Personal Demon (9 page)

“Out of your comfort zone,” he said.

“Stop reading me.”

“Can’t help picking up things when I’m open and trying to get a clue about your intruder. Now, stop thinking and let me have a deep look around.”

Oh, it was
her
fault he was reading her mind!

He touched the window frame, ran a finger up the glass, then sniffed it.

Was he a bloodhound or a vampire? He certainly didn’t talk like any telepath she knew.

“I’m not like any telepath you’ve ever known.” He continued staring at the window. He tilted his head back and forth.

Maybe he was a vampire dog. She’d heard rumors about the canine creatures a few strigoi bred as pets.

“Were you bitten by a hellhound?”

“Something familiar here.” He paused for a while, staring at nothing. “No. Can’t get it.” He closed and locked the window and finally turned his full attention on her. “Come on. Let’s go to bed.”

Oddly enough, there was nothing salacious about what he said.

Ivy managed a stiff smile. “You know where the bedroom is. Make yourself comfortable.”

He finally let her hand go. It felt odd to not have Christopher touching her, but they were still crowded closely
together in the little room. She considered backing into the shower to get a little bit of space between them.

Before she could, he picked her up around the waist, turned her around, and set her down in the bedroom. He caught her gaze. “You are very tired.”

“Of course I am!” Completely, utterly exhausted after the most hellish night of her life. She was bruised, betrayed, threatened, and abducted. “But I’m not about to get hypnotized when you’re being so obvious about it. I’m also not the one who is going to pass out the moment the sun rises.”

“You might at least want to take your coat off,” Christopher said.

He moved, fingers dancing over the front of her body faster than she could see. It tickled, but she didn’t even have time to squirm. She was left with the tactile memory of his touch tingling all over her. When he was done, her coat was on the floor around her feet.

And there was a handcuff dangling from her left wrist. He was wearing the other cuff. “I noticed that you’re left-handed,” he told her.

Ivy wanted to scream. She pulled on the cuff. The vampire ignored her. He took her across the room with him when he went to turn off the light. Then down on the bed beside him after turning back the covers. He took off her shoes. He even tucked her in. While he did all this, she lay still and stiff, too aware of the domestic intimacy. His shoulder brushed against hers on the bed when he settled beside her.

“I don’t sleep on my back,” she said. And she was used to sleeping alone.

“Cuddle if you want. I won’t notice.”

Ivy closed her eyes. The moment she did, the aches all over her body vied for her attention. Trapped, and in pain, a big male body against hers. She expected Christopher to tell her to stop being so melodramatic. But he didn’t say a word.

“The sun must be up,” she said.

But she couldn’t work up the courage to take a look at him until she began to imagine that the vampire was going stiff and cold.

She knew, or at least had been told, that vampires didn’t do that.

Ivy propped herself on her elbows and turned her head. There was enough of a gap in the curtains to let in some morning light. She took a look at the big vampire stretched out beside her. He was lying on his back, on top of the covers, hands at his sides. She couldn’t tell if he was comfortable or not. At least he’d shed his leather coat.

“He looks so peaceful,” she murmured, with a sneer.

But only for a moment could she manage to hide in cynicism how disturbing seeing him in this dead-looking state was. She knew very well that the vampire wasn’t dead in the daytime. It was so much worse than that.

He wasn’t there!

The sight of him twisted her guts. Because He—Wasn’t—There.

But absence of life wasn’t quite right, either.

It was said by mortals who studied such things that vampires withdrew deep into their own minds during daylight hours. Or they sent their spirits out to roam through the thoughts and dreams of others. Vampires who experienced it, such as Lawrence, said you couldn’t explain it, you had to live through it—which Aunt Cate told him wasn’t as funny as he thought it was.

Ivy knew that it wasn’t sunlight that made vampires helpless during the day. Vampires had no allergies to light, not any more than normal people. She knew that there were some who slept outside. Of course, these were the powerful, well-hidden ones, surrounded by loyal slaves and companions who guarded them with their lives. And turned them
over at regular intervals to make sure they got tanned on all sides.

