It wasn’t just vampires. There was so much other crazy shit in the world’s floor-cracks, from the little green henchmen some swore served old biters to the staircases in the woods, from the Bermuda Triangle to the Dyatlov Pass Incident, from wendigos to yetis. Mothman, the Jersey Devil, the hunters who specialized in werewolves, chupacabras, or Sasquatches instead of vampires, an entire enchilada of bizarre mythological bullshit come to screaming, carnivorous life. The only thing more unsettling than the weirdness was the determinationover ninety-nine-point-nine percent of humanity displayed in ignoring its reality while consuming reams of fiction on the subject.
Ackerman had once remarked it was even kind of a backhanded comfort, since actual monsters were a lot less terrifying than things some human beings did to each other.Almost makes you believe in God, he’d said, and Layla couldn’t help but agree, having been more than half awake in high school history classes.
Now she had to face the fact that she might be irrevocably part of the bizarro zone, just not on the side of humanity. Was he really going to turn her into a biter?
I’d say that ship has sailed, Lay. You’ll be a henchwoman at best, a baby biter at worst. How are you going to deal with that?
She lay very still for what felt like a long time, testing her fingers and toes, taking internal inventory. A few twinges in her lady-parts reminded her of being held down and railedagain, and she had to admit he wasn’t bad at it. If she was turning into a complete slut—but that was stupid misogyny talking, right?
Christ, that was almost the most confusing thing about the whole deal, her body deciding it liked… well, sexwasa biological imperative. The whole bride-of-Dracula thing in the movies always looked like it felt good, so maybe it was a case of fiction following reality for once.
She didn’t appear to be sleeping in a wet spot, at least. It was so nice to feel clean again, come to think of it. Cold-water showers and washcloth scrubdowns were fine, but hardly satisfying.
Layla stirred, cautiously peeking in every direction. She raised her head, taking in the terrain.
A relatively large windowless room, walls painted pale eggshell. The bed was huge, soft, and the sheets reasonablyfresh, a thick scratchy grey wool blanket providing just enough weight and warmth. A huge chifforobe of dark wood loomed across from the bed’s foot, and a plain wooden chair was placed precisely between the bed and the right-hand wall, where a door stood ajar, showing tile—bathroom, and she was blushing again, since there wasn’t enough monster blood in the world to make her forgetthatpart of the festivities. Another door to the left, shut tight, most probably the exit.
Good to know.
Max sat wedged in the room’s empty corner, head down, arms loose over his knees, hands dangling. Another black sweater with leather elbow-patches, slightly different work trousers, boots laced tightly. He was completely motionless. Was he asleep? How many of those same outfits did he have, and where thehellhad he gotten clothes from?
It was odd. He looked almost lonely, sitting like that.
You are out of your fucking mind, Layla. That thing went through your crew like a hot knife through butter, and he’s fucked you twice now. Or is there another word for the event? You did get kind of enthusiastic about parts of the whole thing, remember?
She felt like she was thinking clearly for the first time in ages. A dark film had been peeled away from her vision, and her ears nearly twitched like a rabbit’s. She could see little chips and gouges in the paint, every ding on the varnished wooden bedstead, count the threads of the cotton sheets. There was a regular, slowka-thump, pause,ka-thumpin the stillness, though the air was still and close, as if the place was soundproofed.
Reason it out. You can do this—you’re not the brightest, but at least you can chew what you bite. Meemaw always said that was more important, anyway.Layla scooted backto lean against the headboard, arranged her knees crisscross-applesauce, and tried to think systematically.
Nemesis killed other vampires, the red-stripe file was very clear on that—and usually ones who were being real bastards, though according to most hunters the only good biter was a dead one. What if, justwhat ifhe’d interpreted Ben opening fire as another bloodsucker’s human employees getting the drop on him?
Which brought up the question of precisely why he hadn’t killed her back at the base. Maybe sheer sexism, because she was a girl? Some of Nemesis’s listed targets had been female biters; Shawn and his crew were very definite that girl bloodsuckers were fast, tough, and incredibly hard to put down in their own right.
Then there was that lemon-leman stuff. Did Max actually want a girlfriend, or did he want little vampire babies? There wasn’t any research swilling around on that particular subject; most who studied the demimonde agreed it couldn’t be done.
Still, the biter who had taken out O’Shaughnassey’s crew was reportedly capable of walking around in sunlight, as some of the really old ones were said to. That particular monster had also survived a car bomb, standing in leaping gasoline flames while being peppered by the new fragmenting ammo. Knocking up a human probably wasn’t outside an old vampire’s capabilities; she had to at least consider the notion.
Then I am nobody.
Another flush, rising from her neck to fill her cheeks with fire. You couldn’t take what a man said during sex literally; she was inexperienced, sure, but she knewthatmuch. Now he’d gotten what he wanted and infected her with vampirism, he was probably going to sayso long, thanks for the funand disappear, leaving her with a habit for red stuff and the prospect of beinghunted by people she might once have corresponded with for research.
Layla didn’t think she could bite another person, or do some of the horrible things vampires seemed to enjoy. The very idea filled her with unsteady revulsion. All the research said biters were downright addicted to blood and acted correspondingly; still, plain old humans didn’t need a habit to be assholes.
The solid, blocky bedstead creaked, a brush of warm air stirred Layla’s hair, and the biter appeared right in front of her without the benefit of stretching, yawning, or even standing up and walking across the room.
He shook his head as he settled into a crouch, tossing those gleaming curls back, mattress giving a sharp squeak as his boots sank deep. At least his eyes were dark, without those wet crimson sparks spreading in the pupils. He went completely still again, peering at her like he was surprised to find a girl still in his bed after a night spent doing… what he’d done.
Whatbothof them had done, since she hadn’t exactly hated the whole experience. Did she have to take responsibility? The spinning inside her head wouldn’t calm down so she could decide.
“Leila.” Gravely, as if reminding himself of her name. Or at least, his version of it; she couldn’t place the accent at all. “How do you feel?”
Completely fucking confused, even if all my bruises are gone. A ghost of the deepest aches remained, but only that. She hadn’t felt this good since well before graduation, really. “F-fine.”
A pause. He clearly weighed her response and found it insufficient. “You must tell me if there is any pain. Any discomfort at all.”
Oh, shit, do you really want to knock me up?“Uh…” She might as well ask. “Are you trying to have vampire babies?”
His mouth opened slightly; fortunately, his teeth looked dentist-perfect human at the moment. There was no sign of fangs, and she had to wonder if she’d develop big sharklike chomers.
