Tantalize Part 19

When we walked past my family photo gallery, through the crimson velvet curtains, and into Sanguini's dining room, Bradley looked frazzled in the middle of the dance floor. He had honey cream sauce on his collar and blood on his tie. No cape.

It was the most real, the most human he'd seemed in days. No matter what he might be, what all he'd done, running a red-hot restaurant was brutal work. I felt less foolish for falling for the act.

Bradley studied my new vampiric features, how my face reflected what he'd done to me. I half expected him to gloat, but he looked pensive, reflective. His gaze flicked once, as if unconcerned, to Kieren. "Baby, you're late."

What was his hurry? The eternal who missed humanity so much that he fed it. Must've let the staff go at close, I realized. The tables were clean, sconces turned off, chandeliers shining. Calla lilies in vases on each table. I was willing to bet, though, that the kitchen was a disaster area. How many guests had tried the squirrels tonight?

"I brought the 'beverage' you asked for," I said.

"Pity you didn't select something with a lovelier bouquet. I'd hoped for a better vintage for your first. But I must admit, this gesture, it's a tremendous show of your changing changing loyalties. I'm touched." His next words were for Kieren. "Rough day at school? I hear somebody beheaded the vice princ.i.p.al." loyalties. I'm touched." His next words were for Kieren. "Rough day at school? I hear somebody beheaded the vice princ.i.p.al."

I had to stiffen to keep my knees from buckling. There was only one reason Kieren would ever behead somebody.

Vice Princ.i.p.al Harding had been a vampire. He'd painted my locker, encouraged me to homeschool, because Waterloo High had been compet.i.tion for Bradley, another anchor to the human world. A place Kieren went five days a week.

"And now this," Bradley went on. "Sacrificing your life for Quincie. I'm impressed." He nodded my way. "Go ahead, baby. Ladies first."

Me? I thought. "You want me me to bite to bite him him?"

Without warning, Kieren threw his body forward to tackle Bradley, who changed in a flash into a red-eyed wolf, teeth bared, as if to pit one beast against another. But then Bradley dissolved into mist just as their bodies would've collided.

Kieren slammed into the dance floor, and I ran to kneel by his side.

Bradley reappeared in human form - fully clothed - where we had been standing. He laughed. "It might've been a kick to see how things played out, but I hate the taste of Wolf and he's already taken out one vampire today. A novice, but still, I didn't get to be this old by taking chances."

Kieren radiated heat, energy, anger. I helped him back to his feet.

"Tell you what, baby," Bradley went on. "I'll make you a deal. A more interesting one. Drink. Drink your fill. And then if if you somehow manage to tear yourself from his throat in time to save him, if after having drunk, he's still what you think you want, fine. I can bully you into obedience, but not love. Not the kind of freely given devotion I seek. At some point, you would have to you somehow manage to tear yourself from his throat in time to save him, if after having drunk, he's still what you think you want, fine. I can bully you into obedience, but not love. Not the kind of freely given devotion I seek. At some point, you would have to choose choose to be mine. Say the word, and I'll back off, way off. to be mine. Say the word, and I'll back off, way off. Adios. Addio. Adios. Addio. Good-bye." Good-bye."

That was interesting, except . . . "Let me get this straight. You're saying you'll just give up? Leave me alone, let Kieren go? Do you think I'm that clueless?" I paused, too intent to be embarra.s.sed. "I mean, now."

"Quince," Kieren began. "You can't negotiate with -"

"Think of the drama," Bradley replied, gesturing across the dining room. "That's what Sanguini's is all about, isn't it? What would be the point of letting you taste him, if the stakes weren't all or nothing? And besides, he was right about one thing. Wolves don't live that long, even less than the average human. I couldn't use him to keep you in line forever."

"You'll abandon Sanguini's," I pressed, making my terms clear. "Leave Austin, bats and all?"

"Why not?" Bradley replied, in a tone that suggested it would never come to that. "It's your restaurant, your city. I couldn't very well rule from here after letting you spurn me without first staking you, and romantic fool that I am, I doubt I could bring myself to do it." He paused. "San Antonio has better architecture anyway."

Bradley had already done so much damage. I thought of the loss, the chaos to come. "What about the squirrel eaters?" I asked. "The vamps-in-waiting?"

"Quince." Kieren again. "I -"

"Shut up, boy!" Bradley yelled, before returning his attention to me. He took a moment to center himself. "Consider the neophytes a parting gift."

How magnanimous. I clicked off the days in my mind. Mid-October. Happy Halloween to me.

Did I trust Bradley? No. Yes. No, No, I didn't trust him, but I did believe he meant what he'd said. I would get stronger. He'd told me as much in his parlor. I didn't trust him, but I did believe he meant what he'd said. I would get stronger. He'd told me as much in his parlor. I needed for you to come to me. I needed for you to come to me. He still did. Sooner or later, he'd need me to offer myself. He still did. Sooner or later, he'd need me to offer myself.

Freely and of my own will.

The dining room was heavy with expectation. It was time to get it on, but I just . . .

Bradley's laugh was carefree. "This is the most fun I've had in ages."

