Love Bites (7 page)

“It must have been a fast think,” he commented.

She ignored his sarcasm. “And you know, while you had me going at first, I've realized that none of this is true. The jig is up. It's over. You might as well let me go.”

“None of what is true?” he asked with surprise.

“The vampire bit. I can't be a vampire. There is no such thing.”

“Yes, there is. I'm one.”

“No.
You're
crazy. You just think you're a vampire, like those people who think they're werewolves but are really suffering from lycanthropy. You're obviously suffering from a vampire version of that. Vampanthropy or something.”

Etienne rolled his eyes. “I see. So…what about your teeth?”

Her mouth tightened, and she looked uncertain for a moment.

To press the point, Etienne moved to the small refrigerator and grabbed the bag of blood he had offered earlier. He used the long nail on his baby finger to slit it open and moved closer.

When the smell reached her, what Etienne had expected happened: her teeth slid out, lapping over her lower lip—a usual reaction in the newly turned, from what he had heard. It would take her a while to gain control of her body's new instincts. Gasping, Rachel covered her mouth and ran for the bathroom.

Etienne followed. He stood behind her as she examined herself in the mirror, and he knew there was trouble when she suddenly relaxed.

“What?” he asked warily.

“Vampires don't have reflections,” she repeated. “But I do.” She met his gaze in the mirror and smiled. The expression looked rather evil with her new canines.

“A myth,” he reiterated.

“No. It's proof that I'm not a vampire.” She sounded incredibly firm on the point.

“And the teeth?” Etienne asked.

That point seemed to stymie her for a moment, then she relaxed again. “I'm dreaming,” she answered. “This isn't happening at all.” She turned to face him, her smile brilliant. “I'm dreaming of you, because I found you attractive when they brought in your corpse. I made you a vampire in this dream because it's the only way a dead man can live. Well, sort of live.”

She frowned over that paradox, then added, “And in the dream, I've become a vampire too, so that I can be with you.”

“You find me attractive?” Etienne asked, pleased.

“Oh, yes,” she admitted airily. “It's the first time I've ever found a dead man attractive. Perhaps that's part of the reason for this dream too. It's rather weird to be attracted to a corpse, so maybe I had to give you life in this dream to deal with the fact that I found you so attractive.” She tilted her head, considering. “Anyway, you are the most gorgeous corpse I've worked with.”

“Really?” Etienne smiled. No one had ever told him he was a gorgeous corpse before. Of course, he wasn't a corpse and he should really explain, he told himself.

“Well,” she sighed. “What do we do now?”

Etienne blinked. “Do?”

“Yes. What happens next in my dream?” She ex
amined him with interest. “Is this a wet dream?”

“What?” He gaped at her.

“Sorry, I suppose you don't know any more than I do, since you're just a part of my mind symbolizing my attraction to the real you—but I'm not really sure how this works. I've never had a wet dream before. My friend Sylvia has them all the time, but I haven't…that I recall,” Rachel said. She smiled wryly and added, “Too repressed. Catholic girl, you know. Confessing wet dreams to old Father Antonelli would just be too embarrassing.” She frowned. “This one ought to be a doozy. Might give the poor old guy a heart attack.”

“Er …” Etienne found himself suddenly incapable of speech.

Rachel wasn't. “So”—she glanced toward the bed—“since most of this has taken place in a bedroom, I gather it
is
a wet dream.” Her gaze remained on the mattress. “And I presume the fun will take place in this bed. It seems pretty pedestrian compared to Sylvia's dreams, but I suppose that since this is my first one, I subconsciously decided to start slowly.”

Etienne choked on his reply.

Rachel went on with a huff of breath, “Since you're not making any moves, you must represent my less aggressive side.” She sounded disappointed, then perked up a bit as she added, “Well, at least this isn't a rape dream. I don't think I'd care for that.”

“Uh,” Etienne said.

“Oh, wait! This makes perfect sense. I'm a control freak. I probably need to be in control for a wet dream to work. That's probably the only way I'd be comfortable having one.” She glanced at the bed again, then nodded. “Well, let's get to it. I can hardly wait to tell Sylvia. She's always so smug about her dreams. The guy does exactly what she wants, and it's always terribly exciting. The best sex ever. Real men can't compare.”

Rachel moved toward him as she spoke but looked a bit at a loss when Etienne took a nervous step back. She spoke again, some irritation in her tone. “I know I have some control issues, but a
little
aggression wouldn't go amiss.”

