Tantalize

  Worse, a wolf — Wolf? — large for an animal, brushed past Bradley and loped down the unfinished stairs to bare his choppers. The dusky blond fur bristled. Dear Lord, I prayed, please don’t let that wolf be Kieren.

  Bradley walked as if he were ambling down to check the pilot light. He clucked his tongue, and the wolf heeled.

  “Um, uh,” I whispered. “Wh-what —”

  Bradley crossed the room in a blink. Taking the flat side of the knife, he caressed my throat. “So fresh. Baby, how about a drink?”

  “No, thanks.” I shuddered. “What do you want?”

  Bradley withdrew the blade. “What does anyone want? Power, devotion, dear friends, dead enemies, real estate, a place in the world, a purpose, a community . . .” His hazel eyes flashed red, a trick beyond contacts’ technology. “Someone to love. Someone to love me.”

  Before I could stammer a reply, Bradley lunged toward the headboard. I scrambled to the far edge of the bed, my back to the wall, but then he began using his knife to saw into the ropes. My breath came fast, but I couldn’t afford to hyperventilate.

  “There, there,” Bradley said. “Even if I couldn’t stop you, and I could, don’t try anything rash. Even if you got past me . . .” He nodded in the direction of his guard dog. “And him, Ian and Jerome are at the top of the stairs.”

  Once the rope securing my right hand had been sliced down to a string, I pulled free and yanked the left as well. The thicker ropes, untouched by Bradley’s blade, strained against the bed frame, bending it before breaking. “What the hell?”

  “That’s the second time you’ve asked me that. The first was the night we met, remember?” Bradley laughed, moving to sit beside me on the bed. “And once again, I’m thinking: What an appropriate question.” He looked contrite. “You’ll have to forgive me this. I told my men to secure you so you wouldn’t wake up alone, panic, and do yourself some harm by trying to break out. I didn’t mean to cause alarm.”

  He still had the knife, though. Bradley must’ve realized that was a matter of concern because he snapped his fingers and Jerome glided down the stairs without acknowledging me to take it away.

  “Soon,” Bradley went on, running the backs of his pointed nails across my cheek, “once you’ve proven your mettle, we’ll move you upstairs in style.”

  “Mettle?” Such an old-fashioned word.

  Bradley clucked his tongue again. In response, the wolf rose up on its hind paws and changed. Smooth, fluid, graceful even. Its legs lengthening, its paws reforming into hands, its spine becoming that of a man, and its face that of pushing-thirty, paunchy, familiar Uncle Davidson.

  My uncle Davidson. Dressed. Hawaiian shirt and cutoffs. Birkenstocks. No mess, no fuss, no fluids. No cracking bones or strangled cries. No stench. Just, done. Fangs extended. Eyes red.

  Werewolves could shift between Wolf and human form. It was natural, Kieren had assured me, but not pretty or wardrobe-inclusive. “That was magic. You’re . . .”

  My uncle, Bradley, probably Ruby, possibly Ian and Jerome — that I knew of.

  Bradley kissed my throat. “We’re the real McCoys, and, baby, so are you.”

  “You sold me out.” I crossed my arms over my breasts and brought my knees up to meet them. Making myself a smaller target, hyperaware of Bradley so close by my side. He and Ruby, they were one thing. But Uncle D had been family. At least, he used to be. His official status might’ve been undead, but he was totally dead to me.

  “No, honey, I offered you for blessing. It was best for everyone. You were, you and that boy . . .” My uncle retreated to the stairs, one hand on the rail. “That beast.”

  I felt a rush of relief, knowing Kieren wasn’t in it with them. Then I realized that they’d been poisoning me against him for some time, and my faith hadn’t been strong enough to see through it. I’d failed the last person left in this world that I still loved.

  Kieren had been right all along. The vampires, these vampires, were killers.

  I closed my eyes against the memory of Vaggio’s murder, his neck ripped out. The claw marks. By taking wolf form and killing him, they’d created an opening for Bradley at Sanguini’s, pointed my suspicion toward Kieren — mine and the police’s. That night, Bradley himself might’ve been conveniently cooking at Chat Lunatique, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t masterminded the whole thing. Or maybe it had been Bradley, and the restaurant manager in Paris, Texas, was yet another vampire who’d lied on his behalf. As far as I was concerned, they were all monsters, all equally to blame.

