack of a pulse that made this one look unwell. Given Vittorio’s rapid pace and intent look as he walked here, he had come to find out something. And that something apparently wasn’t sitting well.

There was no way for Maksim to move closer without garnering notice, so he was stuck here trying to decipher any vibes he could pick up, which were diluted by the others in the bar.

Maksim sighed, pushing his lukewarm beer away. Well, if this vampire had any dastardly deeds planned for the evening, he wasn’t rushing off to act on them. Frankly, he didn’t look in any shape to do anything terribly dastardly anyway.

There was nothing to be learned here tonight. Maksim was better off going back to Orabella and trying to gather any information he could from her. And she would ask him to continue following this Vittorio. So there would be other times to figure out the deal with this vampire and his relationship to Orabella.

He fished around in the pockets of his jeans for a few dollars. He tossed the crumpled bills on the bar and strolled out of the narrow, squalid little hole-in-the-wall.

Vittorio sat in the bar for how long, he didn’t know. Then he wandered back to Ren’s house, taking the long way, the darker, dangerous streets away from the relative safety and lights of Bourbon Street.

Several shady-looking characters approached him, one asking for a cigarette, another asking for money, the third drunk, and itching for a fight. None of them worried Vittorio. This is where he’d spent much of his time when he’d lived here. Trying to help these people. And trying to save himself.

But all his efforts hadn’t done an ounce of good. How hadn’t he realized what was going on?

He unlocked the large barnlike doors that led into Ren’s house. The courtyard was dimly lit and silent. The air was heavy and still, humidity hanging in the air like an entity unto itself.

Even as he told himself not to look, his eyes moved right to the windows of the lower apartment. Erika’s apartment was dark. Hardly a surprise, it had to be after 3 a.m. She’d said she kept odd hours too, but he doubted they were as late as his. Most mortals’ weren’t.

Despite the horrible things he’d discovered tonight, he still found himself longing to see Erika. Was he mad? He couldn’t risk being a part of her life. Or rather making her a part of his. What he’d learned tonight was enough to ram home that fact.

Julianne. She of all the women was proof he had to be careful. He hadn’t been anything more to her than a sympathetic listener—someone to listen to her, period. She’d been a good girl, not part of the darkness he usually surrounded himself with. She was out of her element in the Big Easy. Shy, quiet and not suited to the wild bawdiness of Bourbon Street. But she’d come here and was determined to stay because of her love for a musician who worked at one of the many bars on Bourbon.

She hadn’t been happy here. But her boyfriend hadn’t struck Vittorio as the type to settle down into a mundane, domestic life. So to have him, she had to stay in his world.

Maybe she had really killed herself. Although she hadn’t struck Vittorio as that type either. But he really didn’t know. And somehow, awful as it was, her taking her own life was a better alternative to the one he’d come up with.

That women were being killed just because they knew him.

He dropped down on one of the wrought iron benches nestled among the overgrown magnolias and ferns and other lush greenery. Maybe he was wrong about everything. Twenty-one women dying was hardly a huge number when you factored in the number of years he’d been alive, and the lives they’d led. Maybe the deaths had been, if not natural, at least not abnormal.

He crossed his arms across his chest and closed his eyes, feeling every bit his two hundred-plus years. Sometimes he thought it would be almost lovely to have a natural death. Hell, he’d thought that a lot during his first years of vampirism.

Just then the still night air was filled with a brief shriek as loud and skin-crawling as what he imagined Julianne’s cry to her death had been. Vittorio shot upright, all muscles tense, all senses alert, any feelings of weariness gone.

But it wasn’t Julianne.

Erika!

T
he horrible cry seemed to come from her apartment, but the acoustics of the enclosed courtyard made it hard to be certain. And now all was quiet again. Not even a hint of sound from Bourbon Street reached his ears.

Vittorio rose slowly, listening intently. He took careful steps across the flagstones, edging closer to the apartments.

