Blood and Kisses

chapter 2

He was crazy.

He had to be. Only insanity could be responsible for his agreeing to help the little witch.

Code or no Code.

Gideon stalked down the dark alley, his mind caught up in the events of earlier in the evening. Drug dealers and prostitutes, nightshift workers and partygoers, skirted him as he passed, avoiding his gaze.

What had possessed him to agree to help the Champion?

He was no fit companion for man or beast, let alone a young, beautiful woman, witch or not. He rubbed the hand that had touched the softness of her cheek against his shirt to dispel the burn still lingering there. He was possessed, all right. And the demon wanted his due.

He felt his eyes catch fire and shuddered with the effort of quenching the unwanted flame. He’d skimmed the fringes of human and vampire society for thousands of years, avoiding the temptations of personal connections for good reason. True, tradition insisted the oldest vampire in a community was responsible for enforcing the Code, but he’d ignored tradition before. A pair of large crystal blue eyes feathered with ebony lashes and framed by delicate, arched eyebrows flashed into his mind.

Gods, she was beautiful.

But he, more than anyone, knew beauty was merely an illusion.

Another image replaced the details of the Champion’s lovely face in his mind. A frail body strewn carelessly among the tall weeds, naked and vulnerable. The strength and vitality of life drained away, leaving only an empty shell. But this woman wasn’t blonde, like the woman in the photos the Champion had shown him. Streamers of long, silky black hair obscured most of her face. The edges of a strawberry birthmark peeked through, confirming the victim’s identity.

An emotion ripped through him with the savage power of a stake through the heart. And he knew why he’d agreed to help.

Without his aid, the Champion was destined to die.

In the distance a bird twittered. It would soon be joined by others, sparrows and chickadees, grackles and crows. Dawn came early this time of year.

Despite the temperate weather, he shivered. He was so cold, cold to the bone. Had he ever been warm?

The dawn called to him as it always did. He longed for the fiery heat of the sun. To be warm again.

Ridiculous. He was a vampire. He was never cold. Physically anyway, whispered a tiny voice. Gideon shrugged off the thought, shoved his hands into his pockets. He certainly hadn’t felt cold with Thalia on his lap. A wave of remembered heat melted over him at the memory. His fangs ached.

He’d been surprised by her attack, but knowing he’d startled her, he’d allowed the kick to take him to the ground. The demon had enjoyed having a lapful of warm woman.

He’d seen her around town, but had never been so close to her. She was tiny, slight, but there was a fluid strength in the way she moved. Raven black hair streamed from a ponytail to the middle of her back. Unbound it probably fell almost to her waist. She was a study of contrasts, black hair, creamy skin, blue eyes, pink lips.

He’d taken one look at those lips and wondered how she might taste. Like an imported fruit, perhaps. It had been a long time since he’d eaten food, but he still remembered the juicy sweetness of a ripe mango melting in his mouth. His mouth watered at the thought and he felt his fangs elongate. Shaking his head, he bit back a curse.

Why couldn’t he stop thinking of her?

The vision?

So what? Why should he care if she lived or died? She was nothing to him. Less than nothing. And he was nobody’s savior. He’d done far worse in the past than ignore the Code.

The sounds of a struggle, a grunt of exertion, low swearing, a woman’s distressed cry, filtered past his preoccupation, drawing his attention to the reason he prowled the night.

Dinnertime.

He identified the direction of the sound, an alley several streets over.

A mugging.

He leaped to the top of a nearby building, perhaps three stories high, and used the gravel-covered rooftops as a path to his prey. He looked down on the scene from above. The mugger, fashionably bald, was big, bulky, and muscle-bound. Damn. Probably used steroids. They might not have an effect on Gideon, but they’d make the man’s blood taste like shit.

The woman, with her long blond hair and skin-tight jeans, looked like a college student after an evening of clubbing.

The mugger rummaged through the woman’s tiny purse while he kept her pinned against a wall with the threat of a small dagger. The knife blade flashed in the waning moonlight.

