Jeanne Stein - The Watcher

So, he's probably somewhere on Mission Boulevard. No use looking there. It's one of the most popular beach thoroughfares in San Diego, fronted with restaurants, boutiques, bike and surf shops.

The tumblers on the lock to my back door fall into place with the turn of the key. I push inside, pausing to savor the one good thing in this bitch of a day—my home. The kitchen is filled with sunlight, the air smells of coffee and cinnamon. I toss my purse on the counter and head for the stairs.

Into darkness.

I stop at the foot of the staircase. Someone has pulled the curtains closed, down here and upstairs, too.

I tilt my head, listening. Nothing. I sniff the air. Under the aroma of coffee and the tang of salt air, is something else. Something I hadn't noticed at first. Musk. Testosterone. Senses springing to life, I breathe it in. It's human, I smell the blood. And male.

Is this what Culebra meant when he said he'd taken care of my needs?

But he doesn't have access to my house.

Does he?

I don't care.

Noiseless as a cat, I run up the stairs. Every molecule in my body vibrates in anticipation. I know whoever is here, was sent for one purpose. I know it without understanding, just as I know I'll take what I need and be whole again.

Thank you, Culebra.

He's in my bedroom, asleep. I hear deep, regular breathing. When I approach the bed, I can only make out a form under the covers. He's on his side, his face turned away from me. I'm shaking with need and sudden lust.

I want more than blood.

I strip off my clothes and slide under the covers. He doesn't stir. Should I say something? No. Culebra sent him. He is here for one purpose.

I abandon thought, close my eyes, lose myself in pure tactile sensation. I fit my naked body against his, slide a hand around his waist, breasts pressed against a broad back, thighs cupped around buttocks. I move my hand down a flat abdomen, skim rock-hard thighs, come to rest between his legs.

He's awake now, I sense it, but he doesn't move. He lets my hands arouse him, moans softly in pleasure. I'm on fire. I position myself so that my mouth is at his neck. I want to take him inside me when I feed, but the thirst is too great. I can't help myself, can't stop the hunger from taking over. I open his neck.

Blood flows into my mouth, into my being, flooding me with warmth and consolation. Relief and release. Peace. I feel all Fisher's negative energy fade until he is no longer a part of me. My host feels it, too, the euphoria, the joy. His body burrows against mine, seeking greater closeness, wanting more. This is why humans offer themselves to vampires. We are not yet united physically, but currents of desire shake him as I feed.

The first primal hunger satisfied, I begin to stroke him.

Thank you, Culebra.

Caught in the vortex of pleasure, the man cries out.

"Anna."

My eyes open, my heart races.

He starts to roll toward me. "Anna."

I hold him still, not wanting to face him. I know the voice. I start to shake. I want to pull away, creep back down the stairs, hide until the shaking stops. Because I know the voice. The man beside me, the man whose blood is now commingled with mine, the man I didn't recognize in my lust to feed is Max.

I've just done what I swore I would never do. I've fed from Max.

Without thinking, without consideration. I took what I needed.

Worse, I didn't know it was Max. I didn't recognize his body. Didn't recognize his smell or touch. I didn't try. I didn't care.

Max is still on his side, his eyes closed. He's moaning that he wants more. He takes my hand and pulls me closer. He's violently aroused, not realizing that the pleasure he feels comes not from any human stimulus, but from the act of an animal. The vampire. Me.

I've got to stop it. I've got to close the wound and make it disappear. I've got to make Max forget what he's just experienced.

In a panic, I move closer, lap spilled blood from his neck and chin. Suck gently on his torn skin until I feel the cells repair themselves and nothing physical remains to indicate what I've done. But he'll remember.

Max rolls over, pins me beneath him, forces my legs open with his own. He takes his pleasure the same way I just took mine—aggressively, fiercely. I'm drawn into the current of his need and when it's over, and he collapses against me with a muffled gasp, I know, I know things will never be the same between us.

Because Max has experienced it now, and he will know the difference. Not the reason, he can never know that, but the sensation, the thrill.

Damn you, Culebra.

MAX IS SITTING UP, PROPPED AGAINST THE HEAD-board. His skin, where it touches mine, is hot, flushed with what passed between us.

The weariness and tension that were so evident last night are gone. His eyes are clear blue again until he looks at me and a frown clouds them and tightens the corners of his mouth.

"What just happened?"

I try to laugh. It sounds more like a strangled yelp. I clear my throat, try again, going for more of a tease this time. "If you have to ask, it has been too long since we've had sex."

He shifts, turning so that he is looking straight into my eyes. "This was different. More than sex. You must have felt it."

Oh, yes. I did. But how to explain it? Especially since I know it will never happen again.

He's waiting, body tense.

I take the coward's way out, counter with a question of my own. "How did you get here?"

He stares at me a second before answering, "Culebra said he got a message from you. That I was to come here and wait." He relaxes a little, smiling. "When you weren't here, the temptation to take a nap in a real bed was just too strong. I hope you don't mind."

"Why would I mind?"

Max shrugs. "I can't always tell how you'll react to things. The last time we were together like this"—he motions to the bed—"you seemed different."

I start to argue that of course I was different, I'd just found out I had a niece in big trouble. But he stops me with a curt wave of his hand.

"I know what you're going to say. You were worried about Trish. I understand. But there was—is something else going on, too. Something you won't share with me. I feel it. It started the night you were attacked. You act differently around me. You hold back." A small smile lifts the corners of his mouth. "At least you did until today."

I don't know how to respond. He's right. I hold back for a damned-good reason. Vampires aren't known for their self-control as I've just so dramatically proven. Yet, I don't dare tell Max the truth. I know he goes to Beso de la Muerte and he's admitted to me that some of the strange characters he's met there are a little different. But while "different" to Max means delusional, maybe even criminally psychotic, all the same, he believes they're human. How would he react if he found out some of those characters are not only inhuman, but immortal? And I just happen to be one of them?

Max isn't making this easy. He won't look away, won't let me off the hook. He wants an answer.

"I don't know what to say, Max. If you feel I've been holding back, I'm sorry." I decide to turn the tables. A dirty trick, but he's backed me into a corner. "And if you want to talk about holding back, how about what you've been doing? I heard that you haven't checked in with your boss in over a month. I had a chat with an FBI agent this morning who says you're in trouble. You didn't mention any of that last night, did you?"

Max turns away from me. "Is that the reason you wanted to see me?"

"Is it true?"

His voice cuts like a whip. "Who contacted you from the FBI?"

"His name is Matt Foley. He says he's a friend."