Dead Sexy

  She didn’t have to ask who he was. In the deepest part of her being, she knew.

  For a moment, she couldn’t move, couldn’t think, and then she whirled around and bolted for the front door.

  She had just wrenched it open when he reached her.

  She screamed as he grabbed a handful of her hair and flung her across the room, cried out when the back of her head struck the wall. Lights danced in front of her eyes as she slowly slid to the floor.

  He closed the front door, then came to stand over her.

  Regan slid her hand into her jacket pocket, her fingers curling around the butt of her pistol. “What do you want?”

  “Santiago.”

  For a moment, she considered denying that she knew the vampire, but one look into the intruder’s eyes changed her mind. “He’s not here.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Turn around, Vasile. I am right behind you.”

  Regan glanced past the werewolf to see Santiago standing in front of the door. She had never been so glad to see anyone in her life.

  The werewolf’s lips drew back in a predatory grin. “I knew I would find you here.”

  “The woman has no part in this.”

  “No?” Vasile took a step back, his hand once against fisting around a handful of Regan’s hair. “I think she does.”

  “She is nothing to you,” Santiago said, his voice cool and detached. “And nothing to me.”

  Regan looked up at Santiago, chilled to the bone by his words. He doesn’t mean it, she told herself. He can’t mean it.

  Vasile laughed. It was an ugly sound, like dry bones scraping together. “Then you won’t care if I kill her.”

  “Do what you will to the woman,” Santiago said impatiently. “It will change nothing between us.”

  Uncertainly flickered in the werewolf’s eyes; then, with a low growl, he gathered Regan into his arms. “You say the woman means nothing to you. We shall see.”

  Knowing that Vasile could move almost as fast as he could, and knowing that any attempt to interfere would only make things worse, Santiago remained where he was, hoping against hope that the werewolf was bluffing. He should have known better.

  Santiago let out a cry of rage when Vasile buried his fangs in Regan’s neck. The werewolf bit down hard, then threw her away from him. She slammed into the far wall, fell to the floor, and lay there, limp and unmoving, like a rag doll.

  Santiago lunged toward her, but Vasile sprang forward, murder in his eyes as he placed himself between Santiago and Regan.

  “Before I kill you,” Santiago said, every fiber of his being fixed on the werewolf, “I want to know why you attacked Marishka.”

  Pausing, Vasile looked over his shoulder. “You don’t know?” he said with a sneer. “You expect me to believe she never told you?”

  Santiago frowned. “What are you talking about?” He glanced at Regan, his senses surrounding her. Her heartbeat, though erratic, told him she was still alive. “What was Regan supposed to tell me?”

  “Not her! Marishka. She was mine! We were to be married. And then she met you. I warned her that I would kill her before I let her go. She should have believed me.”

  “You killed Marishka because she left you?”

  “And now I intend to kill you, and the woman, as well,” Vasile snarled. He sprang forward, his body shifting in midair.

  In the same instant, Santiago called upon the beast that dwelled within him, reveling in the rush of preternatural power that flowed through him as he, too, shifted into wolf form.

  Regan stirred, her eyelids fluttering open. She stared at the scene before her through eyes that refused to focus while a distant part of her mind wondered if she was having another nightmare. Vasile and Santiago were gone and two wolves—one yellow haired, one black—were at each other’s throats, claws and fangs slashing and ripping. Blood sprayed through the air in a fine crimson mist. It was an eerily silent battle, and all the more frightening because of it. She wanted to run away but when she tried to move, pain exploded through her limbs, crawled up her neck, and lodged in the back of her head. It couldn’t be a dream, she thought. The pain she felt was all too real.

  Helpless, she could only watch the deadly dance in morbid fascination. The creatures were both wolves, yet they looked nothing the same, and it wasn’t just the difference in their coloring. The fair-haired one seemed distorted somehow, its arms and legs seeming out of proportion to its body; not only that, but its ears were too small, its head too big.