“I don't think—”

“Don't think, then,” she suggested. She leaned up to kiss him.

Etienne froze at the feel of her soft lips moving over his. Hunger rose in him, but he didn't dare act on it. Rachel was confused, thinking she was asleep. He had to convince her otherwise—as much as that sucked.

“I've figured out I'm supposed to be the aggressor, but a little help would be nice,” Rachel muttered against his lips. Giving up on kissing him, she grabbed his hand and dragged him to the bed. “Perhaps it would help if we were horizontal.”

“I…” Etienne's words died in a surprised gasp as she tugged, then pushed him over. He barely bounced once on the mattress before she climbed on top and
settled down on his groin. She immediately leaned forward, obviously intending to kiss him again.

Fending her off with a desperation born of the fact that he didn't want to fend her off at all, Etienne grabbed her shoulders and stopped her forward progress. “No! Wait. It's not really a dream.”

“Sure it is,” she countered. “You're my dream guy.”

He weakened a bit. She leaned closer, but he caught himself and stopped her again. She broke free, and he struggled to ignore the hands that ran busily over his chest then set to work on the buttons of his shirt. “No, really. I—Oh, you're good at that.”

Rachel had his buttons undone and his shirt already open. Her cool hands ran greedily over his chest.

“Lots of experience,” she explained. “Often we just cut clothes off, but sometimes we have to undress our corpses. Wow, you have a great body,” she commented.

“Well, thank you. Yours is very nice too,” Etienne said. His eyes fixed on her straining chest as she slid her hands over him. The top three buttons had come undone and a good deal of cleavage was showing. It was nice cleavage.
Very
nice. His tongue slid out and ran along his lips when what he really wanted to run it along was the swell of those breasts.

“Well, I don't know if you had such a nice chest in real life,” she commented, “but in my dream I definitely gave you a perfect one.”

Etienne was congratulating himself over the fact
that she found his chest perfect when he felt her hands move to his waistband.

“You must be really hung too. Let's see.”

“No!” He let go of her shoulders and grabbed her hands.

Rachel peered at him with disappointment. “No? You aren't well hung? But I want you to be. And it's my dream,” she whined.

“No, I meant—” She looked so disappointed that Etienne decided to reassure her. “The men in my family are all well endowed.”

“Oh, goody!” Rachel shrugged his hands away and set to work on his pants.

“But
we can't do this
,” he managed to get out. It was almost painful to say.

“Of course we can. It's my dream and I want to,” she said reasonably.

“Yes, but…Look, I can't in good conscience allow you to do this while you think it's a dream.”

Rachel paused and stared at him, then blew her bangs out of her eyes with a heavy sigh. “Only I would have a wet dream where the guy fights me off.”

“It's not a dream,” Etienne repeated. “And if you would just accept that this is all real, we could—”

“Okay,” Rachel agreed. “It's not a dream.” She grinned.

Etienne eyed her warily. “What?”

“It's not a dream, it's a nightmare. But the best darned nightmare I've had in a long time.”

“No, it's not a nightmare.”

“It certainly is,” she disagreed. “It's every woman's nightmare. Waking up in a sexy man's bed only to find he doesn't want you? Definitely a nightmare.”

“I
do
want you,” Etienne assured her.

“Oh, good. Maybe it's not a nightmare after all, then.” She claimed his lips with her own.

This time, Etienne had no fight left. After a moment's hesitation, he gave in to his desires. The passion that burst to life between them was startling.

Etienne had lived a long time, and sex had become old hat. In fact, his passion for most things had waned over the ages. He'd grown deadly bored with life until recently—until the advent of computers. Those wonderful machines had caught his interest and passion with a vengeance that women hadn't for a long while. But this woman stirred feelings he hadn't enjoyed for centuries. And all with just a kiss?

Etienne was so startled by his body's enthusiastic response, he gave in to it at once, his gentlemanly urges overwhelmed by lust. He released his hold on Rachel's shoulders and slid his hands over her body with hungry caresses impatient at the clothes she wore. With a primitive growl, he caught fabric and tugged, uncaring that he was snapping buttons off his favorite shirt. He didn't possess any bras for her to have pinched, so Rachel wasn't wearing one. It left him free to first gawk at, then cover the round globes of her breasts with his hands.

Rachel broke their kiss with a moan and arched forward into the caress.

“Oh, yes,” she breathed, head thrown back and eyes closed. She covered his hands with her own. “I'm good.”

