Lover Unbound

Chapter Thirty-six

On the Other Side, Vishous stared down at Cormia and wanted to shoot himself in the foot. Following her wobbly revelation that she'd never seen a male before, he felt god-awful. It had never dawned on him that she'd known only females, but if she'd been born just after the last Primale died, how could she have ever met the opposite sex?

Of course she'd be terrified of him.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered, drawing hard on his hand-rolled, then tapping on it. He was ashing on the amphitheater's marble stage, but he didn't give a fuck. "I totally underestimated how hard this would be for you. I assumed…"

He'd assumed she'd be hot to trot for him or some shit. Instead, she was no better off than he was.

"Yeah, I'm damn sorry."

As her lids peeled back in surprise, the jade color of her eyes gleamed.

In what he hoped passed for a gentler tone, he said, "Do you want this…?" He moved the hand that held the cigarette back and forth between them. "This mating?" When she stayed quiet, he shook his head. "Look, I can see it in your eyes. You want to run from me, and not just because you're scared. You want to run from what we're going to have to do, right?"

She brought her hands to her face, the heavy folds of the robe riding down her thin arms and choking the crooks of her elbows. In a small voice she said, "I couldn't bear to let down the Chosen. I… I will do what I must for the good of the whole."

Well, wasn't that the theme song for the both of them.

"As will I," he murmured.

Neither of them said another word and he didn't know what to do. He was no good with females to begin with, and he was even worse now that he was damaged goods from letting Jane go.

Abruptly he whipped his head around, aware that they were not alone. "You, behind the column. Come out. Now."

A Chosen stepped into view, head bowed, body tense beneath her traditional white wrap. "Sire."

"What are you doing here?"

As the Chosen stared meekly at the marble floor, he thought, Lord save him from the subservience. Funny, during sex he'd demanded it. Now the shit annoyed the hell out of him.

"You'd better have come to comfort her," he growled. "If it's anything other than that, you need to get the hell out of here."

"It is for comfort," the Chosen said softly. "I worry for her."

"What's your name?"

"Chosen."

"For fuck's sake!" As both she and Cormia jumped, he forced his temper deep into his gut. "What is your name?"

"Amalya."

"Okay, then, Amalya. I want you to take care of her until I get back. That's an order." As the Chosen did some bowing and vowing, he took a last drag on the hand-rolled, then licked two of his fingers and pressed them to the tip. As he put the butt in the pocket of his robe, he wondered for no good reason why in the hell everyone had to wear fucking pajamas on the other side.

He glanced at Cormia. "See you in two days."

V left without looking back, walking up the white grass of the hill, avoiding the white silk path that had been laid out. When he came to the Scribe Virgin's courtyard, he prayed like hell he didn't run into her, and thanked God she wasn't around. The last thing he needed was a postgame wrap-up with the likes of Momzilla.

Under the watchful eyes of all those songbirds, he launched himself back to the real world, but he didn't go to the mansion.

He went exactly where he didn't need to be: He took form across the street from Jane's condo. It was a bad fucking idea on a skyscraper scale, but he was half-dead from sorrow and not thinking right, and besides, he didn't give a shit about anything. Not even the lines that couldn't be crossed between humans and his kind.

The night was cold, and he was barely dressed in the fakata ceremony clothes, but he didn't care. He was so numbed-out and wrecked in the head, he could have been naked in a sleet storm and not noticed-

What the hell.

There was a car in her driveway. A Porsche Carrera 4S. Same one Z had, only Z's was iron gray and this number was silver.

V hadn't intended to get closer than across the street, but that plan was blown out of the water as he inhaled and caught the scent of a male emanating from the convertible. It was that doctor, the one who'd pulled the lothario shit with her in the hospital room.

V materialized to the maple in her front yard and looked in through the kitchen window. Coffeepot was on. Sugar was out. There were two spoons on the counter.

Oh, hell, no. Hell mother fucking no.

V couldn't see much of the rest of the condo, so he jogged around the side, his bare feet screaming as he crunched through icy snow patches. As an old woman from the condo next door peered out her window as if she'd seen him, he threw some mhis around as a precaution-and because he figured he should do something that proved he had a brain.

This stalker routine sure as shit wasn't going to get him on Jeopardy!

As he came up to the back windows and got a look-see into the living room, he saw the death of another as clearly as if he'd committed the murder in real time:

That human male, that doctor, was on his knees and pressed up close to Jane as she sat on her sofa. The guy had one hand on her face, the other on her neck, and he was focused on her mouth.

