Page 12 of Blood Lovers (American Vampires #1)

I hate him, but I crave him.

I close the cabin’s door and then turn to face her, pressing my back against it.

Probably the wrong signal to send, because she lifts an eyebrow at me. And then there’s this moment when she has to make up her mind— is he a serial killer ?

But it’s the next moment that kills me and make me grin. Because I can practically read her mind and her mind is saying, If he is, do I really care ?

She smiles back, then casually looks around and blows out a breath. “Wow. This place is a total dump.”

Any doubts I had about this night vanish.

She’s fun.

I don’t have a lot of sexual needs. With humans, that is. Every once in a while I meet one who’s interesting. But for the most part, I don’t think about sex a whole lot. I think about blood more than sex, and I only rarely think about blood when Paul’s not around.

But this one?

Yeah. I’m in.

“Complete dump,” I agree, stepping away from the door and walking to the center of the pathetic cabin. “It’s actually the nicest one on the lot, too.”

We both snicker. Then her eyes wander over to the bed. “Wait. Is that a Magic Fingers bed?” She covers her face to stifle a laugh and then points to the ancient TV sitting atop the corner dresser. “Please tell me that thing is wired for non-stop porn.”

My laugh is immediate. “Ya know, I don’t even know if it works. But if it’ll make you happy, let’s check it out.”

I walk over to it, reach for the knob, and I’m just about to turn it on when I look over my shoulder and find Syrsee holding her pressed-together hands up to her chin like she’s praying. But she’s not just hoping for non-stop porn, the tips of her fingers are moving back and forth in a tiny clap.

It stops me dead for a moment.

And she sees it. Because she tilts her head and asks, “What?”

“You’re delightful.”

“Really?” She sucks in a breath.

“Really. Where the fuck have you been all my life?”

“Looking for you, maybe?”

“That was the right answer.”

“So I’ve passed the test?”

“A-plus-plus-plus.”

She crosses the distance between us at an almost languid, lazy walk and stops right in front of me. “I have an update.”

“About?”

“How our night’s gonna go.”

“Really.”

“Truly.”

“You’ve come to the conclusion that I am a serial killer.”

“Not just that.”

“Not just that?” This woman, damn. She’s just… I don’t know. But I like everything she’s doing right now.

“You do have a serial killer vibe going.”

I chuckle. But she’s not wrong. I have killed quite a few people in my life as Paul’s scion. “Then why are you still here?”

She gently pokes my chest, the tip of her finger finding its way inside the open zipper of my biker jacket so that when it touches my t-shirt underneath, I can feel the tiny spark of heat that is her. “You’re not after me.”

“Syrsee, I’m so after you, it’s not even funny. You’re like… top of the list, chick.”

She likes this answer, because she lets out a breathy huff. “As I was saying. My update?”

“Please continue. I’m dying to hear it.”

She points to the floor and makes that fingertip draw a little circle in the air. “I will not be passing out on this floor.”

I shake my head, smiling so big, my cheeks are beginning to hurt. “It’s gross.”

“Ryet. How do you walk barefoot in here?”

“I don’t. I sleep with my boots on.”

“OK. I have another update.”

“Keep going.”

“I’m not getting in that bed, either.”

I look over at the bed, then back at her. “I threw the magic bed out the night I arrived. But the little coin-op thing? It’s bolted to the fucking headboard so it had to stay. And all the sheets and covers are new. So I feel it’s my duty to inform you that that bed is the most hygienic thing in this cabin.”

Her eyebrows shoot up. “So… it’s base.”

“Base?”

“Yeah. You know. When you’re a kid and you’re playing tag, or whatever. And you have a base. A safe zone.”

I look over at the bed. It’s not made, but the sheets really are clean. Then I look back at her. “Yep. That’s what it is. The safe zone.”

“OK. So here’s how we’re going to handle this whole sex thing.”

I have to cover my mouth to hide my grin.

“Are you paying attention?”

“It is undivided.”

“I’m not taking my clothes off.”

“It might be hard to have sex if you won’t do that.”

That eyebrow shoots up again. “You’ve never had sex with your clothes on?”

I think back, searching for a time, then shrug. “Nope.”

“You’ve never had alley sex?”

“Alley sex? Like, outside a club or something?”

“Exactly.”

“No.”

“Wow. Really?”

“But you’ve had alley sex?”

“No. I’m a prude. That’s why I’m keeping my clothes on.”

I guffaw. “So… why are you asking me about alley sex?”

“Because that’s the number one way in which people have sex with clothes on. A quickie in the alley. It could be a bathroom. You’ve never had sex in a bathroom?”

“In a club?”

