Page 20 of Fangbanger

LEAH

That night, I bake bread before I open one of the books on slayer magic that my great-aunt left me.

Marcus is in the yard, digging a narrow ditch around the perimeter of the garden. He’s under strict instructions not to dig up my herbs. When I asked if he needed help, he simply growled that he was no stranger to hard labor and stalked outside.

I’m not sure what happened at the lumber yard, only that something seems to have shifted between us, and I spent the car ride back fighting to get my bearings.

Now, I cast wary glances out the window as I page through the book. Most of these spells aren’t a possibility for me, and once again, I mentally curse my lack of magic. I’d love to be able to shoot fireballs from my fingers.

My great-aunt’s power lay in drawing intricate spells that she would trigger with her blood. I can trigger the existing spells, but I can’t make new ones. My mom was able to channel pure magic through silver weapons. My dad could create powerful wards. Slayers who can’t use magic are grinders, a dirty word for those who have to kill with weapons alone.

I scrunch my nose and turn a page. I might not be able to cast anything in here, but I use the book to get ideas for devices I can make or spells I can have Karina replicate. My fire globes came from here, as did the powdered ash I carry. I might lack strength and magic, but I can always make up the lack with perseverance.

The house isn’t without defenses, despite what Marcus seems to think. By the time he comes back inside, near four a.m., I have a list of supplies I want to ask Karina about when I see her tomorrow night, and I’m deep in a handwritten entry from my aunt about how to trigger the guardian spell in the garden.

“Shower?”

My head whips up. The vampire is standing before me, chest heaving, finely carved features stark in the moonlight coming through the window. His leather pants are streaked in dirt.

I point him to the downstairs shower and ignore the sound of the water rushing, with the occasional breaks that indicate he’s moving under the spray.

I scurry upstairs before he can exit the shower and change into my pajamas. I normally sleep in an old t-shirt, but tonight I’m tempted to ask the box for something better. What do vampires like? I imagine some sort of collar situation—straps maybe. A harness? Body glitter. Lace.

My pulse thrums.

Stop, Leah. He’d laugh you out of the house.

I shake my head at my foolishness and pull on the ratty t-shirt before I realize that the vampire has nothing to sleep in.

It takes a few tries to get the size right, but I finally get the box to give me a robe and slippers and gray sweatpants. I add a few long-sleeve t-shirts, and the box decides to add slogans to them. Marcus hopefully will be amused and not offended by “Vampire Construction Corp. We fang. We bang. We build.”

I exit the closet where I keep the box, right as he opens the bedroom door. A towel is wrapped around his waist, and his hair is damp and curling at the base of his neck. Our gazes meet, and the room seems to shrink. Normally, he looks hard and wary, like the warrior he is. Right now, he simply looks predatory.

Hairs go up at my nape. No mortal is as large as he is, as powerful. His muscles aren’t for looks, but for hunting.

Marcus’s gaze is on my legs, and I fight the urge to tug at the hem of the t-shirt.

“Here.” I thrust the pile of clothes at him.

“What is this?”

“Pajamas”

I can’t read him. He looks stunned. “I checked the size. They should fit you. Even though you’re bigger than usual.”

His mouth lifts at the corner. “Than the usual what?”

I clear my throat, keeping my gaze carefully above his shoulder. “The usual man, I guess.”

“I’m not a man,” he drawls.

I swallow. He sounds almost seductive, but I know it’s in my head. Or unconscious on his part, some vampire instinct to draw humans in like moths to a flame. “I know.”

In my periphery, a hand goes to the towel at his waist, and I release a strangled sound before I turn so quickly that my knee smacks the dresser.

I yelp.

He chuckles. The towel drops to the ground.