It was clear: he thought he'd won.

Turning to Kieren, I raised tentative fingers to his feverish neck, to curl in the wavy hair. Something wicked inside me welled up and whispered that I should dive in.

"Get it over with," Kieren rumbled. "Quince, get it over -" Just then, Kieren's self-preservation instinct came through. His goatee spread, eyebrows thickened, claws sprouted from shaking hands. "Quince!" His voice turned desperate. "Quince, get back get back!"

I felt frozen, mesmerized by his desire, his rage. His caged beast breaking free again. It was frustrated, confused, in pain. Eager to lash out. At anybody.

"Or," Bradley said, suddenly serious, "maybe I should kill him before he shreds you into damp, broken bits."

Kieren's muscles expanded. Cotton stretched, denim split. Sweat poured down his body. I took a step closer, wanting to help.

"You must see how doomed it is, baby," Bradley added. "Your sorry adolescent fling. Think for a moment. Vampire-Wolf? Vampire-Vampire? The answer is obvious."

Kieren shuffled back, awkward in his body, looked from me to his hands, then he tossed his head back, howling - still more man than animal. When he leveled his head, though, those hunter's eyes were trained on me.

"No!" Bradley exclaimed, realizing he'd lost control of the situation, my safety.

But Kieren pulled his clawed fingers into fists, ripping into himself instead, turning the inner Wolf on the outer man. His claws tore into his own flesh, cracked his bones as years ago on the railroad bridge they'd savaged mine. Blood streamed from the backs of his hands, the pierced palms, onto the midnight blue carpet. He was bleeding to protect me. Bleeding out of love for me. I'd never smelled anything so good.

I reached out for Kieren, no foreplay, no fondling, tipped him back into the nearest black leather booth, climbed him like a ladder, straddled his hips, clamped my thighs tight, and sank in. The blood - it wasn't as mild as the chicken or as overwhelming as Bradley's, but rather somewhere in between. Kieren moaned as his body went fluid, most of it anyway. Like he'd fallen under my spell. Gladly.

Kieren's blood - it was like relaxing into a pink, aromatherapy bubble bath. My muscles unwound, knots released, nether region grew effervescent. It was impossible to think, to concentrate, but I had to remember to stop. Stop drinking.

Bradley's voice floated. "Tastes divine, doesn't it? An enzyme in your saliva dissolves the clots that act to stem the flow. I stirred it into the squirrel dish, into your wine. Eventually, you'll be able to tolerate other liquids, but for now, think of blood as your mother's milk."

The table edge cut into my hip, and my right knee slipped off Kieren's thigh. Kieren. Kieren.

"Baby, you're a smart girl. You understand. You were dead when I met you."

I bit harder, penetrated deeper. Kieren. Kieren.

"Burying yourself in your work, holding yourself apart . . . That's what death is, separation. But you don't have to fear because of me. I'll never leave."

Shut my eyes. Kieren. Kieren.

"That's my girl. Guzzle."

Kieren.

"So pa.s.sionate, so insatiable. I won't hold you at arm's length."

Kieren.

"No need to hurry. Once he's drained, dead, we'll always be together. Neither of us will ever be alone again."

Enough. I let go, lifting my mouth from the wounds. Raised my head and licked my lips. Kieren's heart was still beating, thank G.o.d. He'd shifted back to his wholly human form as I'd drunk. I let go, lifting my mouth from the wounds. Raised my head and licked my lips. Kieren's heart was still beating, thank G.o.d. He'd shifted back to his wholly human form as I'd drunk.

"Baby?" Bradley. He'd sounded less confident that time.

He'd keep his word, his bargain. I could hear it in his voice, feel it in my teeth.

"Quince?" Kieren whispered, his hands and throat a ragged, wet mess.

I would lose both of them, Kieren to his Wolf pack and Bradley to - what? - San Antonio. But I wouldn't give up myself or my restaurant. I wouldn't let the blood win.

I embraced my pain, pulled together my shredded humanity. My fangs retracted, my hunger cooled. "I'm here," I told Kieren, and it was true.

In the end, I'd loved him enough to let go. From afar, I would love him forever.

"Adios." I told Bradley. "Addio."

Good-bye.

In Abraham "Bram" Stoker's novel Dracula Dracula (1897), readers meet a hero named Quincey P. Morris, a Texan, described as "a gallant gentleman." Ultimately, Morris helps destroy Dracula by plunging a bowie knife into his heart as Jonathan Harker cuts Dracula's head off. Though Morris dies, too, Harker and his wife, Mina, later call their infant son "Quincey" in their late friend's honor. (1897), readers meet a hero named Quincey P. Morris, a Texan, described as "a gallant gentleman." Ultimately, Morris helps destroy Dracula by plunging a bowie knife into his heart as Jonathan Harker cuts Dracula's head off. Though Morris dies, too, Harker and his wife, Mina, later call their infant son "Quincey" in their late friend's honor.

