Page 2 of The Vampire's Werewolf Bodyguard
Lawrence remains placid. Friendly. “I’m not an exhibitionist, so I’d prefer not doing this on the dance floor. Your place or mine?”
“Neither.” Simon holds out his hand until Kimiko passes over a melodramatic iron key. An elaborate numeral 3 tag dangles on a chain. Before Kimiko can make some crack about playing safe or using protection, Simon heads for the staircase.
Lawrence follows at a distance, quiet beneath the pulsing music.
The Broken Cross has private rooms for just this purpose. Simon hates inviting strangers into his sanctuary—even Kimiko hasn’t visited his estate. He’s also wary of being vulnerable in someone else’s territory. Forget sunlight and wooden stakes. A vampire’s greatest weakness is carelessness.
That’s what really got his siblings killed.
The downstairs lounge is nearly empty, but the music, if anything, feels louder. The pounding bass isn’t muffled by the press of bodies. Hunger warring with hesitation, Simon leads the way to the third door, close to the emergency exit.
When the door shuts behind them, all sound cuts off.
Kimiko’s flair for the dramatic shrouds the private parlor. Ruby damask papers the walls, and the ornate sofas are pitchblack. Even the chandeliers shine red, until Simon flips a switch and the light softens into gold.
The floor is white tile. Easy to ruin and easy to clean.
Simon sets the key on the coffee table without locking the door. Most humans get nervous when they feel trapped. Some humans like feeling nervousness, but Simon prefers his snacks calm. “A question before we start. Why are you doing this?”
Lawrence doesn’t appear nervous at all. He drapes his leather jacket over the sofa arm. “I always thought vampires were hot,” he says without embarrassment. “I might get hard while you drink. Will that be a problem?”
The plain honesty is refreshing. Most humans are either blushing or leering at this point, if they’re in this for sexual reasons.
“Just keep your hands to yourself.” Simon gestures to the sofa. “Sit down.”
Lawrence sits, lifting his chin. “I prefer the throat, if I have a choice. I use my hands for work.”
Simon hesitates. He always heals the wound after drinking, and the throat is an intimate place. But Lawrence has been so accommodating. This is a simple favor. “The throat is fine. Hold still.”
Lawrence spreads his hands flat on his thighs and waits obediently. The mild scent of leather and sweat fills Simon’s nose. Bracing one knee on the cushion, he tugs Lawrence’s collar aside. Closer to the shoulder is safer than the throat itself.
Biting is an instinct, passed through millennia from the makers to the made. As Simon leans in, his fangs lengthen to pierce Lawrence’s flesh. Lips and tongue seal to thepunctures, and swallowing is a reflex. Simon can’t stop himself, even as shock cascades down his throat.
Something’s wrong with the blood.
Bitterness floods Simon’s mouth, and he violently disengages. His fangs wrench a gaping wound into Lawrence’s shoulder. Blood-drinking best practices aren’t important when Lawrence twists, grabbing something from his jacket.
Metal flashes, but Simon moves with the shadow-gift’s speed. He’s across the parlor before Lawrence stands up.
A long, serrated knife rests in the human’s hand. The sort of knife that could saw through someone’s neck. Apparently, the Broken Cross’s security measures need an upgrade. That knife shouldn’t have made it through the front door—and this hunter shouldn’t have passed the background check.
“How inconsiderate,” Simon says. “Kimiko will be furious about the paperwork.”
Twenty feet of white tile stretch between them. Heedless of the blood pulsing from his shoulder, Lawrence lifts the knife. A scowl twists his friendly features. His silence is unnerving, and he doesn’t move. As if he’s realized how useless this is.
Lawrence might have fifty pounds on Simon, but with just a knife, that advantage is useless. A gun would have been the smarter choice, with a silver bullet to slow Simon down. But a knife? Simon’s too old, too fast, too strong. He could dash across the room and finish ripping Lawrence’s throat out before Lawrence could blink. He could fling a blaze of magic without even moving.
As soon as his stomach stops churning.
Simon’s thoughts muddle together, and bitterness still recoils against his tongue. “Are you just going to stand there?”
“Yeah, Simon,” Lawrence says, strangely calm. “I think I will.”
Simon’s slow pulse falters. “I never told you my name.”
His own words echo, and the room darkens at the edges. The limits of his own body become brutally clear. The flames won’t answer his call.
There’s something wrong with Lawrence’s blood, and as it seeps into Simon, that wrongness seeps in, too. The hunter won’t have to fight him. Soon, Simon will be weak as the day he was made.
