Page 8 of Fangbanger

Right now, though, he looks starving. His pupils dilate. His hands fist.

My mouth is bitter with adrenaline, but I can’t do anything but watch him.

With any luck, the ash from my stake is flaking into his blood. His head lolls, but he doesn’t look poisoned. I examine him. I imagine him on a battlefield somewhere, massive and covered in blood, fangs flashing.

His eyes are thickly lashed and set under slashing brows. His nose is patrician. They may have even invented the word for him. He looks like a leader of armies. He looks like someone used to giving commands and being obeyed. His throat is strong and thick, his shoulders and arms made for killing. Even his hands are large. Deft-looking but large, made for gripping massive swords. His thighs and calves are thick enough to steer a warhorse while he shouts orders to his legions.

His dark hair and his full mouth are the only soft things about him. His hair is silky-looking. Thick, nearly black, and tousled.

There are slayers out there who have fallen for vampires. Karina is obsessed with the stories. Slayers who found the allure of the undead too irresistible. Fangbangers. Some even become blood addicts. They crave the vampire’s bite enough to give up everything else in their life.

I could never be like them.

Vampires are predators at their base. They lure, and even their looks are nothing more than a shiny object in front of a child.

Marcus is doing it now, head pressed to the stone, eyes heavy. Even now he unconsciously tries to sway me to free him. His mouth parts and a hint of fang shows.

“A deal,” he grates. “Break the spell and I’ll remove the stone.”

“I don’t deal with the devil.”

I push against the slab again, the panic I’ve tried to prevent now rising with dizzying swiftness.

“You are a fool.”

I glare.

He bares his fangs. “Do you know how many times I’ve been near death? You don’t even have the good sense to take whatever is offered you and survive.” He scoffs. “I will heal eventually and my body will push out your damn stake and you will die. Unworthy of killing me when you couldn’t even save yourself.”

Unworthy.

Hate for him steals my breath. Hate made stronger because his words strike at some fundamental part of me. I despise him for bringing me lower and for being right. I despise myself for not having the magic my parents had and for being too weak to take him on.

“I will never deal with you. You killed my parents. You ruined my life. So what if it ends?” I bare my teeth. My voice is shaking. “At least I take you with me.”

He goes eerily still. “I killed your parents?”

“Having a sudden crisis of conscience, vampire?” My voice is bitter.

“When?” His gaze darts over my face.

“I was eight. You killed them just fifty miles from here.”

“Twenty years ago or so?”

“So you admit it?”

“I admit nothing.” He tips his head. “Continue.”

Arrogant. So fucking arrogant. My mind spins. He’s all but admitted he was there. Does he want me to relive the past for his amusement?

“Tell me,” he commands.

“Fine.” I let my arms flop to the floor. “We were driving home. There was an afternoon storm. You were standing in the road. My parents were careful. So careful. But not that day. I’d been a pain in the ass in the car, demanding snacks, screaming. I remember kicking the back of my dad’s seat.” I shake my head. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”

“By all means. We have all the time in the world.” He rasps something that might be a laugh. “Our deaths will be slow, slayer.”

His statement strikes something cold and sharp in my gut. “You were there. In the road.” The words tumble out. I’ve turned these memories over so many times that their jagged edges should be dull now. I should have no trouble telling him. I look back up at the ceiling and away from his gaze. “I begged my parents to help you. I told them you were a hiker. My mom jumped out of the car, thinking you were injured. My parents had been talking earlier that day about tracking a vampire. A former gladiator. I don’t think she ever expected to see a former gladiator strolling down a quiet country road. My father realized what was happening and threw our dog’s blanket over me and commanded me to lay down on the floor. He was still too late.” I try to keep my voice clinical, but even I can hear the way it trembles. I don’t tell him how time seemed to slow, how every scream seemed sharp enough to pierce my eardrums.