Perhaps because I live in Austin, Stoker's choice of a Texan for one of the novel's heroes has long intrigued me. Though my mythology and sensibility deviate, the naming of my "Quincie P. Morris" is a tribute to one of Stoker's original vampire hunters, updated and gender flipped. Quincie became my twenty-first-century hero - a young woman wrestling with an after-school job, first love, and one h.e.l.l of a drinking problem.

Avid readers may also notice nods to Maurice Sendak, Mary Sh.e.l.ley, Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu, Nathaniel Hawthorne, Margaret Mitch.e.l.l, William Shakespeare, Bob Kane, Edmond Rostand, and particularly Ovid as well as his literary/theatrical/film progeny (from "Pygmalion" to "My Fair Lady" to "Pretty Woman" to "She's All That").

Austinites will note that, within the near south and central setting, the novel adds a few streets, businesses, and residences. As tantalizing as it may seem to visit Quincie's house or swing by Sanguini's, such locales exist only within these pages.

That's it for now. Y'all take care. Adios. Addio. Adios. Addio. Good-bye. Good-bye.

To Bud Smith, Niki Burnham, Austin Police Department Public Information Officer Susan Albrecht, and Sandy at Austin Independent School District for answering queries and offering suggestions . . .to Pubsters, Poddies, and YA Writers for chiming in on even more research . . .to Writefest 2004 and 2005 for celebrating novel writing . . .to Anne Bustard, Tim Crow, Sean Petrie, and Greg Leitich Smith for thoughtful ma.n.u.script feedback . . .to Dianna Hutts Aston for enthusiastic matchmaking and Ginger Knowlton for enthusiastic agenting . . .and to Amy Ehrlich for brilliant editorial backup and Deborah Wayshak for brilliant editing . . .I'd like to say, "Grazie!" "Grazie!"

I dream of black-and-blue b.u.t.terflies, slicing pain, pleasure pounding. dream of black-and-blue b.u.t.terflies, slicing pain, pleasure pounding.

I dream of star flying and soft leather, of drowning, my gums heavy, muscles numb, and throat raw. I'm lost among the tombstones, swallowed by the moon.

"Can't breathe, can't breathe," I whisper, shifting bare-skinned on slippery silk. The room smells of lavender and talc.u.m powder, roses and cigars. A Johnny Cash song plays at low volume. "Can't . . ."

"You don't have to, sugar," answers an unfamiliar masculine voice. "It's time to open your eyes. We're all so tickled to meet you."

I try; I do. It's hard to form words. It hurts. "Can't . . ."

"Easy there, drink this," he says.

I take the straw at my lips. I sink into the salty blackberry warmth, the not-caring place. I don't know who he is. A doctor, I'd say, but do doctors call you "sugar"? I don't think so. I'm not anyone's sugar, anyone's girl. I hardly have any friends, except - "Lucy!" My eyes open, and I struggle to sit. "Where's Lucy?"

The cool hand on mine is rea.s.suring. The other has taken my cup away. The formally dressed man attached to both is movie-star striking, the hollows of his cheeks accented by flickering candlelight from the candelabra in the far corners of the room. His Asian-style chair is pulled to the edge of my iron-framed canopy bed. "Not to fret, your friend is safe. You have my word."

The room is bigger than Lucy's entire condo. Heavy pink-and-black-checked drapes cover the arched windows. They match the bedding.

Pink-and-white roses, lilies, and orchids in crystal vases crowd every antique surface. More cascade to the hardwood floor.

My wrists are bruised like I've given blood or had a transfusion or been restrained. Or all three.

I've gone crazy. It's the only explanation. This is no average storefront shrink. My parents have sent me to the Club Med of insane asylums. "I'm . . . Who are you?"

"My name is Archibald Mosby Radford, originally of the Virginia Radfords by way of eastern Mississippi, western Oklahoma, and Toronto. According to custom, you're welcome to call me 'master' or 'majesty' or 'father.' I'd prefer 'daddy,' to tell the truth, but I'm sad to say it's falling out of favor. There's no need to fuss. You remember me, sugar. I'm the one who saved you that night in the cemetery."

I remember the cemetery. I remember the light.

"You've got what folks these days are calling 'post-traumatic stress,'" he adds. "It's like a hangover from what you were before."

Before I can process that, a matronly woman in an ap.r.o.n appears outside the open doorway. "Pardon me, sir."

"Quickly, Nora," the man spits out. "The medicine is wearing off. What's the trouble?"

"The aristocracy has gathered outside in the snow beneath the windows," she replies. "They're waiting to see her. Harrison is handing out blood by the bucket."

I'm standing. I don't know how it happened. I don't care. I like the feel of the bare wood on my bare feet. I'm naked. I don't care about that either. I hear the blood slipping through the woman's body, feeding her heart. It's faster now, the heartbeat.

I'm moving fast. I'm not used to this speed. I slide on a round wool rug and miss my target. The woman. Nora. My palms. .h.i.t the stone wall, my claw-like fingernails break. My head falls forward, and the impact feels like it cracked my skull.

Liquid snakes through my hair and runs down my cheeks. My tongue darts to taste. It's my blood I'm drinking.

The woman, Nora, she's filled with more. Only hers is warm.