Tantalize (21 page)

“Tomorrow night, take off work. Think about what you want for the rest of your eternal life, and then meet me after close on Sanguini’s dance floor.” He lowered his voice. “Bring a beverage, why don’t you? A token of affection.”

A victim, he meant.

“And tell me you’ll be forever mine.”

My eyelids felt like canvas. My muscles, like gelatin. Not far away, a train whistle blew. It reminded me of Kieren. “And if I don’t?”

“My little rebel.” Bradley laughed. “You’re the bee’s knees.” He slid his hand down the back of my thigh. “Without my guidance, my protection, the mongrel will become a menace to you. I’ll have no choice but to put him down.”

I made a small sound of alarm.

Bradley pulled one of my bee’s knees over his slender hip. “When all’s done, he won’t matter. The blood will take away your loneliness, your fears. The success of Sanguini’s will be guaranteed, and you’ll always have me.”

He made it sound so easy.

Bradley slid his palm back up. “You know, baby, the young people used to say ‘necking’ instead of ‘kissing.’”

Which was interesting enough, cool and cozy. I could hear the bedsprings creaking, the beating hearts of the mice, my breath — hollow and wild. Feel my fading pulse in my muscles — the long ones and the bunched ones — my tendons, my toes, and my clenching, unclenching, clenching hands. Sweat broke out behind my knees, shimmered across my back. I shut my eyes against my need and his. Bradley slid lower, trailing wet kisses, heightening, heating, and then all I knew was the bite, the bliss, rapture.

G
rackles outside my bedroom window woke me from my recurring standardized-test nightmare, the one where I found out with a minute to go that I’d skipped a row of bubbles, so at most I’d have to retest and at least offer up prayers to the goddess of chaos.

I opened one eye, reassured by the familiar calico print of the bedspread covering my canopy bed, grateful Vaggio had sprung for the kajillion-thread-count sheets he’d given me last Christmas. Downstairs, the grandfather clock bonged.

I stilled, remembering Bradley’s threat and expectations.

Kieren.

If I didn’t bring Bradley a victim tonight and pledge my undead devotion, he would kill Kieren. And even if I did meet his terms, I didn’t trust him.

It was like Miz Morales had said. Kieren needed the protection of a Wolf pack.

Meanwhile, I couldn’t fall apart. Not while his life might depend on me.

Grabbing the phone on my nightstand, I tried Kieren at home, wishing Miz Morales had never taken his cell away. No answer, but my dial tone was beeping to signal messages. I checked Call Notes. Eleven new.

Yesterday morning, 9:28
A.M.
“Quince? This is Kieren. I thought maybe you might be hurtin’ this morning. Too much to drink, huh? Look, forget last night. I was upset. I’d love to talk to you once you’ve sobered up. Give me a call.”

Another. Yesterday afternoon, 3:16
P.M.
“Quince, I’m calling from Clyde’s cell. I’ll be at your place in a few.”

Another. Last night, 8:16
P.M.
“Quince, it’s me. I’m outside your back door. This is the fourth time I’ve swung by, and it still doesn’t look like anyone’s home.”

And so on, through the night, each more frantic. He’d called from outside Sanguini’s, Ruby’s apartment, tried my house a couple more times, mentioned using a pay phone, said something about his mama and daddy.

Message eight at 5:49
A.M.
this morning began, “I tracked down an address on the vampire chef, and I’m headed north on Lamar.”

I held my breath, praying, until message nine at 7:11
A.M.
reported, “The only ones there were his goons.” Ian and Jerome. “I’ve got a lead at school,” Kieren went on. “Quince, if you get this message, I . . . I swear, I’m gonna find you.”

Message ten at 2:43
P.M.
“Something’s going down,” he said. “If you don’t hear from me again, I just want you to know that I — sorry, I gotta go.” And that was it.

Message eleven at 6:30
P.M.
Bradley. “Good evening, baby. Sleep well?”

I dropped the phone like it was a rattler. Then picked it up and left a message at Kieren’s.

Was it Monday? My alarm clock read 8:21
P.M.
, and come to think of it, I wasn’t sure if I was home alone. After all, I hadn’t escaped. I’d been delivered. As had a dozen long-stem red calla lilies, arranged in a crystal vase that sat on my dresser.

I lay quiet for five minutes, ten, listening for all the sounds an old house makes. Separating those from the noise of the birds. The wind against the frame, the haunting groans I excused as “settling.” No footsteps on the stairs, no water running, no creaks on the hardwood floors.

When I turned down my covers, I was still dressed in the gauzy white gown, untied at the bodice. Jaw tight, I peeked down at myself. Beige thong still on. Beige thong still intact. My breasts and tummy didn’t look pale, though I wasn’t what anyone would call a bronzed beauty. I slipped out of bed, pulled the gown over my head, let it fall to the rug.