“Or a Starbucks.”

“Have you had sex in a Starbucks bathroom?”

“No. Again, I am a prude.”

I lean in to her, place my hands on her hips, and look down into her eyes. Wow. They are a very pretty shade of green. “I think I get where you’re going.”

“You do?” She looks almost as delighted about me catching on as she did for the prospect of non-stop TV porn.

“You are better than this place.”

She winces. “I don’t mean to be a princess, Ryet. I’m not a princess. But I’m having trouble reconciling my naked body in this room.”

“Got it. Here’s what we’re gonna do.” My hands slip up a few inches, find the bottom button on her coat, and pop it open. I’m looking her in the eyes when I do this, and she’s holding her breath. I continue unbuttoning my way up her front, and when I get to the top, I ease the coat over her shoulders and down her arms.

I do not let it touch the floor and when she realizes I’m going to hang it up in the closet, she lets that breath out.

I turn back to her, studying her now that I can see more. She’s wearing a sage-green, long-sleeve thermal shirt that totally sets off her eyes. It clings to her body, revealing an hourglass figure that was well hidden under the quilted flannel lumberjack coat.

She is a confident woman, but my full attention makes her squirm a little. “Now what?”

“Now…” I walk over to her and in one swift movement, I pick her up, walk over to the bed, and set her down on her back. Keeping hold of her legs and positioning myself between them.

Her mouth is open in surprise, her eyes wide, but she doesn’t say anything. She has no quick-witted comeback for this move.

“Now I’m gonna take your boots off.”

She nods a little. “OK.”

I push one leg back, unlace her boot—which isn’t a winter boot, but a work boot—and ease it off her foot, revealing a wool sock. I take that off too, revealing a pink foot. She watches me do this, biting her lip.

She’s probably ticklish. But I don’t tickle her. That is a bit of discovery I would like to save for later.

I repeat this with the other boot and sock, and then I pause.

“Now what?”

“I’m working out the particulars of how to keep your clothes on for this next part.”

“Have you come up with a solution?”

“I have.”

She’s breathing harder now. “I’m ready to hear it.”

I shoot her a sideways smile. It’s a new one—for her, anyway—and she’s not quite sure what it means. But as she’s thinking it over, my fingers have found the button on her jeans and it’s already been popped open. So she doesn’t catch up with me until I’m dragging the zipper down. “Stop here? Or keep going?”

“ Please .” Her voice is huskier now. “If I wanted to stop you, Ryet, you would be stopped.”

I grin. “Are you a badass, Syrsee?” I already know the answer to this. And it is a definite yes. She’s probably some kind of martial arts expert. Or a knife-thrower. If I could die, I’m a hundred percent certain that she would be able to kill me.

“First dates are for fucking, Ryet. Conversation is for date number two.”

I laugh out loud. She laughs too. So she’s caught off guard when I pull her jeans and panties down her legs, hike her knees up in the air, and kneel down, sliding my head between them.

I am licking her before she even knows what’s happening. My tongue sweeping between her folds. My breath hot on her inner thighs.

She moans a little and arches her back when I slowly slip a finger inside her. Then her hands are on the side of my head, gripping my hair as I sweep my tongue over her sweetest spots.

As a man, I had sex with exactly one woman. My wife. And I don’t even remember it.

As a scion, I’ve had my share over the decades. But I can honestly say, Syrsee from the diner parking lot is the very first woman I’ve wanted to be with in the entire sixty-five years since Paul sentenced me to Hell.

And I’ve known her all of ten minutes.

I lift my head up and look at her. I can’t even see her tits, she’s still got her shirt on. But I know that everything about this girl is magnificent and no matter what happens next, I’m going to keep her. I’m going to know her.

This is what I’m thinking when I stand back up, pop the button on my jeans, drag my zipper down, and pull out my dick.

Her striking, mossy eyes are wide open, her breath ragged and fast as she watches my hands jerking on my dick. I step forward, grab her knees, pull her towards me, and slide inside her.

She bites her lip again, harder this time. Because she draws blood.

The world suddenly goes hazy and my mind… skips for a moment. I get dizzy watching that pinprick of blood on her lip.

And in this skip, something happens that has never happened before. Not even with Paul.

I feel hunger .

Not lust, but… an ache. Not just for her body but for her blood.

I almost pull back. Almost pull out of her, that’s how much these feelings startle me.

But she sees something in my fraction of hesitation, and then Syrsee has a fraction of hesitation. And I know that these two fractions added together are more than enough to stop whatever it is that’s happening here.

