Bonnie Vanak - Bitten by the Vampire

As he heard the sound of the front door slamming, Lucien stared at the photo. His long fingers stroked over the luminous skin, the sweet curve of her mouth. “A Darklighter.”

With the silence of a vampire, Petra walked into the room. Her pointed ears flexed. “There hasn’t been one of those in years.”

“I know.” Lucien’s heart constricted. He counted backwards in Latin to regain his lost composure. “Go upstairs and pack our things. I’ll need your tracking ability.”

A small white lie. He wouldn’t leave Petra alone. Lucien’s stomach knotted at the thought of her torn to pieces by werewolf bounty hunters.

“I’m not going near a Darklighter. Have you seen one when they turn demonic? I hear they get all gray and nasty…”

“I have.”

Fresh pain lanced him like a hot knife. He could not bring himself to destroy another Darklighter. Yet he couldn’t risk Petra’s life, either.

Perhaps this Darklighter could be saved. Lucien glanced again at the photo, remembering the vision. Desire pumped hot and sweet through his veins as he envisioned her naked body pliant and soft beneath his. Fangs exploded in his mouth as he imagined taking her blood as he bound them together in the flesh.

“Why not just let her kill and have the Society destroy her?”

Practical Petra. Lucien glanced at the photo. With her sweet, heart-shaped face, thin cheeks and wide blue eyes, Mara looked so frighteningly vulnerable, unaware of the evil lurking inside her.

Just like another had 42 years ago.

“Because she can be turned,” he finally said, fighting the emotions cresting over him. “She deserves more than my last Darklighter assignment.”

“What’s that?”

“A chance.”

A cool breeze whispered through the palm trees lining Miami’s Ocean Drive. South Beach in late October pulled crowds of people to outdoor cafés, cheerful bars and the warm sands.

Among them was the man who’d tried to kill her five days ago, Mara thought as she straddled a low wall dividing the sidewalk from the white sandy beach In her peach scoop-neck shirt and jeans, she looked like everyone else. Except she had an arsenal; two daggers sheathed at her ankles and a switchblade in her back pocket. The real weaponry was her demonic side.

Mara felt the darkness inside her growing stronger. She’d dropped out of school, quit her part-time job and gone on the hunt for the head of one Dennis Jones.

Catching the scent of venom, she turned. Cold joy filled her. Dennis Jones. The same black wool suit, white shirt and gray hair sticking up in little spikes. Her nails began to lengthen and Mara’s upper lip lifted as she felt her bottom teeth sharpen to tiny points. Jones ducked into a sidewalk café.

As she stood to follow, she felt a pair of hands curl around her shoulders, forcing her down. She was strong, but this person’s strength was astonishing. Mara twisted, struggling to free herself.

“Sit,” a deep velvet voice commanded.

Shock filled her. It was the same sensual voice she’d heard in her dream.

Mara sat.

“Stay.”

The husky timbre held a compelling note. Screw that. No one was telling her what to do again.

“If you tell me to roll over, buddy, I’ll bite.”

“My bite is much worse.”

She felt his warm hands start kneading her tensed shoulders. His touch chased away the dark light, forcing the demon back. Her heart began thumping a steady, reassuring beat instead of pounding like a jackhammer. More confusion filled her. What kind of magic was this?

The grip eased. She turned.

He was tall, leanly muscled and wore a blue and white striped shirt with navy pleated trousers. The crease of his pants fell elegantly to polished leather shoes. The stylish clothing contrasted to the inky black curls spilling down to his broad shoulders. But it was his face that stunned her. The full lips, hollowed cheeks and straight nose boasted an aristocratic heritage. Eyes the color of midnight pierced hers.

Confusion and arousal twined together like snakes. The same man from her dream! She yearned to touch him, run her hands over his skin, taste him. The hunger for revenge eased, replaced by stark sexual warmth.

Damnit, she didn’t want this. She shoved at his torso and met solid muscle. The man didn’t budge. Mara stared. The last time she’d tried that move, when Jones had pushed her into the furnace, she’d sent him flying across the room.

“What the hell are you?”

“A vampire.”

Mara glanced upward at the sun.

“I take pills to help me tolerate sunshine.”

“So you’re an addict.”

“An addicting habit, a creature of the dark desiring to walk in the sun.”

“I suppose next you’ll tell me you have a tan,” she taunted.

He unfastened the first two buttons of his shirt, revealing an intriguing triangle of dark hair. The sexual craving sharpened. Mara studied his skin, the same golden color as his face.

“I do tan easily in the sun. I am Italian.” Those dark eyes twinkled with good humor as he fastened his shirt.

“I thought vampires sparkled in the sunshine,” she shot back.

“We haven’t sparkled since the era of disco lights and mirrored balls.”

The joke nearly coaxed a smile to her face. His good looks made her body hum like an electrical wire. The chemistry between them felt magical. Mara thought of how Jones had hummed while preparing her funeral pyre. She didn’t need a sexy vampire. She needed her weapons and her wits.

“Nice meeting you, vampire, but I have to run.”

He caught her arm in an iron grip. “No more running, Mara.”

Panic squeezed her throat. “How do you know my name?”

“I know everything about you. What you are, where you were born, your parents. Your powers as a Darklighter.” His gaze darkened. “What Dennis Jones tried to do to you.”

Mara fisted her hands. “What did I ever do to you? Or are you like Jones, you enjoy torturing others?”

“I’m here to save your life,” he said softly. He sat down. “I’m Lucien Marcello, sent from the Society to keep you from killing Jones.”

Every paranormal being knew of the secret Society. They used the most powerful Ancients to restore order when someone went bonkers or threatened to expose their kind to humans. If the lesser Ancients were machine guns, Lucien Marcello was their nuclear bomb. He’d once dispatched an entire pack of werewolf bounty hunters with his bare hands. The hunters never even scratched him.

Yet as he took her hand, his touch was gentle. The white light inside her hummed, recognized compassion and reached out for it.

Her dark side bristled. It was only when she exposed her warm, sappy side that people took advantage. Kidnapped her. Her bad side was too smart to let her get hurt.

Always go with the stronger side, she thought. Mara wrenched away.

“Jones deserves to die. I don’t need saving. Go bite a surfer. Leave me alone.”

“I cannot, Mara. Our destinies have collided.” His gaze burned with intent. “You saw the vision. We will be lovers.”

Cold sweat trickled down her back. “It was just a dream!”

“You know it was not,” he said gently. “Come with me. I don’t wish to see you die, and you will die if you kill Jones.”

The threat hung between them. But she had yet to fully explore her own powers. And to leave Jones unpunished, free to hurt more innocents?

Jones left the restaurant. He glanced across the street, saw her and smiled. Fear threaded through her, then curdled into cold rage.

“Bring it on,” she whispered.

Snarling, she felt her teeth sharpen. Fingers unfurled as talons sprouted. Mara itched to shred and rip and hurt. Just as he’d hurt her.