V lost his concentration, dropped the mhis, and moved without thinking. Without reasoning. Without hesitation. He was nothing but screaming, bonded male instinct as went for the French doors, prepared to kill-

From out of nowhere Butch stepped in front of him, derailing the attack by grabbing him around the waist and dragging him away from the condo. It was a dangerous move, even between best friends. Unless you were an eighteen-wheeler, you didn't want to get in between a bonded male and the target of this kind of aggression: V's attack instinct shifted its focus instantly. He bared his fangs, hauled off, and punched his nearest and dearest in the side of the head.

The Irishman dropped V like a beehive, whipped back his fist, and threw a low-higher that caught V on the underside of his chin. As his jaw slammed into his skull and his teeth sang like a choir of angels, he caught fire sure as a dry meadow, instantly into overburn.

"Mhis, you fucker," Butch spat. "You mhis this place first before we do this."

V slammed the visual block down and the two of them went at it hard-core, no holds barred, blood popping from noses and mouths as they pummeled the shit out of each other. Half way through, V realized this wasn't just about Jane being lost. It was about him being utterly alone. Even with Butch around, it wouldn't be the same without her, so it was as if V was left with nothing.

When it was all over, he and the cop lay flat on their backs side by side, chests heaving, sweat not so much drying on them as freezing. Shit, V could already feel the swelling: His knuckles and his face were going Michelin Man on him.

He coughed a little. "I need a cigarette."

"I need an ice pack and some Neosporin."

V rolled to the side, spat out some blood, then flopped back to where he'd been. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Thanks. I needed that."

"No pr-" Butch groaned. "No problem. Damn, did you have to pound out my liver like that? As if the Scotch ain't enough of a problem for the thing."

"How did you know where I was?"

"Where else would you be? Phury came back alone and mentioned shit was going down, so I figured you'd eventually end up here." Butch cracked his shoulder and cursed. "Let's face it, the cop in me's like a radio tower for stupid morons. And no offense, but you're not winning any awards in the smarty division."

"I think I would have killed that man."

"I know you would have."

V lifted his head. When he couldn't see through Jane's windows, he pushed himself up on his elbows to get a clear shot. The sofa was empty.

He let himself fall down onto the ground again. Were the two of them making love upstairs in her bed? Right now? As he lay ruined on her back fucking lawn?

"Shit. I can't deal."

"I'm sorry, V. I really am." Butch cleared his throat. "Listen… it might be a good idea not to come here anymore."

"Said the jackass who did drive-bys on Marissa for how many months?"

"It's dangerous, V. For her."

V glared at his best friend. "If you are going to insist on being reasonable, I'm going to stop hanging with you."

Butch popped a misshapen smile-on account of the crack in his upper lip. "Sorry, buddy, you can't shake me even if you tried."

V blinked a couple of times, horrified at what he was about to say. "God, you're going for sainthood, you know that? You've always been there for me. Always. Even when I…"

"Even when you what?"

"You know."

"What?"

"Fuck. Even when I was in love with you. Or some shit."

Butch clasped his hands to his chest. "Was? Was? I can't believe you've lost interest." He threw one arm over his eyes, all Sarah Bernhardt. "My dreams of our future are shattered-"

"Shut it, cop."

Butch looked out from under his arm. "Are you kidding me? The reality show I had planned was fantastic. Was going to pitch it to VH1. Two Bites Are Better Than One. We were going to make millions."

"Oh, for the love."

Butch rolled over on his side and got serious. "Here's the deal, V. You and me? We're in this life together, and not just because of my curse. I don't know if I'm all into divine providence and shit, but there's a reason why we met. And as for that whole you-being-in-love-with-me thing? It was probably more about you just caring about someone for the first time."

"Okay, stop right there. You're giving me hives from this caring/sharing shit."

"You know I'm right."

"Fuck you, Dr. Phil."

"Good, I'm glad we agree." Butch frowned. "Hey, maybe I could have a talk show, since you aren't going to be my June Cleaver anymore. I could call it the O'Neal Hour. Sounds important, doesn't it?"

"First of all, you were going to be June Cleaver-"

"Screw that. No way I'd bottom for you."

"Whatever. And second, I don't think there's much of a market for your particular brand of psychology."

"So not true."

"Butch, you and I just beat the crap out of each other."