And I don’t want this to stop. So I stop hesitating, which makes her stop hesitating, and then I just fuck her. Hard. My legs slapping against her ass. She cries out a few times, her fingers white-knuckle tight on my hands as I hold her legs open.

She’s wet, and warm, and then I lean down, pressing my chest against her breasts, and before I can hesitate for the both of us and stop what’s coming, I kiss her.

But I’m not really kissing her.

I am sipping her.

That little bit of blood. Just the tiniest few drops.

I am sucking her.

And as I do this, she comes.

The next thing I know , my eyes are opening and there is a sound of a door closing.

I sit up quickly and look around, trying to piece together the time I just lost. I’m naked and under the covers and I’m alone.

What the fuck just happened ?

Then I remember the blood.

Holy fucking shit. Did I drink this girl? Is she dead? “Syrsee?”

“Oh, my God, Ryet. Your bathroom is nice .”

I smile a little. She’s still here. Still alive. Also, I’m thanking some god I don’t believe in that the first renovation project I did was my bathroom. Isabella was fucking pissed over this decision, but she backed down when I growled at her.

Before I got my hands on that bathroom it wasn’t fit for pissing. It’s not high-end, or anything. I literally did the whole job over a weekend. But it’s new, and it’s clean, and it’s bright.

Syrsee comes out and I almost fall over dead from the cuteness of her. She’s still wearing her sage-green, long-sleeved, tightly-clinging thermal shirt. But her hot-pink panties are peeking out from under the hem and she’s wearing her boots—unlaced and without socks.

I grin.

She leans against the wall, momentarily side-eyes it for filth, decides it’s fine for now, then flashes a grin back at me. “You lied to me.”

I lean back against the Magic Fingers headboard and take her all in. “About what?”

“You do not have food here. I found one can of soup and it expired back in 2005. What are you eating? The diner is closed until May.”

I’m not eating. Like… anything. Not since Paul came to see me in Miami. That can of soup was here when I moved in and I just haven’t had time to mess with the kitchen because it’s not important to me.

But I always have a cover story just in case I have to explain why I don’t have food in my house. “Would you believe the food bank?”

She laughs, then skips over to the bed, plops down, kicks her boots off, and climbs under the covers with me.

How is this my life?

I’m certainly not complaining, but seriously. How did I get here?

She snuggles up to me and I automatically reach my arm around her and pull her close.

I don’t know how this happened, but I’m definitely keeping this one.

“That’s kind of brilliant. Where does the food bank live? I might have to start shopping there too.”

“First Methodist back door. It’s on the corner of Second and Elm.” For some reason, I picture her bleeding lip during sex when I say this. Then I remember that I don’t remember how it ended. I know she came, but… what did I do?

I can’t exactly ask her, so this will remain a mystery for now.

She props herself up on one elbow and smiles at me. “I’m so hungry. When does the food bank open?”

However it ended, she seems satisfied. So I don’t dwell on the blackout. “It’s always open.”

“No shit?”

“No shit.”

“That’s super-convenient. Should we make it a date?”

I look down at her, picturing her getting dressed and me dragging her over there. “No. I’ll go. It’s just a couple blocks away. Hell, this town is only a couple blocks long.”

“No, you don’t have to. It’s almost morning. I’d rather you stay here and keep me warm. You’re like a little furnace, Ryet.” She snuggles into my chest. “I like it.”

Wait. It’s almost morning ? I look up at my crappy analog clock over the door and find that it is four-thirty.

Now that… might be concerning. It was early evening when we got here. Maybe six-thirty. seven at the latest. So how is it four-thirty the next morning? And what have we been doing for the last nine hours?

I suddenly have a need to get out of here. To think things over. To try to piece together the missing time. Because I did take some of her blood. That’s the last thing I remember.

And that’s not how this works.

I scoot away from her. “It’ll only take a minute. We have to eat something. By the time I get back, it’ll be breakfast time.”

She lazily objects with a comment about my body heat, but doesn’t stop me when I get out of bed. Just settles into the pillows and lets out a long sigh.

I quickly pull on my clothes and boots, shrug my jacket on, then take one last look at her pretty face as I pull the cabin’s door closed behind me.

It’s snowing, and windy, and bitterly cold.

But it feels good. Vampires run very hot. Scions less so, but still. As Syrsee noted back in bed, we are very warm creatures. So we love the cold. That’s why Paul lives in Montana. It’s winter almost nine months of the year. I’ve seen him get into a heated pool in the middle of February and turn it bubbling like a hot tub just from his own body heat.

I sigh, shove my hands into my jacket pockets, and press into the wind as I make my way towards the tiny downtown of White River. I don’t like the people at Paul’s place in Montana so I don’t go there unless he summons me. And Paul might be a demon, and evil, and selfish, and… well, pretty much every negative trait one can have, he has it. But he’s really not a dick.

