The very thought filled her with even more of that wobbling, stomach-flipping disgust.
Max the Vampire stared at her. He seemed, of all things, thunderstruck by the question. Was she not supposed to guess his grand plan? Or was she way off-base?
“Ah. No.” It was weird to see such a powerful monster look, of all things, slightly embarrassed. “Sanguinant are sterile; our only progeny is in the Blood. Why? Did you long for children, in your mortal life?”
Christ, no. The thought that she might end up a mother like Samantha was a good argument for hundred-percent abstinence. So was freedom from STDs.
Which brought up another question. “What about vampire diseases? Do I have to get checked out?” Where did you find a clinic for that, anyway? And that term,your mortal life. Did that mean she wasn’t human anymore?
She didn’t feel any different, except for being relatively well-rested. And unbruised, and clear-eyed.
Oh, crap.Was this what vampires always felt like? No wonder they were so strong, so unholy fast. There were definite advantages to that, she decided, but weighed against the liquid diet and all the murder, well…
“Diseases?” He repeated the word as if it were foreign.
Help me out here, big guy.You ought to know about protection if you’re going to be sticking that thing anywhere.She was treating him like a human guy, she realized, and maybe that was a bad call. “I’m sorry, I just don’t know. We haven’t been hunting for very long.”
It was kind of a lie, though old bloodsuckers would probably consider four years less than a lunch break. Then she could have kicked herself—sure, remind the big scary bloodsucker that her group had shot at him and his human friends.
Where werethey? Was she going to be introduced to his employees? The thought of getting to know a whole new group of men was tiring, even if she felt physically great. Layla found herself pressing back against the slatted headboard, aware she didn’t even have a sheet to cover herself with. Just her bare arms, hugging hard and attempting to shield her chest, fingers pressing in hard like Pete’s as he dragged her away from an operation gone wrong.
The room blurred, wavered. Was she going to fuckingcrynow, too?
“Leila.” His hands clasped her shoulders, feverish-hot against her cooler skin. “Shh, hush, sweet Leila. There is no need to weep. I can explain.”
I wish someone would. Anyone, even you.She forced the tears down, had to swallow several times before she could speak.
“Great,” she said, in a thick, blurred voice hardly recognizable as her own. “Okay. Do I get some clothes?”
The chifforobe turned out to contain two neatly racked rifles, a Bowie knife hanging in a holster, and two pistols carefully settled on a lined pull-out shelf. No ammo, though. Which was probably for the best, since he watched her examine the weapons. She kept her hands clasped behind her back, but no doubt he was wary of anyone who looked at guns that longingly.
Hell, she wouldn’t have minded the knife, just for something to hold.
The big freestanding closetalsoheld several iterations of what he was already wearing—sweater with leather elbow patches, Carhartts, and now she knew he liked black cotton tube socks and boxer briefs. Fortunately, it also held a few pairs of charcoal sweatpants and dark T-shirts; she could tighten the drawstring on the former and was almost lost in the latter, but she’d worn guys’ underwear before.
Even tighty-whities were far more comfortable than thongs, in fact. She would’ve liked to fit into the current offerings, but they were too big. So, commando and braless it was.
Not her first time, and she was sure it wouldn’t be the last. Almost freeing, in a way.
Vampire Max obligingly extended a single pointed, razor-tipped claw—the human-seeming fingernail growing and sharpening like a very good special effect, which made her feel a little faint—to trim the hem on the sweatpants. Knotting the shirt at her midriff got most of the extra material out of the way.
She probably looked ridiculous, but that never hurt anyone. At least the clothes were clean, plus they smelled faintly of detergent instead of mildew. “I just never thought of a vampire in sweats, that’s all.”
She was also doing great at making conversation, or so she thought. Probably inaccurately, but if she kept talking, it might distract the biter from doing anything… else.
“Ease of movement during combat training. Dogsbodies and fledglings both require instruction.” He stood at what might be considered a respectful distance, though he’d tried to help her get dressed.
When she saidI can do it myselfhe’d backed off, a flicker of something unnamable crossing his face.
“Yeah, so, I’m sorry one of our guys opened up on your… dogsbodies.” It was a new word, and one she didn’t particularly care for. Plus, Layla was apologizing about Ben’s behavior for themillionth time, and the irritation at having to do so pinched her conscience hard. “We didn’t know you were fellow hunters.”
“Fellow hunters.” Another unreadable flicker. He repeated her words carefully and seemed to be trying to mimic her accent as well, as if he didn’t have much experience speaking good ol’ American.
“You’re Nemesis, right?” If she could display some bona fides, maybe she wouldn’t start out at the bottom of whatever weird ladderthishunting group had. “You hunt other biters. Vampires. San-whatevers.”
“Sometimes.” His knifelike nose wrinkled briefly, mouth turning down, and he closed the chifforobe with a distinct, gentle click. “When Father commanded it.”
Okay. Now there was a piece of news; she was finally getting somewhere. “Father?”