  In a sudden rush, the black wolf managed to knock the other wolf off balance. With a victorious howl, it buried its fangs in the yellow-haired wolf’s shoulder.

  The injured wolf let out a bloodcurdling cry that was almost human, its fangs snapping wildly at the other wolf. Its jaws locked on the black wolf’s neck. With a low growl, the black wolf shook himself free. In an instant, the yellow-haired wolf gained its feet and with a wild cry, it leaped through the front window and disappeared into the night in a shower of broken glass.

  The black wolf stared after it for a moment, then turned and padded toward Regan.

  She took one look at the bloody muzzle and glowing eyes, and slid into welcome oblivion.

  Santiago glanced at the window. The urge to follow Vasile and end the feud between them once and for all was strong within him, but he couldn’t leave the woman here alone. Though slim, there was always a chance Vasile would double back and try to finish what he had started. It wasn’t a chance Santiago was willing to take.

  Shifting back to his own form, he knelt at Regan’s side and gently examined her from head to foot. He could detect no broken bones but she was badly bruised, and there was a sizeable lump on the back of her head. As expected, the worst wound was the hideous bite in her neck. Just how bad it was would be determined at the next full moon.

  Lifting Regan into his arms, he carried her into the bedroom, drew back the covers on the bed, and lowered her onto the mattress. He was certain she would not be pleased to have him undress her, but he couldn’t leave her lying there covered in blood. Moving quickly, he stripped off her soiled garments and tossed them aside. In spite of his concern for her well-being, he couldn’t help noticing that her body was as lovely as her face.

  After washing and bandaging the wound in her neck, he searched the dresser drawers until he found a nightgown. He slipped it over her head, pulled it over her breasts, and smoothed it down over her hips, all the while thinking it was a crime to cover such perfection. Rummaging through her closet and dresser, he picked out a change of clothing for her, then went into the bathroom and scooped up her comb and brush and all the other feminine doodads on the counter.

  He stuffed everything into a pillowcase and carried it into the living room.

  Pausing, he glanced around the room. The side window was broken. There was a thin spray of blood on the hardwood floor. Muttering an oath, he wet a towel, found a bottle of liquid soap and a towel, and scrubbed the floor clean.

  Now, what to do about the window? He was tempted to worry about it later, but a broken window was an invitation to any thief in the neighborhood. Moving quickly, he searched the grounds and when he found nothing useful there, he searched the garage where he found a piece of plywood. A further search turned up a hammer and nails.

  Returning to the house, he checked on Regan, then covered the window with the plywood and nailed it in place.

  When that was done, he picked up the pillowcase, gathered Regan into his arms and carried her outside. He locked the door behind him and then, traveling at preternatural speed, he soon arrived at his underground lair in the Byways.

  In the bedroom, he held her close for a moment before he drew back the blankets and put her to bed. She looked as pale as death against the black sheets. The bandage on her neck was dotted with fresh blood. As he drew the covers over her, he couldn’t help wondering how she would feel if the worst happened, but perhaps he was worrying for nothing. He had never heard of anyone being t
urned into a werewolf when bitten by a werewolf in human form. But then, Vasile was no longer an ordinary werewolf.

  Santiago brushed a lock of hair from Regan’s forehead, his fingertips sliding lightly over her brow. Her skin was baby soft and smooth, warmed by the blood flowing through her veins. It called to him, singing an ancient song of life. He had known her only a short time, yet he could no longer imagine his world without her in it.

  He ran his knuckles over her cheek. Long ago, he had heard it rumored that a shaman in the Black Hills of South Dakota possessed a cure for lycanthropy. Of course, over the years, Santiago had heard rumors that there was a cure for vampirism, too, only that cure was supposedly obtained from a witch somewhere in the hill country of Tuscany. He had spent a dozen nights contemplating what it would be like to be mortal again, to eat solid food, to move about in the daylight, to sleep only when he was tired.