Not to me .

Not usually, anyway. That stunt back in Miami with the dreamwalk has me rethinking things. But generally speaking, he likes me. And he hasn’t summoned me to Montana for several years now.

White River is not that far away from the compound. A few hours in the truck and I could be there. And I would enjoy it because that place is actually very nice. I did a lot of the construction work back in the nineties. The main lodge—and it really is a proper lodge, not like this piece-of-shit place—was built back in the late twenties last century. And a couple dozen more houses appeared over the decades since it was made.

I ran the crew who updated the lodge. It’s all high-end log cabin. And there are indoor pools, and outdoor pools, and that little fishing lake. I really like that fishing lake.

Sometimes little bits and pieces of my real past—my real life—will come back to me. And fishing is something I kinda remember doing. It was something I liked. I think I took my boy. I think I had a boy. I don’t actually know for sure, I just know I had a nice family. I feel that to be true. I tried looking up their deaths on the internet because I do remember that they all died. So I do the same search, like the one I do for my name, but I never find anything.

There’s a part of me that knows that Paul has manipulated things so that I will never stumble over this old life. And there’s a part of me that’s grateful for that.

But then there’s that other part of me that also knows that one day he will be lazy. One day he will stop hiding my past from me. One day, he won’t care. And on that day, I will get my answers.

Anyway. The point is that I like the Montana compound. If it were just Paul and me, I’d probably live there with him. I might even like it.

But it’s never just been him and me.

Lucia and Josep have always been at his side. Hidden, in Josep’s case. He never comes out of his cave. And ‘cave’ is the appropriate word here. I had to hire a guy to build him a bunker back in the sixties. That was my first order after Paul brought me to the compound. I’ve never actually met Josep, so it would be very easy to imagine him not even existing.

Lucia, on the other hand, I have seen her plenty of times and I hate that bitch. There’s something wrong with her. Something really, really wrong with her. Paul knows it, too. He won’t discuss it with me, though. He just tells me, “Stay out of her way.” And sometimes he says, “She has nothing to do with us.”

I understand that I know a total of three vampires and I’ve actually only interacted with two, so perhaps my personal anecdotal evidence doesn’t count. But Lucia and Paul? Not the same fucking species, that’s how wrong she is.

But she’s not the only reason I don’t stay at the compound unless I’m ordered to. It’s the halfbreeds and the humans, too.

Back when Paul made me, he had no minions. Just me, as far as scions go.

But there were halfbreeds around back then too. Little slaves, he used to call them. “All kings need slaves, Ryet. It’s how things get done.”

But Lucia is the one who craves the humans. She even drinks them. I’ve seen it. I tried to tell Paul about it, but he just brushed it off like it was no big deal.

And hell, maybe it isn’t. Like I said, I don’t know much about them. But I do know this—Paul doesn’t drink humans. He might kill them for sport every now and then—because he’s literally a demon and that’s what demons do—but he doesn’t drink them for nourishment, for fuck’s sake.

That’s why he has feeders.

And me, maybe. Though he doesn’t really drink me. We exchange blood, of course. It happens when I’m feeding on him. He’ll nick my lip a little and he’ll get a few drops. But that’s about it. I’m not a hundred percent sure he doesn’t need my blood because he won’t discuss anything about what it means to be a vampire. But he certainly doesn’t drain me or bag my blood up like he does with his feeders so I’m left to fit the pieces of the vampire puzzle together on my own. There might be an actual reason why he takes those drops from me once a year, other than the fact that I’m drinking from him at the same time, but I just don’t know what it is.

Humans though? No. I have never seen him do that.

I only feed on Paul. Just the thought of drinking a human makes my stomach feel sick.

But then… why did I want to sip on Syrsee?

The blackout was weird, but it started with the sip.

I don’t know. But thinking about doing it again does not make me sick. It kinda makes me hard.

Wow. Maybe I need more sex? Maybe it’s been too long between women? Paul is a sex fiend. He’s always fucking something. I’m a hundred percent certain he’s fucking that bitchy Isabella, even if she is pregnant with some other man’s child.

But I won’t taste Syrsee again. It was a heat-of-the-moment thing, that’s all. We were all worked up from the sex and she smelled so good. I don’t remember processing that at the time, but now, in retrospect, yeah. She’s got a scent to her. It’s kind of delicious. A little bit like Paul’s scent, actually. When he’s around, and he bites his lip the way she did, and I get that first scent of blood in the air… yeah. I lose it. It’s over. My lust for his blood is always easy.