  “Just think,” Uncle D added, turning back to look at me, “if I’d been blessed a few years earlier, I could’ve blessed your parents in turn.”

  “Blessed?” I repeated.

  “And they would —”

  “Still be dead.”

  “Still be with us. Don’t you see? This way we never have to lose each other like we did them. That is our blessing. This way we can rebuild our family and it’ll last.”

  It was sad, but he’d clearly gone stark, raving Looney Tunes. I clamped my chattering teeth together to still them.

  “You’ll thank me. You’ll see.” With that, Uncle D went upstairs.

  Now, it was just the two of us. Me and the vampire chef.

  “You never bit me,” I whispered, raising my hand to my neck.

  Bradley slid his tongue along my throat. “It’s not the bite —”

  “It’s the blood.” I remembered now.

  Bradley hadn’t just slipped something into my wine, he’d slipped something into my wine. But not just the wine, not necessarily. My mind clicked through the predator menu. Blood and tongue sausages with new potatoes, rice pudding blood cakes, veal tartare. For all I knew, Bradley had been dosing me since that first bowl of rigatoni marinara. It had been about a month since Bradley had entered my life. Long enough to transform me.

  “Sir,” grunted a voice from the top of the stairs. Jerome’s or Ian’s.

  “Ah, yes,” Bradley mused. “Time to get to work.”

  He left. The door at the top of the stairs shut, and I heard a bolt slide into place.

  Then it was like the dangly bare bulb hanging from the ceiling flashed over my head. Three, five vampires? How often did they feed? I thought of the murdered, the missing. Where were the rest of the bodies? My gaze drifted to the crawl space. It was dark and narrow and somehow I could see inside anyway.

  The space was empty except for spiders and a few mice that scurried to the far back, apparently sensing me, then huddled, black eyes wide. I could hear seven tiny hearts clicking. I couldn’t reach them, didn’t know why they were so afraid.

  A few hours later, Ruby moseyed down. Her expression was guarded, gauging mine.

  “Is, is Bradley turning everyone at Sanguini’s into a vampire?” I asked. Not perfect, but under the circumstances, I took comfort in how brave I’d sounded. If I were to have any hope of freeing myself, I had to somehow keep a level head.

  Ruby crouched on the bottom stair, eyeing me before creeping closer. As she approached the bare bulb, her pupils narrowed. She raised her hand to her mouth and licked the back of it. “Why? What have you heard?”

  Licked off blood, I realized, unsure I wanted to know who or what had been on the menu. I’d had cravings before, for salty fries or chocolate ice cream, like clockwork for three days a month. Nothing. Nothing compared to this. I wanted to run my tongue where hers had been, flick it between her fingers, suck on her thumb. I didn’t feel as afraid anymore.

  “Tell me,” she insisted from the center of the room. “Did the boss fill you in?”

  “Bradley?” I shook my head. “He had to go to work.”

  “I suppose you’ll find out sooner or later. No, not everyone. The most bloodthirsty, the most daring, those best suited to become vampires. The ones who ordered the chilled baby squirrels.”

  Simmered in orange brandy, bathed in honey cream sauce.

  “Is it still Sunday?” I asked.

  Ruby arched h
er back, posing. “Yeah, so?”

  Day of rest. “So when he said he had to go to work . . . ?”

  “Don’t know,” she replied. “They don’t tell me everything yet.”

  Because she wasn’t quite a vampire, I realized, fighting not to think about the full ramifications of what they’d done to me.

  It was Sunday. Sanguini’s was closed. But we’d already served about one hundred and fifty guests, and some of the staff had tried the squirrels, too. Yani, Mercedes, Sergio, the mayor, the Tejano Food Life critic, the woman who couldn’t pee in a room with a man. Little Nathaniel. Not all of the customers, though. Not the ones who picked the prey menu or the blood cakes or skipped dessert.

  “What about the murders, the ones at the lake?”

  Her smile was all Cheshire. “Could’ve been one of them, could’ve been a rogue.

  “By undead standards, Bradley has always been ambitious, impatient. But he’s also a romantic who loves to cook and has always wanted a comfortable plot to call home. Complete with the little missus. Vampire subdivision. Vampire PTA.”

