Linda Robertson - Fatal Circle

I answered him with the truth. “I need you both.”

Johnny tucked my hair behind my ear, and his finger ran gently over the exposed bandage. “Promise me that, analogywise, I get to be considered the twelve-cylinder sports car you drive too recklessly and too fast, say . . . a Ferrari 599 GTB Fiorano in Daytona Black.”

“I’m even imagining black leather upholstery.”

His lopsided grin was adorable. “Of course. And the vamp gets to be considered the detestable but law-required insurance policy with the irritating premium.”

I laughed and moved into his lap, stretching my arms around him. Don’t ever change. “You are definitely my only ride.”

“Oooooo. You’re revvin’ my engine.”

“Your whole analogy deserves a few innuendo points.”

His lips brushed mine like flower petals at first, then as he strayed to my cheek, it seemed he became aware that he was on the side Menessos had fed from and shifted roughly to the other side. I hoped it was because he was concerned for my covered wound, not an objection to putting his lips where Menessos’s had been.

Guilt rippled over me. The master/servant bond had taken over and I had failed to rule it. In that state, I might’ve yielded and made love to Menessos . . . and yet Menessos hadn’t taken advantage of me. As if drinking without permission were somehow not taking advantage.

Johnny eased me from his lap into the middle of the bed and slipped away from me. “Don’t go,” I said, reaching for his arm and coming up with only sleeve. My mind had wandered, my kisses had surely been lacking. He stood beside the bed, studying me. I said, “Stay with me.” I wanted to convince him my heart was in the right place. Moving onto my knees, I kissed him and caressed him all over. But he wasn’t responding. “Hey. I’m trying to rev that engine you’re so proud of.”

He kissed my forehead. “You gave blood tonight, Red. I can’t take anything more from you.” Yet he spent the next thirty seconds taking his clothes off. I moved over to lie on the near side of the bed and enjoyed the show.

“Gee, mister, you sure are good at sending mixed signals.”

“Can’t sleep unless I’m naked. Move over.” I moved. After throwing down the covers as far as he could, he lay down and pulled just the sheet over him.

I tugged the sheet down in playful increments.

“Get naked and get in here beside me already.”

He might have changed his mind about intimacy, but as I stood to undress, my vision went starry and my knees went weak. I caught myself, but he’d seen. He patted the mattress next to him. So I had to remove my jeans the unsexy way: on my back. I threw the denim to the floor as if it were the source of my trouble and snuggled up to my rock’n’roll biker-boyfriend.

With my head resting on his shoulder and his arm wrapped around me, contentedness enveloped me. Cuddling, even without the afterglow, was peaceful. How unexpected, to find serenity here, deep in the earth in a vampire’s haven with growing numbers of undead beyond my door.

I’d given blood and reassurances tonight, because that’s what each of them needed. As I lay there, I wondered, did I have what I needed? I couldn’t readily name anything I lacked.

Except answers. To questions like, how could I lie here feeling contentment when there was a battle brewing?

I can lie here because I believe there is a way to win. Somehow.

Dragging my nails lightly across Johnny’s chest, I snuggled tighter against him and let the feeling of security in his arms take hold. I cast aside my worries and slept.

Pounding on the door awakened me. It sounded like someone kicking.

Wrapping up in the sheet—Johnny lay on his stomach sleeping—I hurried into the front room. The kicking continued in trios, with pauses between. The clock on the stove read eleven-twenty.

As I reached the door, during one of the intervals, I heard an exasperated voice shout, “Just open the fucking door already.” At least I thought that’s what the muffled voice said.

“Who’s there?” I asked through the intercom.

The female voice answered, “Risqué.” She didn’t use the intercom but shouted through the door. I barely heard her.

Not sure I wanted to open the door for someone who wouldn’t use the techy device let alone someone named for being daringly close to impropriety, I asked, “And why are you kicking the door?”

“Because I’m holding your heavy-ass breakfast tray.”

Oh. Good reason . I worked at the strange locks and opened the door.

“Finally.” Risqué barged in, blazing past me like a five-foot inferno. She marched toward the kitchen. Mounds of blond ringlets hung down her back and bounced as she walked, hitting the top of frilly orange boy shorts that left her shapely, tan legs bare—legs that seemed long despite her lack of height. “Thank Hell your groceries are going to arrive today,” she said belligerently. “Boss said there’s no food in your kitchen, and to be sure you and the wolf-man have enough to eat.” She shoved the tray onto the counter. “So there you fucking go.” She turned, showing me a disparaging frown and big eyes—the color of which matched her fire-engine-red lipstick. It stunned me silent.

Offerlings and Beholders are the humans accepted into the vampire’s court. The former for their beauty and the latter for their muscle. Risqué might not be entirely human, or she might just have a thing for albino rabbit contacts, but either way, she was scary and beautiful. If pressed, I’d have pegged her as an Offerling.

Offerlings get two marks at the outset, so even new Offerlings outranked longtime Beholders in a vampire’s court. An Erus Veneficus outranked any Offerling. Status: reason for her irritation with me. She might have benefits above every Beholder in the building, but my newly arrived self represented a dose of comeuppance—hence, she was carrying my tray. Menessos had mentioned there would be jealousy and her behavior fit. And he also mentioned he was not sex starved.

Risqué gave me the once-over and evidently disapproved of my sheet. “Do not tell me you’re going for the Greek goddess morning-after look. Ugh.”

I decided her hair reminded me of powdered eighteenth-century hairstyles, but with less height and even more ringlets. She had ringlets in front, too. They—and nothing else—covered her breasts. More or less.

“Boss put clothes in the closet for you, you know.” Those startling eyes squinted up angrily when she spoke. “I’m sure there’s a nice Vera Wang robe in there.”

Letting her get to me would be a mistake. I walked to the kitchen bar. “Mind your tone, Risk.”

“It’s Risqué. Ris-kay . And he told me to tell you about the clothes.”

I lifted the silver lid on the tray. Eggs, sausage, bacon, pancakes, oatmeal. Mmmm, oatmeal. In a tone that could’ve been used to inquire about salt, I asked, “Did he tell you to be a bitch, too?”

“No. That’s just part of the delivery service.” Her scowl was fantastic, but lowered brows were an intrinsic part of such an expression. Her brows didn’t lower. Instead of curving down on the outside to frame her eyes, they rose above her temples and seemed to join with her hairline. The not-quite-human theory was gaining.

“Do I smell bacon?” Beside the now-dark hearth, the curtain parted and Johnny emerged, wearing only jeans. He hadn’t bothered to zip them all the way or button them, so the patch of dark hair under his belly button showed.

“Ooooo. Yes, darlin’, you do,” Risqué said, tone shifting to a Texas drawl as sweet as pecan pie. “But I will personally take your order if what’s on the tray ain’t enough to satisfy you.”