Sucking Bites (San Francisco Vampires Series #3)

Sucking Bites © 2013 Jessica McBrayer

All rights reserved

ISBN 13: 978-0-9847008-8-2

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form whatsoever, without prior permission by the author. No part of this book may be reproduced, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored, or introduced into any information storage system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without express written permission of the author. If you pirate this work I will come after you.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used facetiously. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or to events or locations, is entirely coincidental.

March, 2013 eBook Edition

Cover Art by Marik Berghs © 2013

Interior Formatting by D. Robert Pease
www.walkingstickbooks.com

Published by Mess of Geckos Publishing

810 Seaview Drive, El Cerrito, CA 94530

“Suicide Prevention, this is Lilith. How may I help you?”

“I just saw a freaking werewolf! It’s outside my window and I need you to call the police!”

“Sir, you saw what?”

“I saw a werewolf! I called the police and they hung up on me so I started going down the emergency numbers in the phone book and you were next. Please it’s trying to get into the house.” The man is frantic. His high-pitched tone makes my ears ring.

“Are you sure there’s something out there?”

“Yes!”

“What’s your address, sir?”

“1246 James Street.”

I hear screaming, growling and glass breaking. I speed-dial 911 and report a break in. The other line goes dead. I send good thoughts out to the man who called in and wonder what he truly saw. Werewolves—yeah right. Still, I can't forget the noises I heard and shiver.

Rack up another call fielded by Lily Goodwill, member in good standing on the side of right and light, for the San Francisco Suicide Prevention Hotline. Me in my mission control headphones at my government-issue desk that’s stocked with my favorite hand sanitizer, the kind that smells like raspberries and chocolate, which I use at this moment. It’s best not to pass on germs. You never know what you can pick up from a phone call. Yes, I have a problem.

Most nights the phones are busy from the beginning of my shift until the end, often more busy as the night gets darker, but tonight my delusional caller, clearly in need of counseling and perhaps some heavy drugs, was one of my few calls. I stare at the big black and white wall clock willing it to turn to two a.m. so I can leave my job, so I can be with the love of my life. Normally I cherish the time I am at work. I’m only here three nights a week. I found the job on Craigslist. It was The Job—a total boon, great coffee, graveyard shift and I get to help save mankind. The only downside is that I don’t know what happens to the people who call and lately I have distractions that make quitting time hard to wait for.

When the minute second hand creeps to twelve I grab my jacket and speed walk to the door. My boyfriend is picking me up as usual and he is always on time. Sebastian St. John is also three hundred and sixty years old, French, delicious and a vampire. His chestnut, slightly curled hair and smoldering brown eyes have tempted and teased hundreds of women through the centuries. But now the package is all mine. Did I mention I’m a vamp too? Only ninety-eight, a baby, as Sebastian, mon amour, is quick to point out. When we stand next to each other we are as different as night and day, me with my curly strawberry-blonde hair and short frame of five feet-four inches, to Sebastian’s six feet, dark hair and melted chocolate eyes, but somehow we fit. It took me a while to realize Sebastian was the love of my life, but when I did, it hit me like a brick wall. We have been living in bliss ever since. There are a few little bumps. One, my being opposed to getting married. Sebastian is ready now and I’m not. The other, my unnatural attachment to the close runner-up in the “Lily is totally adored” pageant in the form of my friend who is a djinn. If truth be told, Aidan holds a very special piece of my heart. I dream of jinnies as I push open the door.

I walk out into the balmy night air where Bast waits with the car door open for me. San Francisco in the spring is a wonderful place to be—cherry blossoms in bloom, couples up late taking walks and the air full of good will.

Sebastian is talking on his blue tooth, which recently, has become a permanent attachment. He’s beginning to look like a cyborg. Stifling my annoyance, I give him a peck on the cheek when he bends down. I feel like a performing monkey. Raise my cheek for the nice man to kiss, now be good and get in the car without saying anything to disturb his conversation. I rebel.

“Good evening, Sebastian.” I know his good manners will win out and he will have to answer me.

“Just a moment, Paul.” He looks at me slightly embarrassed that he hadn’t said good evening when we first greeted each other.

“Good evening, ma petite.” He gives me a chaste but apologetic kiss on the lips. I smile at my small victory. After I get in his sleek black Mercedes, he closes the door without missing a word in the discussion. The buttery leather seat molds around me, as he continues to talk. Finally he finishes his call.

“Bast, I got an interesting call. Someone said a werewolf was trying to break into their home.”

“Cherie, that is…” His phone rings again. He looks annoyed. “Un moment, ma petite.”

I blow out a big breath, not easy when you don’t need to breathe. I look out at the sky and see the clouds part around a violent blue full moon. It makes me wonder. That caller could have been attacked by anything, even a rabid mother-in-law. I feel a bit guilty about not taking him seriously at first.

We arrive at the home we share with our two best friends—family really—Julian and Helena. Sebastian is still talking to the manager of his night club, who monopolizes more of Sebastian's time than any of us. Just saying, our marathon love-making sessions are a thing of the past and we're not even married yet. Guess this is bump number two.

His manager is truly incompetent. Though for some reason, Sebastian seems to be the only one who doesn't see it. Paul, the manager, roughly resembles a weasel. I tell Sebastian that having a manager is supposed to free up some of the boss’s time. The manager should be able to problem solve and hence the root of the word manager—manage—but Bast wants to keep his Zagat review so he puts up with the phone calls. Bottom line—he can’t trust Paul not to screw it up. In Bast’s defense the guy was good for the first couple of months. It’s gone downhill from there.

Bast ends his conversation and puts his arm around me as we walk into the mansion through the beautiful carved cherry wood doors. They’ve recently been replaced after being blown apart by an insane warlock a few months ago. It took a flick of a finger—Aidan’s jinni finger—and it was good as new, another thing that Sebastian resents. The fruit trees lining the drive are in full bloom and the air is full of the scent of cherry blossoms. But the inside of the house is a demolition zone. After the attack, the mansion was a shamble so; Helena decided it was time to renovate. Half the house is torn apart with plastic drapes over the entry furniture and scaffolding up for the painters. She is also creating a deluxe suite for Sebastian and me. We share his room for now. People are getting grumpy. Particularly Andrew, our butler, because of the mess, and Julian, because he was having a difficult time concentrating.

Sebastian pulls me tight into him as we maneuver around the scaffolding and head down the hall towards the library, our usual gathering place.

We have a no cell phone policy in there, so Sebastian’s attention should be focused. Everyone has to meet in the library if we want Julian to be present. It is his sanctuary and also takes up a third of the first floor. It is no hardship spending time there. Large windows encompass one long wall where computers lined up. Half-read books litter the tables scattered through the room or are under lights on pedestals. A beautiful mural of Greek goddesses illuminates the softly lit ceiling. I’ve always thought that the mural has something to do with Helena’s heritage but no one will confirm it. Helena is nine hundred and eighty-six and Julian is seven hundred and ninety.