Maybe I was just tired last night? I get tired sometimes. I don’t usually pass out. Well, not true. When I drink Paul, I pass out good.

But that’s Paul. And this girl is a human. A delicious, erotically scented—

“For fuck’s sake, Ryet. Get a hold of yourself.” I shake my head, pushing those thoughts away as I come up on the back side of the First Methodist church. Above the plain metal door is a white wooden sign with hand-painted red letters that read: ‘You Are Welcome Here. Come Inside for Nourishment of Body and Soul.’

The letters are in two different fonts. Half of the words in block, half of them in script. It looks like someone made it decades ago because the words ‘Come Inside’ are mostly just a shadow of their former glory.

I know the door is unlocked because I’ve passed by here several dozen times over the past month on my way to the hardware store and there is another sign, this one taped to the door, which reads: ‘Always Open.’

I pull on the door and smile, thinking about the hardware store and the woman who now lives above it. So I’m not really paying attention when I enter and almost smack into the church guy, who is stocking a wooden crate near the door with bags of potatoes.

“Oh, shit. Sorry.” I put my hands up and step back onto the threshold of the still-open door. The wind is whipping past me, blowing in snow, and I just stand there, confused about what to do next and feeling guilty for the cold air.

But the guy smiles at me. He’s young. Like… maybe not even thirty. His hair is light blond and he’s got the blue eyes to match. But there’s a bit of stubble on his jaw, marring the near-perfect clean-cut appearance just enough to make him interesting. He’s about my height, maybe a little leaner than me, and his face is bright and projects optimism. Possibly even pride, though that might be a sin in his version of the world. “It’s fine. I wasn’t expecting anyone this early. But that’s OK. Come in.”

He backs away, giving me room to enter. So I do that and quickly pull the door closed to stop the wind.

He beckons me forward. “Take what you need.”

I ease past him and enter the first aisle, allowing myself a moment to process the room. Comfy. That’s the word that comes to mind. All the shelving is made out of wood. Like actual lumber. Unfinished. Rustic, which fits this town—it is Northern Idaho. And all the produce is in crates.

It kinda reminds me of my old time. My own time. The Fifties. Back before the world changed and settled into the darkness it is now. I might not remember much about my life before Paul, but the world around me didn’t change when I woke up from the blood lust that very first time. It was a good time to be alive. Even if I was already dead.

“Do you need a whole box? You’re new here, aren’t you? I’ve seen you walking around town. You’re staying at the old cabins, right?”

I look at the church guy and nod. He’s mostly wearing regular clothes. Jeans, white button-down, but it’s untucked. Still, he’s got one of those religious collars pressed up near his neck.

He must feel my scrutiny, because his hand goes up and pulls the collar off. “It’s new.” He kinda huffs these words out. “I hate them. They are so stiff. I was trying to break it in.”

I don’t know why I find this funny, but I do. So I laugh a little. “It’s cool. I’m the last man to be judging you.”

The corners of his mouth slowly lift up in a smile. Like he was hoping I wasn’t a serial killer, but it wasn’t a high hope. Until I spoke, and then he knew it to be true.

Kind of like Syrsee.

Damn. She’s just on my mind, isn’t she? Everything is going back to her right now.

“I don’t judge anyone.” He points to the ceiling. “That’s His job.”

“Right.”

I get another smile. A more knowing smile. “You’re just here for the food. I get it. Don’t let me stop you. There is no commitment required to help yourself.” He pans his hands wide to encompass the entire pantry. “Take whatever you want.”

“Thanks.” I look around and realize it’s all like… fresh. As in… ingredients. As in… I will need to cook this shit using things that are not a microwave.

I don’t know what I was expecting. It’s not like I even have a microwave in the cabin to heat up frozen food, but I guess I was expecting a more convenient method of nourishment. Bags of cookies, or something.

“You don’t cook, do you?”

“No.” I look over at him and chuckle. “I don’t. But I’ve got a hungry woman at home and she wants me to feed her.”

“Ohhhh.” He processes this. “I see. She’s… someone you care about? Or this is just an obligation you feel?”

“First one.”

“Ah.” And this comes with a grin. “Wait. She’s not the woman who just moved in above the hardware store, is she?”

“Wow. You know everyone.”

“This town is home to a hundred and fifty people. So. Yeah. But the church owns that apartment. She’s our tenant. It is her, though, right?”

“Yeah. It’s her.” And I grin.

“You like her.” His brow furrows. “But she just got in last night.”

