Page 30 of Fangs for the Memories (Budapest Bites #1)

“ W here is Ferenc?” I ask the driver as he opens the car door to a distinctly empty vehicle.

“He said to take you home,” the driver responds in broken English.

Given my Hungarian is terrible, it looks like I’m not going to get much more out of him, so I climb in, and he steers the vehicle into traffic, heading over the Chain Bridge to the Buda side.

The car whisks us up through the castle district, which looks so pretty in all the snow, and back to the block which contains Ferenc’s apartment.

The doors swing open, and we glide into the courtyard, which has been cleared of snow, and pull up at the entrance.

The driver says nothing, his eyes flicking to me in the interior mirror and swiftly averting.

I open the door, an icy wind swirling around me, and hop out, swiftly making my way inside out of the cold.

The place seems deserted. There’s no sign of Viktor. I think about exploring, but there’s something a little eerie which makes me pull my coat closer around me.

Perhaps not this time. Perhaps it would be better when Ferenc is here.

Wherever he is.

I make my way up the swooping staircase to the first floor and into the living room area where we ate breakfast this morning.

The table at the far end is empty and a strange light, reflecting from the snow outside, illuminates the room in blue.

I cross to the window and look out over the Danube once again.

Large lumps of ice have formed, cracking and reforming as the water flows.

As I watch, snow starts falling again. I feel cold even though the place is warm, and a shiver strolls up my spine.

With a sigh, thinking of the promises Ferenc made, and like all males, has broken, I head into the bedroom and climb into the freshly made bed.

There has to be someone here in Ferenc’s apartment if things like this are happening. Perhaps it’s their presence which gives me the feeling of not being alone, even if I have no idea where they are…and they’re not making a single sound.

Pulling the bedclothes around me, I watch the snow passing the window in a steady, silent flow. It’s mesmerizing as the light dims and the streetlights flicker on, illuminating the steady diagonal fall of the snow through their beams of light.

The city seems silent, the building seems silent.

Silent like a grave.

Then I hear it, a steady movement outside. Not the sound of feet but something else, something slithering . And the noise is getting closer.

I freeze. I want to run, but my body isn’t going to play. I know that monsters exist, we all do. At this very moment, it doesn’t make things any less scary.

The door handle turns. I wish I’d had the presence of mind to put something under the handle or bar the door, even if it’s unlikely to keep a vampire out, but it’s too late now. Instead I watch with creeping horror as the door swings open.

And Ferenc stumbles through, entirely naked, blood streaming down one side.

I’m out of the bed, stumbling over my dress, over the bedclothes, in order to get to him. Ferenc sees me, and his bloody hand slips from the wall, causing him to drop to his knees.

“What happened?” I’m beside him, pulling his good arm around my shoulder in a desperate attempt to get him to his feet.

Ferenc releases a bloody chuckle. “Vampire dropped a building on me,” he says in his rolling Hungarian accent.

“What?” I attempt to lift him, but he’s six and a half foot of pure muscle. I’ve got no chance, unless he can help.

“It was a trap, and I’m too out of the loop to recognize one.” Ferenc spits out blood.

“You need a doctor,” I say, helpless and confused.

“I need my bed,” he growls, painfully pushing himself upright while leaning heavily on me. “And a mate to share it with.”

“That’s the last thing you need,” I mutter, helping him over to the bed.

He collapses onto it, and I do my best not to look at a certain part of his anatomy, instead concentrating on the injuries he has.

They’re enough to knock me sick. His right arm seems to be half torn off, with huge gashes down to the bone which are bleeding profusely. In his side, there’s something which looks like a great puncture wound.

As he lies back, he sighs long and low.

“I’ll be fine,” he slurs. “Get me some whisky.”

“Drinking is not the answer.”

Ferenc fixes me with a fever bright gaze.

“Drinking is always the answer. Get me some…please?”

I don’t want to leave him, but if it’s what he wants…

I race out of the door, trying not to look at the trail of blood and into the main room where I spotted the decanters on a mahogany sideboard earlier today.

I grab one of them, not paying much attention to whether it is whisky or not, along with a cut crystal glass and run back as quickly as I can.

When I get there, Ferenc is sat up in the bed and has bound his arm with bandages he’s fashioned from a sheet ripped into shreds.

My hands shake as I attempt to pour the amber liquid into the glass, spilling it everywhere.

“Kedves,” Ferenc says, his voice a dark purr as he takes hold of my hand. “This looks worse than it is.”

He knocks back the small amount of alcohol I got in the glass and holds it out for more. My hand shakes just the same as I pour him another measure.

“It looks fucking horrendous, Ferenc.”

“I’m a werewolf. We heal quick.” He downs the second drink, and with the arm which was hanging off five minutes ago, he takes the decanter from me and pours another large measure before giving me an unhinged, feral grin. “And I made you a promise. One I’m not going to break.”