Just as he reached the first step leading up to the glassed-in porch, another scream slashed through the silence. Vittorio leapt up the stairs and shoved open the old door, the hinges squeaking in protest, although the sound hardly registered as it was drowned out by another cry. Keening, broken and absolutely terrified.

Now there was no doubt from where the screams came. They echoed out of Erika’s apartment like the haunted shrieks of a banshee.

A corresponding fear welled up inside him. What was happening to her? He tried the handle of her door. The knob refused to budge. He absently noted that it hadn’t been tampered with, but he knew there were creatures out there who didn’t need to break a window or a lock to enter a building.

Another horror-filled screech sliced through the darkness. Vittorio didn’t hesitate. He concentrated, then he faded, becoming no more tangible than the shadows surrounding him.

He rematerialized on the other side of the locked door, trying to get his bearings. He’d not fed for days—not an unusual thing for him. He could go long periods without stealing the human life force that he needed to survive. But the lack of sustenance made using his preternatural abilities more difficult. And more than a little disorienting.

He swayed slightly, as he tried to focus on something, anything, in the dark room to ground him. But before he could find anything, a shadow darted past his feet, pure black and low to the ground. He stumbled backward, more surprised than unnerved.

The pitch-black shadow skittered around the sofa, then leapt up and perched on the back of a large chair. Gold eyes peered through the dark, only to disappear, then slowly reappear, regarding Vittorio with an almost disdainful boredom.

It only took Vittorio a few moments to realize he was being stared down by a cat. He released a pent-up breath, amazed he had been so easily startled by the creature.

Another scream filled the air, reminding him of why he was really so rattled. The cry was close, deafening in its proximity.

Vittorio stepped farther into the room, focusing all his attention on locating Erika—and whatever was terrifying her so.

He spotted her on the sofa, her form barely visible. Her shout tapered down to small whimpers, the frightened sound no less disturbing.

“Erika?” he said quietly, rounding the sofa, moving guardedly, watching for any other movement aside from the cat. But as he got closer, he realized Erika was huddled alone among the jumbled sofa cushions, her body curled into itself. Looking small and helpless.

He reached over to the end table and switched on the lamp. Soft yellow light pushed away some of the darkness. He leaned over her, seeing her eyes were wide open, staring unfocused, straight ahead.

“Erika?”

“Go away,” she moaned, pulling her knees tighter to her chest.

He straightened, unsure what to do. He supposed he was the last person she would want to help her. But the paleness of her face, and the clear horror in her stormy gray eyes made it impossible for him to leave.

“Are you hurt?”

She didn’t respond, her glassy stare still focused somewhere past him.

“Erika?” He pressed a hesitant hand to her shoulder. She jerked under the gentle touch.

“Oh God,” she wailed. “Please don’t hurt me!”

He immediately dropped his hand from her shoulder. “I won’t hurt you.”

“You are! You are already!”

He frowned, not understanding. Surely his light touch couldn’t have caused her pain. And he didn’t intend to threaten her, but he stepped back anyway, giving her space.

“Erika, please tell me what’s going—”

Before he could even finish his question, another scream tore from her throat. Then another until Vittorio couldn’t stop himself from reaching for her, pulling her against him until she was on his lap, her rigid body cradled against him.

“Erika?” He held her, smoothing his hand down the delicate curve of her spine, making soothing nonsensical sounds, willing her to calm.

Finally she did relax, her head nestling under his chin, her fingers lax and curled against his chest.

He held her, unsure what to do. Finally, he shifted her slightly, trying to see her face. Her eyes were closed, her breathing even.

Had she just been dreaming?

He held her for a while longer, allowing his own body to relax along with hers. She hadn’t even been awake when she’d been gaping in terror at some dreamed villain.

He held her for a moment longer, savoring the feeling of her in his arms, her slight weight, the sultry scent of cinnamon clinging to her flawless, almost translucent skin. Her soft rear end situated perfectly against him.