“You are, are you?” Etienne asked with a chuckle. He sat up until he could reach her breast with his mouth. Closing his lips over her nipple, he sucked it into his mouth and rubbed the hardening nub with his tongue.

“Oh, Gawdddd I'm good,” Rachel gasped. Shifting on his lap, she ground against the erection burgeoning inside his jeans. “Sylvia said wet dreams could be good, but Gawdddd!”

Etienne felt a moment's guilt, but he quickly pushed it aside. She was obviously enjoying her dream, and he had tried to tell her the truth.

His self-justification ended as her hand again found his waistband. This time Etienne didn't try to stop her, instead finding himself sucking in an excited breath, his stomach muscles contracting as she unsnapped the button then lowered the zipper. Her hand had just slipped in when the bedroom door opened. Marguerite stepped inside.

“Well.” Etienne's mother's voice was full of dry amusement. “I gather you two are getting along all right.”

Etienne groaned. His eyes went to Rachel, who sat up to glance around. Her expression was perplexed
when it landed on his mother. “What are you doing in my wet dream?”

“Wet dream?” Marguerite Argeneau shifted her gaze back to her son.

“Er …” was all Etienne said.

“You were supposed to convince her that she
wasn't
dreaming, son.”

“I know,” Etienne said soothingly. He'd never seen his mother so annoyed. She had been sweet and nice to Rachel, ignoring the wet-dream comment and acting as if she hadn't just walked in on an awkward moment. Presenting Rachel with a tote bag filled with clothes collected from her apartment, Marguerite had then suggested Rachel might be more comfortable in them than Etienne's cast-offs. Then she had asked Rachel to come below when she was ready.

Next, she had ushered Etienne out of the room, her silence along the hall and down the stairs warning him that she was more than a little peeved. Now, in
the living room, he tried to defend himself. “I tried to convince her it wasn't a dream. I really did.”

“Well, you apparently failed,” Marguerite snapped. “The girl thinks she's having an erotic dream, for God's sake!”

“An erotic dream?” Bastien echoed. His tone was half-amused, half-horrified.

“Fascinating.” Lucern—a carbon copy of Bastien, except taller—pulled a pen and pad out of his pocket and jotted something down.

Etienne glared at his older brothers, then took a deep calming breath. Turning back to his mother, he said, “She's really resisting the idea of being a vampire. I mean,
really
resisting, Mother. She's twisting her brain and contorting her thoughts in the most convoluted ways to avoid accepting it.”

“Perhaps you haven't presented it properly.”

That deep male voice drew Etienne's attention to the bar, and he raised an eyebrow in surprise at the couple standing there. The man had spoken, but Etienne's gaze found his sister first. Except for the fact that she was blond, Lissianna was an exact replica of their mother. She always looked beautiful, but now, as she crossed the room toward him with a drink, she positively glowed. Being engaged obviously agreed with her.

Etienne glanced at the man following her. Gregory Hewitt. Tall, dark-haired, and good-looking, Lis
sianna's fiancé smiled at him in greeting.

“I didn't realize you two were coming over,” Etienne said. “I thought you were busy with wedding preparations.”

“Never too busy for family,” Lissianna murmured. She hugged him. “Besides, I had to meet your life mate.”

Etienne slumped. His life mate was fighting him tooth and nail—when she wasn't doing completely outlandish things like insisting this was all a wet dream and jumping him.

“As I said,” Gregory reiterated, slipping his arm around Lissianna. She released Etienne and stepped back. “Perhaps you simply haven't presented it in the right light.”

“Of course he hasn't,” Lissianna agreed, smiling. “Once she knows all the benefits, she'll take to it fine.”

“I
told
her the benefits,” Etienne insisted.

“Bet you didn't tell her all of them.” Lissianna's grin somewhat soothed his irritation at her questioning his abilities.

“Bet I did,” he countered.

“We shall see.”

Lissianna shrugged and smiled, but the smile was aimed over his shoulder, making Etienne aware of someone else—Rachel, of course. He turned, his eyes widening as he took in her outfit. She had been wearing dress pants, a blouse, and a lab coat both times he'd seen her in the morgue. She had been naked,
wrapped in a sheet, or wearing one of his shirts here in his home. Now he found himself gaping at her in a pair of tight, faded jeans and a T-shirt that barely reached her midriff. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail and and her face was makeup free. Altogether, she looked about eighteen. A very sexy eighteen.

Etienne was wowed.

 

“Umm, these aren't … er …” Rachel shifted on her feet, tugging nervously on the bottom of her T-shirt in an effort to draw it down to hide her belly. “I don't suppose you brought any other clothes back from my apartment, did you?”