  Ruby stretched her arms above her head, apparently bored. “Plus, becoming a family man has inspired him to new heights.” She explained that vampires traditionally chose their fledglings carefully, keeping numbers low, the ranks controllable. That they took the long view, building a power base over generations. But unwilling to wait, Bradley had embarked on his so-called “mass-blessing” plan. He’d seek out his soon-to-manifest neophytes, flex some muscle to show them who’s boss, run a series of crash courses in Undead 101, and send off his most promising to claim Houston, Dallas, Fort Worth, San Antonio, El Paso, Corpus Christi — the other major Texas cities — in his name. “In a few months,” she concluded, “he’ll control the entire state.”

  “And me?” I asked. “What about —”

  “My, aren’t you self-absorbed,” she said.

  When I woke up, the room was pitch-black. I could feel a man beside me, a coppery velvet on my tongue. My palm rested on his broad forehead, and the hair felt silky. I remembered hearing somewhere that after you died, your hair and nails kept growing. I wondered if vampires had some kind of special conditioner. One that “brings your hair back to life.” That got me giggling, giddy. I was drunk again.

  “I hated having to do this, locking you down here,” Bradley whispered, and his breath smelled like peppermint, blood, and Chianti. “But your vampiric attributes are beginning to manifest. Now that you’re coming to terms with it, I’m going to free you. Just be careful. A wrong move could put you in grave danger.”

  Very punny, I thought. Grave danger. “What do you mean?”

  “As a neophyte, you’ll be vulnerable — erratic and exposed.” Bradley traced lazy circles on my back. “Humans are no problem. At best, recruits. At least, food. But the werecarnivores, they’re prey with teeth of their own. Can’t be turned, and they tend to take it personally when you eat one. Some of the monsters even presume to spy on us, to hunt and assassinate us. They seek to foil our well-laid plans.

  “Stay wary until your first tooth-to-skin feed. I don’t want to lose you.”

  I was a little curious. “Lose me how?”

  Bradley’s fingers paused. “Wooden stake through the heart, head cut off. Mouth stuffed with garlic, if someone truly cares.”

  I shuddered.

  “All of that isn’t required. Decapitation will suffice or a knife, any knife, to the heart.” Bradley kissed me, and I felt it dirty my toenails.

  “There are other fatal dangers, like fire, and turnoffs, like sunlight, which reduce our powers. The effects of religious symbols vary from symbol to symbol and vampire to vampire. But the full treatment with the garlic, that’s what the beasts think it takes to save our souls. Most don’t bother.”

  Kieren was traditional about all that Wolf stuff.

  “Tomorrow night, take off work. Think about what you want for the rest of your eternal life, and then meet me after close on Sanguini’s dance floor.” He lowered his voice. “Bring a beverage, why don’t you? A token of affection.”

  A victim, he meant.

  “And tell me you’ll be forever mine.”

  My eyelids felt like canvas. My muscles, like gelatin. Not far away, a train whistle blew. It reminded me of Kieren. “And if I don’t?”

  “My little rebel.” Bradley laughed. “You’re the bee’s knees.” He slid his hand down the back of my thigh. “Without my guidance, my protection, the mongrel will become a menace to you. I’ll have no choice but to put him down.”

  I made a small sound of alarm.

  Bradley pulled one of my bee’s knees over his slender hip. “When all’s done, he won’t matter. The blood will take away your loneliness, your fears. The success of Sanguini’s will be guaranteed, and you’ll always have me.”

  He made it sound so easy.

  Bradley slid his palm back up. “You know, baby, the young people used to say ‘necking’ instead of ‘kissing.’”

  Which was interesting enough, cool and cozy. I could hear the bedsprings creaking, the beating hearts of the mice, my breath — hollow and wild. Feel my fading pulse in my muscles — the long ones and the bunched ones — my tendons, my toes, and my clenching, unclenching, clenching hands. Sweat broke out behind my knees, shimmered across my back. I shut my eyes against my need and his. Bradley slid lower, trailing wet kisses, heightening, heating, and then all I knew was the bite, the bliss, rapture.

  Grackles outside my bedroom window woke me from my recurring standardized-test nightmare, the one where I found out with a minute to go that I’d skipped a row of bubbles, so at most I’d have to retest and at least offer up prayers to the goddess of chaos.