Gideon landed lightly on the ground. “Mind if I,”—he looked at the knife, then back at the man—“cut in?” Okay, so it was a pun and a clichéd one at that. He had to have some fun.

“What the—” The mugger dropped the purse. He spun to face Gideon. The man’s pupils were more dilated than the dark surroundings should provoke. High, then.

The man jabbed his knife at Gideon. “Get up against that wall with the lady.”

“I don’t think so.” Gideon folded his arms.

His face set, the mugger charged. Gideon blocked the bulging, hair-carpeted arm holding the blade with one powerful forearm. The man cried out in pain at the force of the impact and dropped the knife. The weapon clattered to the asphalt.

Gideon grabbed the man’s beefy upper arms and leaned in, holding his gaze. “You can go,” he said to the woman. She froze for a moment, then sidestepped Gideon, scooped up her small purse and ran off. The rapid tattoo of her footsteps echoed in her assailant’s heart. The man shook and his pasty complexion whitened with fear.

Gideon smiled. Good. The man should be scared. Terrorizing a lone woman. Gideon stared into the man’s rounded eyes. “You will find a legal way to supplement your income.” His voice was loaded with compulsion and the man nodded dully, his will entirely given over to Gideon’s dominion.

Gideon bent the man’s head back on his thick neck and sank sharp teeth into the throat of his quarry.

A sound caught Gideon’s attention as he released his victim. The man slid down the wall and sat jack-knifed, his head on his knees. He would awaken stiff and weak, but otherwise unharmed.

“Fletch,” Gideon said into the night. A dark-haired man sauntered from the shadows. Dressed all in black, his skin was pale, his eyes almost golden.

“You’re good, Damek.” The man smirked. “Maybe too good.”

Gideon caught the innuendo, but ignored it. The other vampire had no idea how wrong he was. Following the right path and being intrinsically good, were two different things. “It would take an older vampire than you to sneak up on me.” He shifted, ready for anything. You never knew what to expect from Fletcher.

“I saw you with the Poisonblood.”

“Yes?” Gideon braced at the other man’s hostile tone.

“Yeah. They’re trouble, Damek. Everyone of ‘em. From birth to death.”

“Is that so?”

Fletch’s eyes narrowed. “Whatever she wants, just walk away.”

The demon stirred. How dare Fletcher interfere in his business? “What I do is none of your concern, Fletcher.”

The younger vampire’s face twisted. He turned to walk away. “Don’t say you weren’t warned.”

Rage tugged at the demon’s bonds. It took all of Gideon’s strength to let the other vampire amble back into the shadows with his skin still intact.



“So the Tomb was the last place your cousin was seen?”

Thalia spun around, her hand at her throat.

Gideon Damek stood behind her, fists buried in the deep pockets of his black trench coat. The weather had changed since the evening before, and rain drilled the tall windows flanking each side of the kitchen. Like a raging fire, he seemed to devour all the oxygen in the room, consuming even the air in her lungs.

Her cozy kitchen seemed the size of a shoebox. He was so close she could smell the exotic masculine scent of him. Something stirred deep within her. She fought the urge to take a deeper breath, to analyze each note of the fragrance, and pressed back against the stove in a futile attempt to gain some space. “How did you get past my protective wards?” An icy breaker of fear swelled over her.

Gideon shrugged, his dark eyes inscrutable. “I’ve learned a few tricks over the years. I suspect they would have kept out a younger vampire. Besides, you invited me.” He folded his hand into a simulation of a phone.

Thalia cleared her throat at that small comfort, trying to regain her composure. “You could have knocked.”

“At least I didn’t attack first and ask questions later.”

Thalia felt her face burn.

“Please sit down.” She waved a hand toward the kitchen table, being careful not to touch him. He took a seat in one of the ladder-back chairs, the mountain at rest.