“I'm sorry. No, dear. Are they wrong?” Marguerite asked. Getting to her feet, she approached. “Aren't they yours? I got them out of your closet. They were the only casual clothes I could find.”

“Yes. Yes, they're mine,” Rachel said quickly. “But they're old. I mean, I haven't worn jeans since graduating University, and I've obviously outgrown them.” She frowned down at herself and tugged on the top again. “I should have thrown them out, really, but I'm something of a packrat.”

“No, you look wonderful.” Marguerite took her hand and drew her to the couch. Once she was seated, the woman patted her hand and said, “From what Etienne has told us, you appear to be a little confused.”

“I'm not the one confused,” Rachel said, though she was no longer sure that was the case. This dream had taken a surreal twist. She wasn't sure what was happening. Dream? Nightmare? Feverish imaginings? Was it all just bad drugs?

“Ah. Well.” Marguerite smiled widely. “Perhaps if you tell me the last thing you recall before waking, we could work from there.”

“The last thing,” Rachel pondered. The logic was comforting. Marguerite wasn't claiming to be a vampire or insisting Rachel was, either. Maybe this would all work itself out.

She ran her tongue over her upper teeth, relieved to find them perfectly normal. This all had to be the result of bad drugs. She rubbed absently at her chest where the ax had severed skin but left no scar. She was probably comatose right now and a bad morphine drip was giving her weird dreams. Not necessarily bad dreams. Those few heated moments in the bedroom hadn't been bad at all. In fact, the only bad part to her mind was that it had ended so abruptly—and without satisfaction.

“The last thing I remember…” she repeated, pushing other thoughts aside. “I was at work for the first time after being sick for a week.”

“Uh-huh.” Marguerite nodded encouragingly.

“Tony was off, and Beth was late.” She glanced up and added, “Car trouble.”

Marguerite made a murmur of possible sympathy for the unknown Beth and her car.

“Fred and Dale, a couple of EMTs, brought in a crispy critter.”

“A crispy critter?”

Rachel glanced at the man seated across from her. He, like the man from earlier, looked a lot like a brunette Etienne, but a little grumpier. And he had a pad he seemed to be making notes on. She stared curiously at the notebook on his knee and answered, “Burn victim.”

“You call them crispy critters?” Bastien, the first brunette, asked in distress.

Rachel heaved an inward sigh. It was difficult to explain such seeming coldheartedness to people not in the industry, but she gave it a try.

“Death can be pretty grim. Sometimes we use such terms to…well, basically, to distance ourselves from the tragedy. And every case is a tragedy, whether burn victim or heart attack. Every individual is loved by someone and will be grieved over. We're aware of that, but we have to push it to the back of our minds or we simply couldn't do our jobs.” She could tell by the expressions of those around her that they didn't really understand. She supposed no one really could. Her job was difficult work, both technically and emotionally. She and her co-workers did their best to respect the dead, but some of their coping mechanisms…

“So this Fred and Dale brought in a burn victim,” the young blond woman prompted.

“Yes.” Rachel glanced curiously from her to the woman who'd collected her clothes. The two could have been twins but for the difference in their hair colors. Then Rachel's gaze slid to Etienne again, and confusion filled her. “Yes, a car explosion victim. Fred and Dale left, and I started to process the burn victim and noticed that the burnt skin seemed to be coming away as if it wasn't burnt skin at all but something blown onto him by the explosion. Then I thought I saw his chest move. So I tried to take a pulse, but as I did…” She hesitated. This was where things got murky. Not because she couldn't recall—Rachel would never forget that ax entering her body—but because there was no wound now and nothing made sense.

“But as you did…” the man with the pad prompted.

“The door to the morgue slammed open.” She forced herself to continue. “A man was there, dressed in khakis and a trench coat. He whipped the trench coat open and had a rifle hanging on a strap from one shoulder and an ax from the other. He yelled at me.” Her gaze flicked with uncertainty to Etienne again, then away.

“He yelled to get back, that the burn victim was a vampire. Then he rushed forward, raising the ax as he came. I realized he meant to cut off my burn victim's
head, but I couldn't let him. I wasn't sure the man was really dead. I moved between them, hoping to stop him, but he was already committed. He couldn't stop, and the ax…” Her voice trailed off, and she reached absently to rub below her collarbone.