I didn’t feel like a vampire. I did feel naked, though, and corrected that in a hurry, ditching what Bradley had left me with and pulling on sensible black cotton panties, a sports bra, black capri-cut running pants, my Fat Lorenzo’s T, and Teva sandals. I missed my Nikes. Wished I hadn’t left my red cowboy boots at the restaurant.

While dressing, I discovered the marks. Twin holes, blood crusted over, healing already. One set beneath the under curve of each breast. Another just below the navel, a fourth on my right inner thigh, the last behind my left kneecap. God damn him!

Bradley hadn’t fed. Or drunk. He’d tasted. When I touched the marks, teased them with my fingertips, peeled back the scab beneath my belly button, letting the blood run, I tasted myself. I tasted, and, trembling, wanted more.

The ritual of dressing had calmed me enough that I could think about searching the house. Not too calm, though. I wasn’t too calm. I almost felt like Bradley could see me, or at least that he could anticipate my next move.

I peered at the dust bunnies beneath my bed, into the messy closet. All clear.

I took cautious steps to Uncle Davidson’s room down the hall. Empty.

Small balcony outside the sliding glass door, also empty.

Back inside, it was a typical bachelor’s room. Nondescript brown-and-gold striped bedding. Mismatched furniture, ’50s stuff. A red lily in a vase on the dresser.

I rummaged. Lots of Hawaiian shirts, boxers, cutoff jeans. Not that it mattered, but Uncle Davidson hadn’t given Ruby a drawer.

I wasn’t sure what I was looking for until I found it in the top of the nightstand. Along with the strawberry-flavored condoms and the blindfold and cheap handcuffs, I discovered a box labeled “.45 Colt Silver Bullets.” In the next drawer down, I discovered Grampa Crimi’s gun. The thief had been Uncle D.

Was I a gun person? Hell no, I was
not
a gun person. I was a desperate, on-a-life-or-death-deadline person. No, worse, I supposedly wasn’t even a person. Not anymore.

The antique Colt Peacemaker was worth a fortune, which was why my peacenik parents had never gotten rid of it. A gift to Grampa from a fellow Marine whose life he’d saved in Korea. Like the restaurant, it was part of my family legacy.

I took the gun and the ammo box, knowing better than to leave them for my uncle.

Moving on, I saw the master suite was vacant, though a single red lily rested in a bud vase on the chest of drawers. I kept reminding myself not to hurry so much that I missed something. I leaped into the master bath, unloaded gun drawn. Empty.

Glancing at my reflection in the mirror, I froze like I’d been struck by rigor mortis.

Lacking a better idea, I closed my eyes, counted to ten, and then looked again.

Fangs, red eyes, pale skin, pointy long nails, my hair curly and clean. Had it been washed by Bradley himself? Ruby and my uncle? Ian and Jerome? That had been a violation, too, the way they’d treated me like a cadaver. Not that the hair was what mattered. Not like the thing staring back. Another vampire.

It was real. It was monstrous.

And it was
me.

T
he word “corpse” crossed my mind, and I hated how it sounded.

I remembered having seen Bradley look perfectly human once, that evening we’d met. Plus, Uncle Davidson had passed as human with beachcomber aplomb. And so far, Ruby had confined her Princess of Darkness persona to hair, makeup, and wardrobe.

Did they get manicures? I wondered. Flesh-colored base?

In the medicine cabinet, I found clippers and cut each of my pointy nails, wondering if it was one of those mind-matter scenarios. This time when I closed my eyes I tried to achieve some sense of inner tranquility. I wished I knew a calming chant or happened to be a Catholic, what with the self-crossing. Something ritualistic seemed appropriate, and Mama had been Catholic before she got married. But I was still me. Sort of. So after saying a simple Protestant prayer, I opened them again.

No luck. Maybe God didn’t listen to vampires.

I grimaced and noticed that my teeth, fangs, had been stained with wine, blood.

Reaching back into the cabinet, I pulled out a long-forgotten box of baking soda. Daddy had been an occasional red wine drinker, and every once in a while he used to brush his teeth with baking soda to clean them.

I tore open a toothbrush package, a freebie from the dentist, wet the bristles, and dipped it into the gold box. The baking soda felt grainy and tasted medicinal. I scrubbed hard, harder, losing bristles between my teeth and fangs. Licked the blood from my gums. Filled a Dixie cup with water, swished it around, and spat. Grabbed some floss and ground it into the tender crevices until the bristles were gone.

My teeth were still brownish.

Frustrated, I tossed the barren toothbrush handle at the mirror, and it shot back. I caught it on reflex, one-handed. Threw it again, using more muscle. And again, I snatched it from the air without effort. Once more, grabbing the handle before it hit the sink. Flexing, I snapped the plastic. Damn.

I punched my reflection, the break spreading like a spiderweb. Now, the image looked more the way I felt. Uglier, fragmented, surreal.

My fangs ached, too, like first-day braces after the Novocain wore off.