“I’m not quite sure how it happened, either. She went to the diner looking for food and kinda had a little breakdown in the parking lot. So I went across the street to see if she was OK. And she was.” The guy nods, relieved. Because he might’ve been getting concerned. “And then…” I sigh and throw up my hands. “The next thing I know, I’m picturing a life with this girl and going out in the snow to hunt her down some food.”

Part of which isn’t technically true. The part about picturing a life with her. This is new. But now that these words have spilled out of my mouth, they are manifest.

He puts up a finger. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

He doesn’t wait for an answer. Just turns towards a doorway covered by a sheet, pushes through it, and disappears.

I let out a breath and take in the pantry. It’s so… nice. It’s not what I was expecting. The shelves are stocked with bags of flour, rice, sugar, and nuts. Plus glass jars filled with all kinds of other stuff. Jams, and meat, and vegetables. Not the glass jars you find in supermarkets, but the old-fashioned kind. The kind a woman from my first life might have in her cupboards because she canned it all herself.

There is a lot of fresh produce too. Even strawberries.

The man appears again, finding me gazing at the strawberries. “We have a lot of strawberries. Our greenhouse is going a little bit crazy at the moment. But we’ll have a full house in church tomorrow. They will be gone by noon and pies will be baked by supper.”

“Hm. Sounds kinda nice.”

“Oh. The reason I left.” He points to the curtained door. “My wife is going to cook you and your girl up some breakfast.”

“Oh, no.” I put up a hand. “It’s not necessary.”

“You’re right. It’s not. But we’re going to do it anyway.” He thrusts a hand at me. “I’m Joshua. And my wife”—he once again points to the curtain over the door—“she’s Emily.”

I shake his hand. “I’m Ryet. Nice to meet you. And thanks. Really. She’s gonna love a homemade breakfast.”

He pulls his hand back and gets a look of concern. “Are you feeling OK?”

“Fine. Why?”

“You’re a bit warm. You might have a fever.”

“Oh.” I chuckle a little. “I’m sure it’s nothing. But I’ll check it when I get home.”

“If you need medicine”—he points to another part of the pantry where there is a whole stock of over-the-counter stuff stacked on corner shelves—“help yourself.”

“If I need it, I’ll come back. I don’t want to take it if I don’t need it.”

This response seems to please him immensely. “We have plenty, but I like the way you think. Now. What else do you need?”

“Oh.” I look around, trying to picture myself cooking in that gross cabin, then shake my head. “Ya know, I’m gonna skip the groceries too. I’m remodeling. Those cabins—”

He puts up a hand. “You don’t need to explain. Those cabins are… well, let’s just call them a legend.”

“Why?”

“You’re currently living in the very first brothel in Idaho.”

“Shut up.”

“Swear to God.” He points up to the ceiling.

“That’s… gross.”

“Yeah. But hey”—his face goes all optimistic again—“you’re here now. And I bet the cabins will be a breath of fresh air by the time you’re done.”

“Maybe.”

“You look like one of those men who can get shit done. Pardon my language.”

“What you’re really saying is…” We both laugh. “Seriously though. Thanks, Joshua. I appreciate it. Between you and Syrsee, I haven’t talked so much in decades.”

It comes out before I can stop it. It’s not a big slip-up. I mean, I could be pushing forty. Maybe. With some imagination.

But my human face is not pushing forty. It’s pushing thirty.

“Decades, huh?” He squints at me, adding up the years. “You must’ve been a quiet child.” Then his face softens a little. “Hmm.”

“What?”

“I just can’t see it. But anyway. Stay right here. I’ll check on the food.”

I wander the aisles, letting my mind slip back in time. I don’t remember much about my first life. But I do understand everything that has happened to the world since the time I woke up naked in a San Francisco hotel room with a vampire next to me.

Now my mind wanders to that morning. Blood. That’s all I thought about back then. I don’t know how many days, or possibly weeks, passed from the night Paul first offered me this new life to that morning when I finally came out of the blood lust enough to actualize that I was a living creature with a mind and a purpose and I was in a hotel room with no memory of how this all started. But that was my beginning.

Life was so different back in those days. The people were different—nicer, for sure. Polite to a fault. And the country was more innocent.

I’m sure there were people who knew that monsters like Paul were real. And I’m sure there were others who maybe didn’t know, but suspected that evil was lurking all around them, at all times. But for the most part, they were foolishly and blissfully unaware.

Is it better or worse that the world is filled with degenerate evil these days?

Better, I think. Because at least they have a chance to see it with their own eyes. In my day, we were all doomed because the evil was sneaky back then. It hid from the world. Ashamed, maybe.

Or maybe not. Maybe it was just following the rules of The Art of War . Playing its role as a weak and defeated thing, all the while it was growing stronger until one day, it could rise again.