Silence reigned for a moment, then Rachel cleared her throat and finished, “He was horrified by what he did. He tried to help me, but I was in shock and scared, then I think someone started to come into the morgue. He spooked, told me help would soon arrive, told me to stay alive, then turned and fled.”

“Bastard,” Etienne breathed. He turned to the others. “I definitely say we call the police and claim he kidnapped her. Let them lock him away.”

“But he didn't kidnap me,” Rachel said.

“That doesn't matter,” Etienne claimed. “It'll be your word against his, and someone saw him enter the hospital with weapons. They'll believe you.”

“But he didn't kidnap me,” she repeated.

“No, he just tried to kill you,” he replied sarcastically. Turning back to the others, he added, “We can have her call the police from a phone booth near his house and claim she just escaped, then—”

“I'm not doing that,” Rachel interrupted. “I'll tell the police that he accidentally hit me with the ax while aiming for you, and that he seemed to regret it at once, but I will not claim he kidnapped me. That would be lying.”

Her host huffed with exasperation. “Rachel, he tried to
kill
you.”

“Actually, no, he didn't,” she argued. “That was an accident.”

“Okay. So he tried to kill me,” he snapped.

“Well, if you're a soulless bloodsucker like you claim, who could blame him for trying to kill you!”

 

Everyone gasped. Then Marguerite burst out laughing.

Etienne gaped at her. “Mother! How can you laugh at that?”

“She's so delightful, dear,” she excused, then turned to pat Rachel's hand. “He isn't soulless, child. None of us are. Neither are you.”

Rachel looked mutinous. Marguerite apparently decided not to convince her, but to take a different approach. She said, “Let me introduce my children. You've met Etienne, of course.”

Etienne offered an encouraging smile, but he doubted Rachel noticed it. Her gaze skated nervously to him, then away as she nodded and blushed.

“And this is my daughter Lissianna, and her fiancé Gregory.” Marguerite smiled as she gestured to the pair, then waited for Lissi and Greg to shake Rachel's hand and welcome her. She next turned to her elder sons. “And these are my oldest boys—Lucern and Bastien. Stop grinning like that, boys. You'll make Rachel uncomfortable.”

Etienne's head snapped around. A glare covered
his face when he saw the way both men were leering.

“Umm, excuse me,” Rachel interrupted, her confused gaze on Marguerite. “Did you say your
children?
”

“Yes.” Marguerite smiled.

“But you're far too young to—”

“Thank you, dear,” Marguerite interrupted with a laugh. “But I am much older than I look.”

Rachel's eyes narrowed. “How much older?”

“I'm seven hundred and thirty-six.”

Rachel blinked, then cleared her throat. “Seven hundred and thirty-six?” she echoed.

“Yes, dear.” Marguerite nodded.

Rachel nodded.

They all nodded.

Then Rachel shook her head, closed her eyes, and Etienne distinctly caught the words, “I'm still dreaming. But it's turned into a nightmare again.”

Much to Etienne's surprise, his mother burst out laughing again and patted her hand. “It's not a dream. Or a nightmare. Or even a wet dream,” she explained. “This is all really happening. We are—though we don't much care for the term—vampires, and I really am seven hundred and thirty-six years old.”

“I see.” Rachel nodded again, then closed her eyes and shook her head.

Her eyes blinked open and she cried out in surprised pain as Marguerite reached over and pinched her. “You aren't dreaming,” the woman said. “That pinch would have woken you up. This is all really
happening. We are vampires. And you are now, too.”

“You say that like it's a good thing,” Rachel muttered. Then she added, “This whole family is loony.”

“Perhaps if Bastien were to explain the scientific basis of it,” Greg said suddenly. He wore a sympathetic look that reminded Etienne he had only recently dealt with all of this himself.

“Yes.” Bastien stood and moved to join Rachel on the sofa. Etienne watched Marguerite get up and move to the bar to poke around in the fridge. He suspected his mother was having a little drink from his private stock of blood. He doubted if any of them had stopped to feed before coming over. They were all concerned about this matter. Pudge's knowledge and obsession was a threat to them all.

“You see,” Bastien began, taking Rachel's hand and smiling at her in a way Etienne didn't care for. “‘Vampire' is a term that we didn't choose. It was applied to us, and we accept its expediency when dealing with mortals—er … non-vampire types, I mean. But it isn't quite correct.”

“It isn't?” Rachel sounded wary.

“No. At least not in the way that vampires have come to be known. We aren't this way due to any curse,” Bastien explained, “or because God shunned us. Hence the reason religious symbols have no effect on us.”