Legend said that their whole passing-out-from-dawn-until-dusk trait was the result of some horrible curse. A curse all vampires passed on to the mortals they chose to change.

“What a horrible way to exist,” Ivy murmured as she looked at Christopher’s still face.

She hated vampires. You had to hate the predators out to draw her psychic kind into their grasp, to force the curse of immortality on those who didn’t want their souls dragged into the dark. Oh, yes, she hated this Christopher Bell, who’d made his way into her bed. But looking at him, Ivy also felt sorry for him.

What?

She swiped her free hand across her burning eyes. Was she fighting tears? Feeling sorry for a vampire? That was her own exhaustion battering at her mental defenses. She should just accept that she was stuck where she was for a few uncomfortable hours, lie back down, and not pay him any more attention.

But she couldn’t do that, not just yet. She put it down to scientific curiosity, to learning about the enemy. Maybe she needed to put her hand over Christopher’s heart to find out if it really beat. Did it remember that he had once been a man?

She undid the first three buttons on his black shirt and slipped her hand inside, placing her palm flat on the skin above his heart. She would have preferred that skin to be cool and hard, for him to be closer to a statue than a person. But no, he was as warm and supple as any living male. And he felt very male. The man beside her was disturbingly male, lean but muscular.

His heart did beat. Slowly. He breathed, just as slowly. She could feel the whisper of each breath even though she
couldn’t feel his chest rise and fall. It took minutes between each faint thump inside his chest, each stirring of air.

She could feel it, but she couldn’t see it. Maybe she only imagined these signs of life. It was certainly easier for her to believe she was trapped beside a living being and not chained to a dead one.

After a while, she couldn’t take it anymore. She was too tired to keep up the attempt at thought. It was likely the convoluted thoughts came from her exhaustion.

Ivy lay back down. She stared up at shadows on the ceiling and waited, waited, waited…

T
he night was just too dark to be real. Gaslights burned on street corners every few blocks, but they somehow didn’t throw any light. Oily smoke curled, snakelike, in the air. Christopher had been on this street before. He’d heard the ring of his boots on the damp cobblestone. But, of course, it was different. This had to be a dream.

He had more important things to do with his sleep than dream!

Furious with himself, he stopped beneath one of the useless gaslights. Looking around sharply. Listening. Seeking.

Understanding.

Ah. Symbolism, of course.

The fire giving out no light was his brain informing him that being angry wasn’t going to bring understanding.

“Go with the symbolism, you fool. See what happens.”

He leaned a shoulder against the lamppost, crossed his arms, and waited.

It wasn’t long before the scent of red swirled out of the night. Heels clicked on cobbles, the delicate
tap, tap
coming closer.

Then the pretty girl stood in front of him. She looked up at him, all big eyes, lush mouth, and the cutest button of a nose. She placed her hand over his heart. The delicate touch sent a hammerblow through him.

He grasped her wrist, meaning to push her away. Her nails long, sharp, painted bright pink. He pressed her palm closer against his chest, his hand huge covering hers. “Don’t stop!”

“Stop what?” She batted her eyelashes at him.

Her accent was foreign. Yank? He’d expected Cockney. She was a whore, wasn’t she? One of the ones being hunted by—

“Don’t stop touching me.”

She opened her mouth. But he was kissing her hard and hungrily before she could speak. Better that way. The woman talked too much.

Her scream filled his mouth.

I
vy ran. She ran and ran. The horror just kept drawing closer. Shadows. Shadows everywhere. Shadows dripping blood. Shadows made of blood. Shadows full of screams. And the faces of the dead. Names came to her. Names she knew she would know. She’d be one of those names. Annie. Mary. Polly. Liz. Ivy.

“My name’s not Ivy!”

“My name’s not Jack!” howled at her out of the shadows.

She touched her lips. They were tender, swollen like she’d just been kissed. What did that have to do with—?

“Hold on. I’ve got you!”

Arms came around her, pulled her out of the shadows. Into different shadows.

“What’s going on?” she asked Christopher.

“It’s a dream.”

“Are we safe?”

“No. But it’s still a dream. I’ve been here before.”

“Nothing’s made sense since I met you.”