She joined him, met his ebony gaze, then glanced away. Eyes like that should be illegal. They saw way too much. “I believe I was the last person to see Lily alive. I met her for drinks at the B.B. and C.,” she said, using the abbreviation for the Bell, Book, and Candle, a popular local bar used by both witches and vampires. The vampires called it the Tomb. It always amused Thalia that the two communities shared one big room without ever acknowledging each other. To pettys, it was just another Goth club. They wandered from side to side without realizing the true nature of the other patrons. “She was in a party mood, but I’d been on surveillance all day, insurance fraud.” God, if only she’d stayed. “Someone has to pay the bills.” How many times had she said that to Lily? Too many. “I was tired.” Tears raked the tender inside of her eyelids. She forced them back determinedly. Time enough for tears later, after she had driven a stake into Lily’s murderer’s black heart.

“I thought the witches’ Champion was a paid position.”

Thalia grimaced. “Theoretically. But people recovering from demon possession, or whatever, rarely have money to spare. The most I usually get are vague promises of future favors.”

Gideon’s dark eyes focused on her like the scope of a sniper’s rifle. Unable to stand the power of his gaze, she glanced at the table before brushing his features with her eyes.

“No one saw Lily leave.” Thalia licked her lips. “You were there that night.”

His face went as still and cold as a statue in a cemetery. “I’m there every night. I own the Tomb.”

The breath Thalia had been subconsciously holding left her lungs in a rush. Whatever she had expected him to say, it hadn’t been that. “You own the Tomb?”

He nodded. No more than a short, swift bob. His sensual mouth pressed into a tight, grim line.

The professional investigator took over. “Is this common knowledge?” She wished she had her laptop or digital recorder, but she didn’t dare get up. Despite his size and the majesty of his movements, he was a dark specter who might vanish as quickly as he’d appeared.

“Not as far as I know. I would hardly advertise my involvement with the Bell, Book, and Candle.” His tone was dry. “If people in the vampire community knew who owned the Tomb, they’d be constantly after me to expel the witches. Vampires are, excuse the pun, ‘fly-by-night’ patrons at best. I need witches and mayflies to keep the tavern running.” He leaned back in his chair, the mountain in repose.

“Mayflies.” Thalia crossed her arms over her chest, offended by the term.

“Mortals.”

“I knew what you meant, though I suppose it’s better than ‘lunch’.” Hostility flattened her voice.

Gideon tilted his head, eyes amused. “You think if they knew your people called them pettys, they’d, what? Take it as a compliment?”

Thalia gave a wry laugh. “You got me there.”

“And don’t think we don’t know what you all call us behind our backs.”

The word “leech” hovered unspoken between them, and Thalia shook her head. “Okay, okay, truce?”



Leave. Every synapse of Gideon’s brain seemed to urge him to escape the close confines of Thalia’s homey kitchen. Her presence was playing havoc with his self-control. But his body didn’t agree with his mind. Stay, it begged.

His body won. “Truce.”

He examined the elfin woman who sat across from him in the piece of doll’s furniture she called a chair. When Thalia was a child, her mother, the Champion then, had taken her everywhere. As a sort of apprentice, he supposed. He’d always been drawn to the tiny blue-eyed child. She’d seemed like a changeling, too otherworldly to be human. Adulthood hadn’t changed her fey charm, although she seemed shyer now, a wild creature that’d been hunted and become wary.

It was that old fascination that kept him planted in his seat.

Once more, she had attempted to hide her Champion’s mark with a strand of raven hair. Clearly, the mark bothered her, but Gideon liked the way the strawberry crescent moon hugged the gentle curve of her cheek. The imperfection only highlighted her luminous eyes and the lush curve of her pink lips. He doubted she had any clue how beautiful she was. How desirable.

Lulled by the soothing patter of the rain and the soft husky cadence of her voice, he’d already stayed longer than he’d planned. Get what information she had and get out. That had been the plan.

An inhuman yawn suddenly ripped him away from his thoughts.

The source of the yawn, a fox terrier-sized, chestnut-red dog, stood in the doorway to the dining room. It had the sleek lines of a tiny deer. Pointed ears crowned an alertly wrinkled forehead split by a thin white blaze. Dark almond-shaped eyes seemed to see into him. Gideon had not been an ancient Egyptian, but he was reminded of Anubis weighing the souls of the dead against a feather to determine their worth. The dog had a white chest, four white paws and a white tip to the tail corkscrewed on his left hip.