  Finally, driven by boredom and curiosity, Santiago had traveled to Italy and scoured every inch of the country looking for the witch or a cure, only to come to the conclusion that neither the witch or the cure had ever existed. To this day, he didn’t know what he would have done had he found a cure for the Dark Trick while in Italy. Today, he would not have to think about it twice. He had no wish to return to mortality. His current lifestyle suited him just fine.

  For Regan’s sake, he hoped that, should a werewolf antidote become a necessity, it would prove to be more than a myth.

  He stayed at Regan’s side until late morning and then, after writing her a quick note, he closed himself in his lair. Though he could be active during the daylight hours, sooner or later he was compelled to surrender to the Dark Sleep.

  He was on the brink of oblivion when he remembered that when she woke, there would be nothing in the house for her to eat or drink, but there was no help for it now.

  Closing his eyes, he succumbed to the darkness.

  With a low groan, Regan turned onto her side. She ached in places she had never known she had; there was a really bad taste in her mouth. Why hadn’t she brushed her teeth last night before she went to bed? Slowly, it occurred to her that the mattress beneath her didn’t feel like her mattress, the sheets didn’t feel like her sheets, and the pillow beneath her head wasn’t as soft as the one she was used to. And why was her neck so sore?

  Opening her eyes a crack, she stared, uncomprehending, at the unfamiliar sight of windowless blue-gray walls.

  Fear came quickly, and with it, a rush of panic. Where was she? Sitting up, she saw that she was in her own nightgown. But in whose bed? Had Vasile carried her off to his lair?

  She lifted a hand to her neck, her fingers tentatively exploring the bandage swathed around her throat. So, it hadn’t been a terrible dream, after all. The horror of what had happened the night before returned in a rush. She had been bitten! By a werewolf! Nausea rose in her throat and she bolted from the bed, one hand covering her mouth as she searched for the bathroom, her stomach heaving. Bitten by a werewolf!

  Later, weak and shaken, she sat on the floor, her back against the tub, her arms wrapped around her middle. She had been bitten by a werewolf. The thought made her stomach clench anew. Would she grow fanged and furry with the next full moon? She was shaking now, horrified beyond words.

  Bitten by a werewolf. The realization struck with icy certainty and with it came the realization that her life as she knew it was over.

  Still trembling, she dragged herself to her feet and moved toward the sink to rinse her mouth, only there was no paper cup or drinking glass.

  Moving slowly, she went looking for the kitchen, only there wasn’t one. Where was she? Returning to the bathroom, she turned on the faucet, cupped her hands under the water, and rinsed her mouth as best she could.

  Forcing herself to remain calm, she went back into the bedroom and sat down on the edge of the bed, noting, as she did so, that the sheets were black satin. It was then that she saw the note on one of the pillows. Picking it up, she read:

  Regan,

  I know you have questions. Stay here and rest. Try not to worry. I will come to you at sunset.

  JS

  JS. For Joaquin Santiago? She glanced at the black sheets again. It had to be him. She glanced around, wondering where he was—wondering where she was. She had been to Santiago’s condo and this definitely wasn’t it.

  Feeling like an old, old woman, she rose from the bed and hobbled into the living room where she dropped down on the sofa.

  Whatever this place was, it was a lot nicer than his other place, she thought, gazing at her surroundings, and far more suited to the man who owned it than the condo in the park. She studied the paintings, thinking it was touching and a little sad that all his paintings were of sunrises and sunsets.

  Leaning forward, she perused the items displayed under the glass top of the coffee table, wondering if they held any special meaning for Santiago, then grimaced as a horrible thought crossed her mind. Maybe they were mementos taken from people he had killed. He was, after all, a vampire.

  With a shudder, she leaned back and closed her eyes. Once, she had thought that being a vampire was the worst thing in the world. Now, contemplating the possibility that she might become a werewolf, she wasn’t so sure. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath. Maybe she was worrying for nothing. Vasile had been in human form when he bit her. As far as she knew, werewolves had to be in wolf form to create another werewolf.