“I know. What have you done to me, woman?”

“Did you kiss me?”

“I thought you were a whore.”

She slapped him on the shoulders. “You don’t kiss hookers. Everybody knows that.”

“My mistake.”

“Where are we—no, don’t tell me.” She looked around. It was a dream, but not like any dream Ivy had ever had. She recognized this place, a place like it. “Johnny Depp movie,” she said. “
From Hell.
Based on a graphic novel. About Jack the Ripper.”

“I’ve seen that movie.” Christopher snorted. “It didn’t happen like that. Or any other Jack the Ripper movie. No conspiracies, no lodgers or queen’s grandsons as suspects. Just poor women dying horribly. Hardly the first serial killer in the world, certainly not the last—but the first with his own media circus.”

“I know that. I like history.” Ivy eyed him nervously. “I suppose you were there? In nineteenth-century London.”

“I was there.” His face and voice were expressionless.

She looked around the dark and sleazy setting. “Was it like this?”

“Smelled worse,” he said. “It was dirtier. I see by your grimace that you don’t think that is possible.”

She shook her head. “The problem is, I
can
believe it. I’m trying not to throw up thinking about it. It would only add to the miasma.”

Her stomach roiled with fear and nausea for another reason. Was Christopher Jack the Ripper? Was he the shadow that had been chasing her?

“You’ve been here before?” she asked. “Are you him? Did you kill those women?”

He was outraged. He almost glowed with it. His whole body tensed as he shouted, “How could you ask that?”

“You’re a vampire!” she shouted back.

“I wasn’t then!” He turned away. “I wasn’t then.” He whispered this time. She barely heard him add, “I lost my life. Lost a life.”

His pain and regret washed off him, over her. She couldn’t stop from reaching out to Christopher. His shoulders were hard with tension when she touched them, slumped with despair. It made her want to hold him.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry. I am.”

She was, but she didn’t know why. He was a vampire. This was a dream. What’s the difference between a vampire and a serial killer? Was there a punch line to this when it was in no way a joke?

She wanted to say something comforting. To make it better. “It’s a dream,” she said. “You said we’re in a dream.”

He turned, but her hands were still on his shoulders when they faced each other. They were in a dream all right.

She was in a dream. Of course. They weren’t in this together.

“We aren’t in this together, are we?”

He’d been looking over her head, his thoughts so very far away. He looked at her. The sadness in his blue eyes pierced through her.

“Damn it,” she muttered. Her fingers worked the tense muscles in his shoulders, worked down his arms. He began to relax a little. She was good at her job. “Answer me,” she pleaded.

“We’re in this together,” he said. “I have no idea why. Or how. We don’t dream like normal people.”

She wanted to know what he meant by
we
, but something more important came up first.

This time she pulled his head down to her, and kissed him. He wasn’t the only one whose mouth could be hungry, demanding.

T
he ringing telephone jolted Ivy out of the deep, disturbing dream.

“Oh, thank Goddess!” she croaked. Her mouth held the memory of a kiss. Awareness of her body was—

The phone rang again. It sounded farther away than it should be. She sat up, glanced around groggily, looking past the vampire’s prone body. The phone was not in its cradle on the nightstand on Christopher’s side of the bed. The ringing came from out in the hallway.

Damn, the bastard had her trapped. She couldn’t get out of bed. She couldn’t call for help. She couldn’t get up and go to the bathroom, even. If she screamed until a neighbor called the police, what was she supposed to tell them about the dead guy in bed with her?

She rattled her wrist.

And then there were the handcuffs.

After four rings, the call switched over to voice mail.

Ivy settled her head back onto the pillow, looked at the ceiling, and worked on controlling her breathing. Her body was—aching. She felt—ripe—needy. Hard nipples pressed against her bra.

Just a dream. She was in bed with a big, well-built male. His warmth radiated all along her side. So awareness of him had seeped into her subconscious while she slept.

Perchance to dream and all that—which reminded her
that she had tickets for a Shakespeare play at the Goodman sometime soon. She couldn’t remember the exact date. Whenever it was, such normal activity had no part in her current reality.