“Very inconspicuous, Soren,” Gustav said.
“Let’s see how inconspicuous you are moving two dead bodies.” He left the alley, and his friend.
* * * *
Faith looked up at the silhouette of a man curled over her, his head barely blocking the raindrops pelting her face. She was moving, her feet were not, and the city was sideways. The foreign world passed by her, the images coming slowly, as if she were seeing everything through someone else’s eyes.
She was numb, her muscles from cold, her mind from shock. Her memories seemed intact, scrambled and hazy, but intact. She remembered being afraid of flying on the airplane, and the taste of the ginger gum that kept her nausea at bay. She’d been lost in the rain on the way back to her hotel. Then two men had trapped her in an alley.
Her shoulders and ribs shuddered with chills powerful enough to make her teeth rattle. She fought through it, lifted her head and looked down at her hands.
“My purse.” The words didn’t come out right. Her jaw refused to open, and her lips had difficulty forming the simple words. She tried again. “Took my purse.”
“I have it. You need to be warm and dry right now,” the man said, keeping up his pace, never once looking at her. By the sheer confidence in his husky tones, without a doubt, this was the man who had saved her. That intense look on his face was nearly the same as when he’d pulled the muggers off her, driven them into the wall. It was oddly comforting, at the moment.
Tall buildings, probably homes, surrounded her, swaying in her field of vision as he strode along. Light peeked through several arched windows, yellow and warm.
He entered one of the larger buildings as if he owned it and carried her past several numbered doors to the end of the hallway, where he started down a creaking set of stairs. Suddenly she feared falling down those stairs, but her shuddering muscles wouldn’t allow her to hold on tighter. She closed her eyes and trusted him not to drop her.
After the last step had been left behind, she took a deep breath, opened her eyes, and almost wished she hadn’t. The basement hallway was musty, and each bare light bulb they passed only revealed cracks chasing each other across the ceiling.
He stopped, pressed her against a green door as he fished for the doorknob with the hand supporting her legs.
“Put me down,” she said, trying to help, and fully expecting him to drop her to her feet.
He fought with the knob until it finally gave and carried her inside, then kicked the door shut behind him. Dodging an old green couch with sunken cushions, he swiftly took her to the next room. She caught sight of a small bed and a green dresser with blue splotches where the paint peeled away before she was swept into a bathroom and set on the toilet as if it were a regular chair.
He left her alone in the bathroom while he rummaged through the dresser drawers in the other room, but returned quickly.
The light in the bathroom revealed him for the first time. Tall, but not towering, he stood in the doorway, rain dripping from his short hair. His straight, relaxed eyebrows followed the squared line of his forehead, giving him a very serious look.
He reached out, and she flinched. An automatic reaction, and unnecessary. His target hadn’t been her. He set a pile of clothes on the sink between them.
“Get out of those wet clothes,” he said.
She shook her head, her protest silent, but firm.
In a gentler tone, he tried again. “Look at your hands.”
She did, but only because he didn’t crowd her. Practically white, her hands shook badly.
“Dry yourself and change. You’re safe here,” he said, then shut the door.
She lifted the T-shirt from the top of the pile and held it up. A man’s shirt, the words across the front French, but she didn’t understand them. She set the shirt on the other side of the sink, and dug through the clothes. A thick pair of cotton socks and navy sweatpants, and beneath the pants, a towel. He’d given her a towel.
Smiling, she picked up the blue, fluffy thing and pressed it against her cheek. Never in her life could she remember being this happy to have a towel. Her excitement was misplaced, but she didn’t care. She leaped to the door and twisted the small lock securely.
She stripped off her sweater first, dried herself, and then threw on the T-shirt. It was comfortable, and almost fit. She struggled to pull the wet jeans from her legs. The heavy fabric clung to her skin. When she’d tugged them free, she lifted the sopping mass of clothes from the floor and tossed them into the tub.
Leaning back against the wall, she steadied her balance as she yanked on the sweatpants and socks. The sweatpants were too long. She rolled the waistband down a couple of times, which would keep the hem from getting caught underfoot.
She caught sight of herself in the mirror and paused, not completely recognizing the woman looking back. Her mascara had decided to retreat from her lashes to give her those very lovely raccoon eyes every woman dreaded, and rightly so. But it wasn’t just that. Her face looked ashen. She must be much colder than she felt.
Holding her hair over the sink, she wrung out the water. What she wouldn’t give for her hairdryer, a big Remington running full blast on high heat. She’d probably give up on her hair and point it at her feet. Leaning against the wall again, she tipped her head upside down and rubbed the already wet towel over her hair vigorously, drying it as best she could.
Her breathing came in short, labored bursts. As she stopped drying her hair and lifted her head, her vision darkened, and she let the towel fall. Blindly searching with her hands for something solid, she fell against the wall with a thud and slid to the floor.
Chapter 2
She lay on the bed before him, her small frame perfect. Soren had piled several blankets on her, helping her body keep its warmth. He gently repositioned her arms and pulled the blankets over her shoulders. This was the second time he’d carried her unconscious. She hadn’t spoken yet. He was beginning to worry.
Not wanting to leave her alone, he picked up her black purse and sat in the only chair in the room, silently praying the rickety thing wouldn’t collapse with him in it.
He looked again through the few contents of her purse. She was without a doubt the most unprepared woman he’d ever run across. Holding up her license, he compared it to her. He shifted carefully in his chair. What was it that drew him? Vampires could be any shape, size, and skin tone, but each one had jet-black hair. And so did she. Since he’d been a fledgling, he hadn’t been crazy over the color, but now that hers had dried, he wanted to bury his hands in that dark mass of hair.
What he wanted more, was to bite her again. And he could have her, do anything he wanted with her. She was his by law. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment then stood and left the room, closing the door softly behind him, closing her off from his sight. Shifted his shoulders, rolled his head from side to side, but nothing eased his restlessness. Thirst sated, he did not need more blood. Regardless, he seemed to want it. And he wanted it from her.
It must be a simple biological reaction, possibly rebelling from deprivation. Being a full grown male, he would require sustenance every six months. He’d been pushing a year. The events of tonight had made it quite obvious why feeding should be done every six months, despite personal reasons for avoidance.
If he were going to stay in that room with her, watch over her, he would have to find something else to do with his teeth.
On the counter in the modest kitchen lay a bowl of small, round apples. Thankful to have something solid to sink his teeth into, he took two.
The door opened and Gustav