“Spirit,” said Thalia. “Where have you been?”

I took a nap, the dog answered telepathically. He sat in the doorway, lifted one spotless paw to his mouth, and began washing his face.

Gideon was able to communicate with animals, but animal thoughts were typically pictures punctuated by the occasional word. He’d never heard an animal speak in a complete sentence before. He raised an eyebrow in Thalia’s direction.

“Spirit is my familiar. He’s been with my family in various shells for many generations. This decade, he’s a basenji.”

Gideon nodded as if this made perfect sense. At his age, not much surprised him, but this came close. He’d heard of familiars, but he’d never met one.

The basenji walked over to the table and hopped up on to a chair. Did you ask him?

“Not yet.”

“Ask me what?”

Thalia sighed, her lovely features taut with strain. “I need to know if Lily is going to come back as a slave to the vampire who killed her.” Her face was austere. Gideon had the impression she was imagining the grim task of breaking into the city morgue and staking her cousin.

He swallowed the angry words that sprang to his tongue at the thought. How many innocent vampires had been murdered for no crime but existing? She’d been through a lot. He could cut her some slack—for now. “There needs to be a blood exchange for that, and the lab report indicates she was totally drained. She’s gone. Her soul has moved on.”



Thalia closed her eyes. Relief loosened the rigor in her joints. Lily had made the transition. When she opened them, she’d regained her equilibrium. “Have you learned anything?”

“Not yet. I’ve compiled a list of names of vampires and witches who were at the Tomb that night. I intend to interview the vampires tonight.”

“I’m going with you.” She braced for a fight.

“Very well, but I warn you, you won’t get a warm reception. And some of them may not have fed yet.”

Thalia turned. “I’ll get my coat.” She glanced back and let out a frustrated sigh. “Dammit!”

He was gone.



The aching emptiness awakened him.

He opened his ancient eyes and peered up at the crumbling ceiling. His keen vision allowed him to trace every crack, despite the heavy shadows. Dusk, aided by the rain, had fallen early that evening. The sky, an oppressive, purple-gray, seemed eager to devour the horizon. It was impossible to see where the broad expanse of wind-ruffled lake terminated and the dense clouds began, giving the illusion he was looking at the ends of the earth. The weather suited his purpose, allowing him to walk the land before sunset, but still he shuddered. He hated rain. Perhaps when all this was over he would move on to some arid clime, maybe Arizona or Southern California.

He could go back home, but he liked the States. The food was good. People went missing here everyday and most Americans never gave it a thought. California, he decided. That was where he would begin his reign. Lots of undocumented people there. No one would notice if some disappeared. Definitely California.

But first, he had unfinished business.

The yellowed parchment he’d had the prophecy transferred to centuries ago had long since disintegrated, but that didn’t matter, the words were imprinted in his brain.



In the new world,

one lake of five shall be the site.



The ancient dead, but living,

shall attain great power



When the marked one dies

and a sacrifice is made



By one who rose long ago

from the grave.



Seers and their prophecies. Why couldn’t Inanna have just spelled things out? There wasn’t even any indication of a time period.

No matter, his internal clock told him this, at last, was the time.

He rose from the rickety bed, smoothing his black wispy hair with one crabbed, pointy-nailed hand. His attention was drawn to his desiccated flesh. His hooked nose wrinkled in repugnance; he could smell his own rot. The surge of power he’d derived from his last kill was fading more quickly than he’d expected. He would have to feed. And soon.

No matter. Feeding was a pleasure not a duty.

He cloaked himself with illusion and swept into the rainy night. The tired blood in his veins sang a little song of anticipation. It would be a little more difficult to find prey in this tiresome drizzle. The Red Wings baseball game at Frontier Field had been rained out, and only the regulars would be at the Tomb.

The Tomb. What a name.

He allowed himself a rusty chuckle. His adversary was nothing if not predictable. Although he supposed more than one hundred years ago, the name might have sounded original.

He found a sheltered doorway not far from the bar and settled in to wait.