“I loooove you, my angel.”
“Okay, damn it, but you’ve just cost yourself a blowjob for this.” Liz checked the time on her phone and grimaced. It was just shy of midnight. “I’m not at home, so I’ll have to swing by the apartment to grab your keys. I won’t be there for at least an hour.”
“M’kay. Love you.”
“Love you, too, you big pain in the ass.”
24
Back at the apartment, Liz turned and smiled at Carl. He was such a lovely man, waiting for her to make it inside. A true gentleman like Robert.
Noting the dim entryway, she frowned. Last week it was the dishwasher, and then a couple days ago the screen over her bedroom window had fallen apart, like it had been clawed to shreds by a feral cat, and now the damn porch light was out. Something was always breaking in the place, which made her happy all over again that she was moving in with David.
Cursing, she dropped her keys. She got down on all fours and patted the ground hurriedly, mindful of Carl’s time. It took her a minute to find the ring. Poor Man. It must get old, always having to wait around for people.
Liz unlocked the door and held it open with her hip as she waved at Carl. She stepped into the darkness and closed the door behind her, running a hand along the wall to flip on the light switch. “You’ve got to be kidding me!” she groaned when the room stayed dark.
She stepped further into the living room to find a lamp, freezing as she heard a shifting by the sofa. She blinked furiously, her eyes straining to adjust. Could be nothing. It wouldn’t be the first time her imagination had gone wild after watching a scary movie—
No, there it was again, a figure stirring. She could barely make out the form, but something was there, watching and waiting in the darkness. She held her breath, tiptoeing backwards toward the door. She reached out, afraid her movement would prompt an attack from the intruder but even more frightened that she’d grope a second unwanted visitor instead of the doorknob. She found it, quickly closing her fingers around cool steel, rotating her wrist—
A solid force slammed into her, and she cried out. Her spine made an ugly popping noise as she was pitched through the air. Her skull collided with the hardwood floor when she landed, jolting her. She rubbed her scalp, trying to make sense of what was happening.
A crowbar was suddenly under her jaw, hauling her to her feet. No, it was an arm—an arm stronger and harder than any she’d ever felt, and it was choking her. She’d lose consciousness soon, and she didn’t want to imagine all the horrific things that would come after that.
You’ve got to fight with all you got! Fight tooth and nail!
Liz thrashed her legs and threw back an elbow. It smashed her attacker’s nose with a revolting crunch. The grip on her loosened and she cocked an arm, winding up to deliver another assault, but the burning at her neck became too excruciating to ignore. Acid? Whatever it was, it made her so very tired. And what she wanted more than anything was to close her eyes, if only for a moment, until it felt like she’d never wake up again . . . to give in, let go, sleep like the dead—
No! You fight, Liz! Fight!
Head snapping up, Liz, acting on instinct, sunk her teeth into the unseen attacker, clamping her jaw down hard until she thought she could taste bone. Her mouth filled up with warm coppery liquid, but she did not let go, not even as the blood flowed down her throat, gagging her.
The attacker loosened their grip, providing Liz the opportunity to flee. She flung the door open and ran outside. “Somebody help me! Please, help!”
Cold fingers ripped at her shoulder, pulling her back toward apartment. Staggering, she flung an arm against the door, trying to gain purchase.If you go back in there, you’re never going to come out. Fight!
Gnarling her hands into claws, she lashed out, sensing eyeballs under her fingernails. She raked down hard. Growling, the intruder stumbled back, but it was too late. Collapsing off the edge of the porch, Elizabeth Tori Miller, was going down. She was dead before she landed in a shallow grave of mud.
25
OLIVIA
Vampire Jerry and I were sharing a giggle in the car on the way home. I’d just informed him that I’d had more fun on our decoy “date” than I’d ever had with any human man in my entire life, despite him being a gay lawyer who’d been dead for a couple hundred years. He was tickled.
We’d kicked off our evening by going to an art gallery exhibit near Embarcadero. Although Jerry was a civil rights attorney by profession—and clearly quite a successful one, since his going rate was four hundred dollars an hour—he’d showed a few of his pieces alongside other vampire artists. His paintings, inspired by his childhood in Africa and his later years as a slave, depicted macabre imagery that highlighted deconstruction of the human spirit. His work was spectacular, far too gory (and expensive) to be anything I’d hang in my own home, but spectacular, nonetheless. He’d sold every single one of his pieces before the show was halfway over and had left with a stack of commissions. He didn’t paint for the money, he’d said. It was purely catharsis.
Jerry, I learned, was popular within the human art community as well and had rubbed elbows with some of the most famous artists to have ever lived. Much to my enjoyment, he’d spent a great deal of the evening sharing stories about his long-dead friends, graciously answering every single one of the gazillion questions I’d had about them.
My favorite recollection of the vamp’s was about a struggling New York City painter he’d known in the 1930’s. This human friend of his had his first artistic breakthrough after observing Jerry drain a mugger who’d attempted to rob the two of them at knifepoint. Rather than running away after he realized what Jerry was, the artist remained motionless in the alley, captivated by the splashes of blood on the pavement. He later began employing a splatter technique that made him one of the most celebrated painters in the world. His paintings now sell for millions.
After the art show, Jerry and I had gone to a swanky vampire bar called Crimson. They served fancy plasma cocktails in fine crystal glasses that looked so stylish that I almost felt tempted to try one. I took my drink “virgin,” of course, ordering a conservative gin and tonic.
Crimson was underground in both a literal and figurative sense. While one would never guess as much based solely on the lavish décor, the bar was located several dozen feet below the city in a massive tunnel that had previously been used for bootlegging during Prohibition. After we’d received our drinks, Jerry, noticing my anxiety, had sweetly assured me that no vampires were going to harm me. In return I’d snorted, informing him that I was more concerned about being crushed to death in an earthquake—this was San Francisco, after all—which he’d thought was amusing.
I was still horribly saddened by the way things had been left with Robert, but Jerry provided the perfect distraction I needed. I would have spent time with him even if I wasn’t getting paid to do so. His happiness was contagious, and I told him so.
“I think you’re fun you, too, sweetie,” he said, patting my leg with his gigantic hand. As we entered my neighborhood, he made polite observations about its cuteness. Jerry, no doubt, lived in a mansion.