Well. I sigh. It has certainly risen at this point.

“Here we go.” Joshua pushes through the curtain holding a large paper grocery bag, folded over at the top. “Eggs, bacon, biscuits, and gravy. She didn’t know how you liked your eggs. The general guess when you don’t know is scrambled.”

“Sounds perfect.” And it does. My stomach actually grumbles. Loud enough for Joshua to hear it.

Which makes him smile, and that in turn makes me smile back. He’s just a nice man who cares about people and only wants to help them. He doesn’t see the evil, even when it’s standing right in front of him. Almost mockingly accepting his charity.

But I’m not mocking him.

“Thanks.” I offer my hand and we shake again.

He shoots me a stern look. “Don’t forget to check your temperature. Call the church if you feel too sick to come get medicine. And”—he holds up a hand, palm facing me—“no pressure or expectations, but if you feel like dropping by tomorrow at noon, you could meet the whole town in one swoop. They all attend church here on Sundays.”

I hesitate. God and me? What a joke. Not that I wouldn’t be up for a little salvation, but it’s way too late for that. “I’ll mention it to Syrsee.”

And I find that I really mean it.

Then I take the bag of food and go back out into the snow and wind.

Syrsee is sleeping when I get home and I don’t really want to wake her up—she looks so peaceful—but the food. It smells good and I want some. I’m actually feeling famished. And I want it to be hot when I eat it.

So I do wake her. She pushes her wild, dark hair out of her green eyes and when I present her with a hot breakfast, she gazes up at me like I’m her knight in shining armor.

We eat in bed, out of the glass dishes Emily packed our food in. She even gave us forks and they are not plastic.

“You know why she did that?” Syrsee is simultaneously chomping bacon and pointing to the glass dish with her fork when she says this.

“So I have to return them?”

Syrsee giggles and nods. “They’re gonna turn you into a church boy, Ryet.”

“Darling, you’re gonna be the one returning these dishes, not me.”

She nudges me with her shoulder. “I will too. Because that’s the girlfriend’s job.”

“Go make nice with the preacher and his wife?”

“Are you kidding? The way you described that food pantry? It sounds like a grocery store where everything’s free.”

“Oh, by the way, they’re your landlords. And I’m supposed to tell you that church is at noon tomorrow, so…”

She pauses her chewing, looking thoughtful for a moment. I have a sudden urge to kiss her. “Hmm.”

“What?”

“It’s weird, ya know?” She sits up a little straighter.

“What’s weird?”

“Yesterday I was pretty sure my life was over. I could not see a way forward from here.”

This is an odd statement, I think. Because moving to a new town isn’t the end of something, it’s the beginning. But she’s still talking, so I don’t have time to think about this.

“And I was really feeling down about leaving people behind. I have a life somewhere else, ya know?”

“Then why are you here?” It’s kind of a personal question. Not something you ask a woman you literally met last night. But we’re past that, I think. Sex does that for new relationships. Just kinda speeds everything up in an unnatural way.

“It’s a long story. One I’m really not… ready to talk about.”

Ready. That wasn’t what she was going to say. She was going to say ‘allowed,’ I’m sure of it. But both versions are true, I can tell. So I skip back to the original sentiment. “And now? How are you feeling now?”

She sets her glass dish of food down on the nightstand, snuggles back down into the covers, and puts her head on my thigh. “Now?” She exhales out a yawn. “I feel like I just came home from a too-long trip and I should never leave again.”

I’m running these words over and over in my head as she drifts back to sleep. And it’s weird. Because I feel the same way. So I set my food aside, snuggle down in the covers next to her, and pull her head to my chest.

The next thing I know I’m out in the snow. Like middle-of-the-forest kind of thing. There’s a lot of lavender, so I know this is a dreamwalk. And in this dreamwalk I find Paul—a very young Paul—sitting on a fallen tree trunk in the middle of a snowy clearing.

He’s dressed in… “What the fuck are you wearing?”

“This?” He looks down. “It’s nice. Leather and fur. It’s appropriate dress for a forest in winter.”

“What are you doing with that baby?” He’s not snuggling the baby, but he is holding it, kinda like he’s not sure what he’s gonna do with it. Which is why I ask.

“Why are you so full of questions?”

“Because you’re in my fucking dreamwalk. Again. And for some reason it feels… I dunno. Like a personal attack.”

“What are you implying?”

“That you’re here to abuse me.”

“That’s not even remotely funny.”

“The last time we did this, you struck me.”

“Do you have lingering pain? A black eye? A limp?”

“No.”