  She clung to that thought as bits and pieces of what she had read on the Internet flitted through her mind. Throughout the mythology of the known world, there were stories of humans transforming into animal shapes. Odin had changed himself into an eagle. Loki had taken on the form of a fish. The Greek gods had often transformed into beasts, the better to move among men in secrecy. Jupiter had changed into a bull, Hecuba into a dog.

  It was believed that werewolves didn’t age and were immune to most human diseases. Not only that, but their bodies were constantly regenerating, which made them pretty much immortal. And since they also healed rapidly, the only way to kill one was to inflict a mortal wound to the heart or the brain.

  There were various ways to become a werewolf, such as through sorcery, being bitten by a werewolf, being cursed by a witch, or being born to a werewolf. People who were turned into werewolves against their will weren’t considered damned until they tasted human blood; once that happened, they were forever cursed.

  Regan thought briefly of Vasile and the people he had killed and mutilated. Surely he deserved to be damned for all eternity…

  She lifted a hand to the bandage on her neck, her stomach churning as she imagined herself transforming into a wolf and prowling the moonlit streets of the city looking for prey. A wave of hysterical laughter rose in her throat. Maybe she could go hunting with Santiago! He could drink the blood and she would eat the flesh. She shuddered at the thought. She didn’t want to be a werewolf. She didn’t want to be cursed forever.

  Thinking to dispel her morbid thoughts, she turned on the Satellite Screen, grateful for the sound of human voices. She found an old Tom Hanks comedy, hoping it would distract her, but to no avail. The word “werewolf” whispered in her mind over and over again and with it came the horrific images of the mutilated bodies in the park.

  Huddled in a corner of the sofa, she stared at the television screen and waited for sunset.

  Chapter 11

  Santiago rose at dusk. He paused at the door between his lair and the bedroom closet, listening. Only when he had ascertained that Regan wasn’t in the adjoining room did he leave his lair.

  He found her in the living room, curled up in a corner of the sofa, asleep. He studied her face a moment, noting that her complexion was still pale. There were dark shadows under her eyes, hollows in her cheeks. She looked worried, even in sleep. He supposed he couldn’t blame her. Given a choice, he knew he would rather be a vampire than a werewolf. He wondered if, given the choice, Regan would feel the same.

  Sitting beside her on the sofa, he
gently brushed a lock of hair from her cheek.

  She woke with a start, her body tensing, her eyes widening with fear.

  “Do not be afraid,” he said quietly. “It is only me.”

  She blew out a sigh of relief as she slumped back against the sofa once again. “How do you feel?” he asked.

  “Fine, now, but…” She looked up at him, her eyes haunted. “Joaquin, I don’t want to be a werewolf. If…if it happens…” She shuddered. “If I start to turn furry, I want you to…” She took a deep breath. “I want you to do whatever you have to.”

  “Let us not worry about that now. It is rumored that there is a cure.”

  She sat up, her eyes alight with interest. “A cure? Where?”

  He told her quickly of the little he knew about the shaman in the Black Hills.

  “I have to go there,” she said, her voice rising with excitement. “Will you…never mind.”

  “Will I what?”

  Her gaze slid away from his. “Nothing.”

  “Were you perhaps going to ask me to go with you?”

  “Yes, but…I have no right to impose on you. We hardly know each other, and…”

  Santiago took her hand in his, turned it over, and lightly kissed her palm. “Did you really think I would let you go alone?”

  She shook her head. “No,” she said. “No, I guess not.”

  She sat back, suddenly having second thoughts about the whole thing. Maybe she wouldn’t turn into a werewolf. Maybe she should wait and see how Vasile’s bite affected her before she took off on a wild goose chase to the Black Hills. She considered putting the trip off, then decided against it. Better to go now. If she found the cure and Vasile’s bite hadn’t affected her, no harm would be done. And if she was infected, well, she wanted to be cured as soon as possible.