  I opened one eye, reassured by the familiar calico print of the bedspread covering my canopy bed, grateful Vaggio had sprung for the kajillion-thread-count sheets he’d given me last Christmas. Downstairs, the grandfather clock bonged.

  I stilled, remembering Bradley’s threat and expectations.

  Kieren.

  If I didn’t bring Bradley a victim tonight and pledge my undead devotion, he would kill Kieren. And even if I did meet his terms, I didn’t trust him.

  It was like Miz Morales had said. Kieren needed the protection of a Wolf pack.

  Meanwhile, I couldn’t fall apart. Not while his life might depend on me.

  Grabbing the phone on my nightstand, I tried Kieren at home, wishing Miz Morales had never taken his cell away. No answer, but my dial tone was beeping to signal messages. I checked Call Notes. Eleven new.

  Yesterday morning, 9:28 A.M. “Quince? This is Kieren. I thought maybe you might be hurtin’ this morning. Too much to drink, huh? Look, forget last night. I was upset. I’d love to talk to you once you’ve sobered up. Give me a call.”

  Another. Yesterday afternoon, 3:16 P.M. “Quince, I’m calling from Clyde’s cell. I’ll be at your place in a few.”

  Another. Last night, 8:16 P.M. “Quince, it’s me. I’m outside your back door. This is the fourth time I’ve swung by, and it still doesn’t look like anyone’s home.”

  And so on, through the night, each more frantic. He’d called from outside Sanguini’s, Ruby’s apartment, tried my house a couple more times, mentioned using a pay phone, said something about his mama and daddy.

  Message eight at 5:49 A.M. this morning began, “I tracked down an address on the vampire chef, and I’m headed north on Lamar.”

  I held my breath, praying, until message nine at 7:11 A.M. reported, “The only ones there were his goons.” Ian and Jerome. “I’ve got a lead at school,” Kieren went on. “Quince, if you get this message, I . . . I swear, I’m gonna find you.”

  Message ten at 2:43 P.M. “Something’s going down,” he said. “If you don’t hear from me again, I just want you to know that I — sorry, I gotta go.” And that was it.

  Message eleven at 6:30 P.M. Bradley. “Good evening, baby. Sleep well?”

  I dropped the phone like it was a rattler. Then picked it u
p and left a message at Kieren’s.

  Was it Monday? My alarm clock read 8:21 P.M., and come to think of it, I wasn’t sure if I was home alone. After all, I hadn’t escaped. I’d been delivered. As had a dozen long-stem red calla lilies, arranged in a crystal vase that sat on my dresser.

  I lay quiet for five minutes, ten, listening for all the sounds an old house makes. Separating those from the noise of the birds. The wind against the frame, the haunting groans I excused as “settling.” No footsteps on the stairs, no water running, no creaks on the hardwood floors.

  When I turned down my covers, I was still dressed in the gauzy white gown, untied at the bodice. Jaw tight, I peeked down at myself. Beige thong still on. Beige thong still intact. My breasts and tummy didn’t look pale, though I wasn’t what anyone would call a bronzed beauty. I slipped out of bed, pulled the gown over my head, let it fall to the rug.

  I didn’t feel like a vampire. I did feel naked, though, and corrected that in a hurry, ditching what Bradley had left me with and pulling on sensible black cotton panties, a sports bra, black capri-cut running pants, my Fat Lorenzo’s T, and Teva sandals. I missed my Nikes. Wished I hadn’t left my red cowboy boots at the restaurant.

  While dressing, I discovered the marks. Twin holes, blood crusted over, healing already. One set beneath the under curve of each breast. Another just below the navel, a fourth on my right inner thigh, the last behind my left kneecap. God damn him!

  Bradley hadn’t fed. Or drunk. He’d tasted. When I touched the marks, teased them with my fingertips, peeled back the scab beneath my belly button, letting the blood run, I tasted myself. I tasted, and, trembling, wanted more.

  The ritual of dressing had calmed me enough that I could think about searching the house. Not too calm, though. I wasn’t too calm. I almost felt like Bradley could see me, or at least that he could anticipate my next move.

  I peered at the dust bunnies beneath my bed, into the messy closet. All clear.

  I took cautious steps to Uncle Davidson’s room down the hall. Empty.