He shrugs like… like he wants to ask me what’s the big deal, then? But he knows this is not the response that will get him what he wants. So he adjusts. “I’m sorry for that. You were being unreasonably irritable.” He squints his eyes. “Are you still feeling unreasonable?”

“What do you want?”

“Why do you hate me?”

“That’s why you’re haunting me? You want to know why I hate you?” I blow out a breath. “How much time do you have?”

He stares at me for a long moment, his eyes the color of ice. They match his personality. “I have all the time you need, Ryet. Let’s hear it. Tell me all the ways in which I ruined your life.”

“No. Fuck you. You’ve got me running around these cabins like I’m one of your fucking bitches and now you’re invading my dreams. What are you doing? Spying on me?”

“Spying. Why are you so dramatic? I’m checking up on you. Did you find the girl?”

“No. I haven’t. I’ve been too busy remodeling your stupid cabins. If you want me to get back to it, say the word. I’d be happy to. But I’m not gonna look for your stupid feeder while you have me on a leash.”

“Like I said, I’m checking up on you.”

“Come check up on me in person. Don’t invade my dreams. It’s a violation.”

The corner of his lip turns up, like he wants to chuckle about my choice of the word ‘violation.’ But he knows better, and decides to change the subject. “I don’t care for the girl, do you?”

“Which girl?”

Now he narrows his eyes at me. “How many girls are you dealing with at the moment?”

“Two. But if you mean Isabella? No. I can’t stand her. She orders me around—”

“That’s why I don’t come in person. I just want her to pop that child out so I can take him somewhere else. I will not be playing house with this one for the next decade. She’s not my type. Perhaps I should give the boy back to Hutch? It is his child, after all.”

“Who the fuck is Hutch?”

“My current favorite slave. He’s so pretty, Ryet. Not as pretty as you, but my God. I could look at him all day.”

“Yeah, well. Isabella’s pretty too.”

“She is.” He chuckles. “But only on the outside. Which I can deal with.”

“You’re not dealing with her, Paul. You’re hiding like a fucking coward while I deal with her for you.”

“Do you think that’s what I’m doing?”

“Obviously.”

This is the point in the conversation when I realize that we’re actually having a conversation. I want to ignore him, but I can’t. Because the truth is, I fucking love him. And if someone came after him, I would kill for him. Die for him, if that was even possible.

I can’t decide if this is some kind of vampire magic he’s working or if it’s just his natural charm. I don’t have a big enough sample size to make that determination, so these feelings and talks are nothing but confusion on my end. Because no matter what he does to me, after a couple minutes of talking, I’m back in his corner. It feels like a trick. Like abuse.

Like Stockholm syndrome.

Of course, I know it’s the blood bond between us.

Blood lovers. That’s what he calls it.

I hate him, but I crave him.

I want to be rid of him, but I also want him next to me.

I want to feed on him and sometimes I dream about him feeding on me. Not just the little accidental drips, either. But fully latched on and sucking the blood out of me in rivers. And even though I try my best to not love the taste of him, I love the fucking taste of him. And if he were to bare his neck to me, I’d suck on him all night.

This thing between us is forever. And he’s here to remind me of that.

He sighs. “How are you feeling?”

“What?”

“Are you feeling OK?”

“You know, you’re the second person to ask me that today.”

“Really?” His eyebrow goes up. “Who was the first?”

“The guy at the church down the road.”

“What were you doing in church?”

“I was in the food bank. I have a woman in my bed and she was hungry.”

Paul smiles coyly. “Well, look at you. Settling in.”

“We fucked. That’s all.”

He narrows his eyes at me. “ Is that all?”

“So far. Are we done here? I’d like to get back to her.”

He and I have locked eyes. Not even blinking. Like we are in battle and our weapons are words. “Are you trying to make me jealous?”

“ Are you jealous?”

“I don’t have feelings, Ryet. I have needs.”

“Right. So… I’m gonna wake up now. Nice chat.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Which was?”

“How are you feeling?”

“Fine. Thanks.”

“I only ask because I gave you a lot of blood in Miami.”

“Nope. I’m good.” But I don’t remember it that way. Sips. That’s what he gave me. He’s always denied me full drinks.

“But I need to give you more. Very soon.”

“What? Why? I just fed. And it was two months early.”

“There’s something wrong with you, Ryet. Can’t you feel it?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. You’re a piece of work, you know that? You know what’s wrong with me, Paul? You. And the fact that you turned me into your bitch.” I pause and bare my teeth at him and then growl out my words. “If you want something from me, show up in person. Stay out of my fucking dreams.”

Not how I usually end things between us, but who cares. It works.

Because the next thing I know, my little winter dream forest is empty.

And finally, I find a little peace in sleep.