The haze made it hard to remember the million-and-one reasons he didn't need to be doing this.
The small gray split-level house stood in a clearing next to the woods. He hid himself in the shadows of the trees and watched as she sat on the porch swing, barefoot and in her pajamas, her fingers tangling absently in the fur of an Irish Setter.
The dog sensed him and growled.
“What is it, Sammy? You smell a rabbit?”
The wind ruffled her hair sending her scent to Anthony's sensitive nose. He inhaled deeply and smiled. The dog tugged free of Charlotte and darted straight for him, growling and barking the whole way. He'd be a good guard dog if tonight's predator had been human.
Anthony growled back, his eyes glowing, fangs extended. The dog whimpered and ran off. The vampire turned his attention back to his quarry. She felt the chill in the air and had heard the dog whimper.
He tuned into her thoughts. This one was smart. She knew something was out there, and unlike most humans, she didn't rationalize it away. Maybe he'd let her live.
Her hand was on the knob, seconds from going inside when he made his move. His hand was over her mouth before she could scream, moving her inside, away from witnesses. He wanted to take his time with this one. If he could just get hold of his senses and think for a minute.
“Shhhhhh,” he said.
The drugs had made him clumsy, causing him to knock over an end table next to the sofa. A lamp went crashing to the floor, and he released her for a second to get his bearings. She took a step away from him. Her feet crunched over the glass, and the scent of her blood permeated the air. If it were possible it smelled more heavenly than Greta's, and this one was only human.
Her eyes were frozen in a mask of terror, his order to be quiet unnecessary. She couldn't have gotten her vocal cords to come to her aid if she'd wanted to. She was too stunned by what stood before her. He peeked into her mind, and saw what she saw: his long blonde hair a disheveled mess, blood streaked over his face, fangs, glowing eyes, and then her mental recognition as she put the pieces together.
Unlike others before her, her mind didn't deny what she saw. It screamed, vampire. No doubt or hesitation. He had to admire her for that. Her pulse thudded in her throat, drawing his eyes to her jugular.
He heard the thoughts swirling through her mind as she wondered which thing she'd said to him to piss him off. She recognized him. Not just the monster, but the man she'd known from the bookstore.
In one swift movement, he grabbed her around the waist and pulled her to him, her back pressed flush against his chest. Then he sank his fangs into the warm column of her throat.
Her blood was exactly as he'd imagined it would be. Sweet and somehow spicy, like her. He couldn't get enough. He could drink her forever and was dimly aware that wasn't possible, that at some point soon the blood would run out and he'd never drink from her again.
He could feel her beginning to die in his arms.
“Anthony . . . stop, please.” She'd found her voice.
He growled, angry as he regained some sense of control. This wasn't how he'd imagined this. He flung her away from him, and she hit the soft couch, bouncing once and then lolling to the side like a rag doll.
He rushed and knelt beside her, running his tongue over the puncture marks to seal them and stop the flow of blood. He continued to lick the sealed wound until the marks disappeared from her throat.
How much had he had? Her cleaner blood ran through his system, diluting the drugs from the therian. He listened to Charlotte's heartbeat. It was slow, but there. Not yet thready. She'd be okay. She'll be okay, he repeated to himself as he stood and paced the floor.
What have I done?
His hands shook as he collapsed in a chair opposite from her, watching and listening for any change in her vital signs.
This wasn't how he'd pictured this. He'd had better control of the hunger for centuries. He'd imagined seducing her, fucking her, then drinking from her, but never killing her. He never wanted to kill her. She hadn't been afraid of him. Until now.
Of all the humans who instinctively pulled away, who turned and walked the other direction when they saw him coming, she'd been the only one who hadn't backed down, who'd mouthed off to him, in fact. Repeatedly, and with great abandon. If he'd liked making Greta nervous on his trips to the bookstore, he'd loved trading banter with Charlotte even more. He savored the fearless way she verbally put him in his place.
It was the true reason he'd resisted drinking from her. Although he could erase her memory, he'd never wanted to see recognition and fear darken her face because of him. He didn't want her reduced to another meal, another victim.
The drugs had shifted his desires. Yes, he'd dreamed of her begging, but not for her life. His fantasies had run more along the lines of her begging him to bend her over a counter to take her from behind. Of taking her throat and drinking just as she reached orgasm, while she begged him never to stop touching her.
He shook himself back to reality. She opened her eyes then, and he could hardly look at her. Her pulse sped, still calling to the monster inside to finish the job. He moved to her and gripped her hands; she fought him until she realized the futility of the act. She closed her eyes and looked away, tears tracking down her cheeks as she waited for him to finish her off.
He listened to her mind as it raced with horrible scenarios. Half of him wanted to act them out, and the other half was horrified he'd put those fears there to begin with.
“Look at me,” he commanded.
She did, her lower lip trembling. “Anthony?” Betrayal. Hurt. Fear. He couldn't stand it.
He held her gaze, putting the full force of his power behind it. “Forget. Forget everything.”
Charlotte collapsed back on the sofa, and Anthony picked her up and put her in her bed. He wanted to heal the cuts on her foot, but he knew he didn't have the control not to start drinking again. Instead, he settled for removing the shards of glass from her skin and tucking her under the covers. When he'd left her, he found a broom and dustpan in the pantry and swept up the debris from the lamp, righting the end table as he made his way back into the kitchen to throw away the broken glass. He stopped one last time by her bedroom and watched her sleep. She looked peaceful.
He took a deep breath and let it out in a shuddering whoosh of air. It didn't matter. She wouldn't remember what he'd done. She'd go back to smarting off to him. He'd go back to baiting her. And the next time he drank from her would be different.
12
She woke to the sound of a dog whining and scratching at the door. What the hell? Where was she? The next question came tearing through her brain without preamble. Who was she? She scrambled out of bed, her sleep-filled eyes flitting around the room seeking to light on something recognizable.
The bedroom would have been calming if not for the lack of recognition. Pale blue walls, white wicker furniture, and a handmade quilt in pale blues and lavenders with a hint of spring green filled her line of vision. Fresh flowers bloomed happily in a vase on the bureau. The room smelled like a spring meadow, courtesy of fabric softener, no doubt. Her feet sank into thick carpeting.
Ouch.
She perched on the edge of the bed and lifted her foot to find several small cuts, then limped to the full-length mirror to get a look at the stranger in the room. Red hair, green eyes. She wrinkled her freckled nose. Cute. Now who the hell was she?