He fought back a groan as his body reacted, much against his will. That was when he sensed her energy flowing around him, spinning like a fragrant, enticing cocoon, encompassing them both. He’d been able to ignore it when he’d been shaken by her screams. Now he couldn’t. She smelled and felt too good.

He breathed in deeply, relishing the satisfying sensation of her delightful energy deep inside him. Then he froze, abruptly halting himself. God, what was he doing? He never took his energy like this—one on one. When he did feed, he went into crowds, taking from many. Keeping it impersonal, unemotional.

Quickly, yet carefully, he edged Erika away from him, arranging her on the cushions and sliding out from underneath her. But as he stood and started toward the door, Erika stirred.

“Vittorio,” she murmured as she blinked up to catch him at the end of the sofa.

Then she immediately sat upright, her hand going to her chest, her eyes wide as she realized he was real. Not a part of another vivid dream.

“Vittorio?” Her voice was raspy from sleep. The sound brushed over his skin as powerful and enticing as her smell, as her energy. His nerve-endings tingled.

He didn’t respond, his body in overdrive, his mind blank.

“What are you doing here?”

“I—I heard you screaming.”

She frowned, clearly confused, then remembrance dawned on her face. “Oh, yes, I had the worst dream. Someone was trying to kill me.”

He nodded, having deduced the nightmare had been something along those lines. “Yes.”

He didn’t know what else to say. He just knew he had to get out of there.

She brushed back her dark hair from her face and released a shuddering breath. “I’m sorry if I disturbed you.”

Yes, she definitely disturbed him, but not in the way she meant. First he’d been terrified right along with her, and now he was painfully attracted to her. Oh yeah, she disturbed him all right.

She sat there for a moment, her gaze distant, fear still lingering in her eyes. Even though this look was much better than the wide-eyed, unblinking stare she’d had as she’d dreamed.

“I can’t remember ever having a nightmare that horrible. And that realistic.” She shivered, wrapping her arms around her midsection.

Vittorio’s fingers twitched with the longing to touch her, to comfort her. But he couldn’t. It might seem like a compassionate gesture, but really, it would be the height of selfishness.

She shivered again, but then forced a smile. “I don’t think I’ll be going to sleep again right away.”

She slid her legs off the sofa and sat up, clearly trying to shake off the residual effects of the dream.

She stared at the coffee table, again in that way that indicated she wasn’t really seeing the table. But he noted the plate of sticky-looking bars she’d made for him. Half of them were gone. And he felt a pang about that. She’d come down and eaten them herself. The unwanted offering. Somehow the image upset him. He should have just taken them. What harm would there have been in that?

“I figured, why let them go to waste.”

Vittorio’s eyes met hers, startled to realize she’d followed his stare and was explaining the missing pieces.

He met her gaze again, pulled in by the grayness of her eyes. Stormy blue at times. Then all dove gray and soft-hearted other times. And somewhere in between now. Shaken and uncertain.

He glanced back at the plate, then asked, “Are you okay now?”

She nodded, then her lips twisted into a pained grimace. “I hate to be this silly, but will you stay while I go check the other rooms? I really do feel—jumpy.”

That was the least Vittorio could do. After all, until he saw her on the sofa alone, he’d thought her screams could have been caused by something he’d brought upon her. The idea sickened him, like the nausea from earlier in the bar.

“Let me check,” he offered, heading toward her hallway.

“Thank you,” she said in a small voice, but he didn’t glance back in her direction.

The way she looked, delicate and scared, called to him. He wanted to hold her, protect her. But his presence would not give her protection. Even if he wasn’t right about the deaths of the women in his past being connected to him, he wasn’t the type of guy who’d be any good at playing the knight in shining armor.

Not to mention, he was simply too attracted to her energy. He wanted to sample it, to feel it inside himself.

He headed down the dark hall. The rooms were still, and he didn’t sense anything there but the vibe of Erika herself. Her energy seemed to permeate the old walls, giving the whole apartment a new, warm feeling.

Yearning flared inside him, reinforcing why he had to get out of here, quickly.

Still, when he reached her bedroom, he flipped on the light, telling himself it was for her benefit—and certainly not his own curiosity. He paused in the doorway, surveying all the nuances of the room.

Her bed was piled with pillows and covered with a plush velvet duvet in a rich deep blue. Gilded lamps with bead-fringed shades sat on each side of the large bed. An oval mirror hung on one wall and a painting of cherubs took up a majority of the wall behind the bed.

The room could have reminded him of a baroque bordello, but instead Vittorio found himself appreciating the flow of colors and textures. It was a room that revealed the artist in Erika. Each piece of furniture complimented the other until the whole room radiated a feeling, a personality.

He tried to sense something amiss in the room. But nothing was uncomfortable there. He focused on the other smaller bedroom that she was using to store her art supplies, and the bathroom.

There was nothing wrong—no residual energy from anyone else being there. Well, except for the cat. And he only had a distinctly disdainful air. Typical cat.

Vittorio headed back to the living room. Erika was no longer seated on the sofa. Now she paced, her arms wrapped around herself as if she was freezing. Her eyes didn’t look any less haunted.

“Everything is fine.” He kept his voice low, but laced it with conviction. She needed to believe she would be safe. There was nothing worse than not feeling secure in your own home. He knew that feeling all too well.

She nodded, but her arms tightened around her and she glanced at the hallway, clearly not believing him. He looked toward the front door, knowing that he shouldn’t stay any longer. But he couldn’t make himself go.

She pulled in a breath, then paced back to the kitchen counter.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her tone frustrated, and he knew the emotion was directed at herself. “I know I’m acting ridiculous, but that dream…it was so vivid. So…”

She shook her head, unable to give words to the horrible images in her head.

Vittorio watched her a moment longer, her fear making the air heavy. He shifted, uncertain what to do, how to help her.

Finally, he moved to the sofa and sat. He patted the cushion next to him. “Come. I’ll sit with you until you fall back asleep.”

She gave him a weak smile. “I don’t think that’s going to happen again tonight.”

He didn’t say anything. He just tapped the cushion again.

Her eyes moved to his hand, but she didn’t move. Probably not sure if she could really trust him. He couldn’t blame her. But she eventually crossed to the sofa, her movements wooden.

She sank down, not touching him—for which he was grateful. She was too much temptation even without her body directly against his.

They were both silent for several seconds, then Erika turned to him, her knee very close to his. He could feel her heat.

“You don’t have to stay,” she said. “I appreciate you checking out the apartment. I’ll be okay.”

He knew he should take the opportunity to exit. But he couldn’t leave her looking so distressed, so pale.

“Just lay down.”

“Excuse me?” Her brows rose, her expression almost comical. A better look than the lingering fear.

He felt a smile tug at his lips. “It’s four a.m. You need to try to go back to sleep.”

“I really don’t think that’s going to happen.”

“Try,” he said, keeping his voice low, and slightly coaxing.

She considered him for a moment, then turned to arrange the jumbled cushions. She slid away from him, and settled down. Her body was stiff, and her legs were curled up so even her feet didn’t touch him. The position didn’t look overly comfortable, and he thought about suggesting they move to her bedroom, but immediately dismissed the idea.

He prided himself on good self-control, but being in a bed with her would test even his limits. Who was he kidding? She tested his limits by just breathing.

“Close your eyes,” he murmured, trying to lull her with his voice. He half expected her to reject the idea. But she did as he asked, her lids fluttering shut.

Then he closed his own eyes. He started to draw in her energy, then stopped. He couldn’t do this. It wasn’t right.

He glanced at her, and her eyes were open, staring straight ahead. She was clearly reliving her dream. He could help her. He could take just enough of her energy to make her relax and sleep. Was that selfish?

Yes. But he couldn’t leave her this way.