"You started it. And actually, it would be perfect for Spike TV. UFC meets Oprah. God, I'm brilliant."

"Keep telling yourself that."

Butch's laughter was cut off as a gust of wind whipped through the backyard. "Okay, big guy, as much as I'm enjoying this, I don't think my tan's improving much, considering it's pitch dark."

"You don't have a tan."

"See? This is getting me nowhere. So how about we head home?" There was a long pause. "Shit… you're not coming with me, are you?"

"I don't feel like killing anyone anymore."

"Oh. Good. The idea that you might only cripple the guy makes me feel a fuck of a lot better about leaving you here." Butch sat up with a curse. "Mind if I at least see if he's left?"

"God, do I really want to know?"

"I'll be right back." Butch groaned and got up like he'd been in an accident, all creaky and stiff. "Man, this is gonna hurt for a while."

"You're a vampire now. Body'll be fine and dandy before you know it."

"Not the point. Marissa is going to kill us both for brawling."

V winced. "Crap. That's gonna leave a stain, true?"

"Yup, yup." Butch hobbled off. "She's going to knock our heads."

V glanced up to the condo's second story and couldn't decide whether it was a good or a bad sign that there were no lights on. Closing his eyes, he prayed that the Porsche was gone… even though he had no expectation that it would be. Man, Butch was right. Him hanging here was a situation with police tape around it. This needed to be the last time-

"He's gone," Butch said.

V exhaled like he was a tire deflating, then realized he'd gotten a reprieve only for tonight. Sooner or later she was going to be with someone else.

Sooner or later she was probably going to be with that other doctor.

V lifted his head, then slammed it back down into the frozen ground. "I don't think I can do this. I don't think I can live without her."

"Do you have a choice?"

Nope, he thought. No choice at all.

Come to think of it, that word shouldn't be applied to people's destinies. Ever. Choice should be relegated to TV and meals: You could choose NBC over CBS or steak instead of chicken. But take the concept any further than the stove or the remote control and the word just didn't apply.

"Go home, Butch. I'm not going to do anything stupid."

"Stupider, you mean."

"Semantics are for shit."

"As you're someone who speaks sixteen languages, you know that's a lie." Butch took a deep breath and waited. "I guess I'll see you back at the Pit, then."

"Yup." V got to his feet. "I'll be back in a while."

Jane rolled over in her bed, her instincts waking her.

Someone was in her room. She sat up, heart pounding, and saw nothing. Then again, shadows cast by the hall light offered plenty of hiding places behind the bureau and the half-open door and the stuffed chair by the window.

"Who's there?"

No answer came, but she was definitely not alone.

She wished she hadn't gone to bed naked.

"Who's there?"

Nothing. Just the sound of her own breath.

She curled her hands tight on the duvet and took a deep breath. God… there was a marvelous smell in the air… rich and sultry, sexual and possessive. She breathed in again, and her brain flickered, recognizing it. It was a man's scent. No… this was more than a man.

"I know you." Her body warmed instantly, blooming-but then heartbreak landed, a pain so great she gasped. "Oh, God… you…"

The headache came back, crushing her skull, making her vow to get that CAT scan ASAP. With a moan she grabbed onto her head, bracing herself against what was probably going to be hours of agony.

Except almost immediately the pain floated away… and so did she. A blanket of sleep eased over her, coated her, calmed her.

Right after it landed, a man's hand touched her hair. Her face. Her mouth.

His warmth and love healed the bottomless pit in the center of her chest: It was as if her life had been in a car wreck, but now her parts were put back together, her engine rebuilt, her bumper reattached, her broken windshield replaced.

Except then the touch left her.

In the dream she reached out blindly. "Stay with me. Please stay with me."

A big palm enveloped her hand, but the answer was going to be no. Though the man didn't say a thing, she knew he wouldn't stay.

"Please…" Tears welled. "Don't go."

As her hand was dropped, she cried out and reached forward-

The covers rustled and cold air rushed in, as did a mammoth male body. In desperation she grafted herself to the hard warmth and buried her face in a neck that smelled of those dark spices. Thick arms shot around her and held her tight.

When she burrowed even closer… she felt an erection.

In the dream Jane moved fast and decisively, as if she had every right in the world to do what she did. She shot her hand down between them and gripped that straining length.

As the big body jerked, she said, "Give me what I want."

Man, did he ever.

She was flipped onto her back then her legs were spread and her core covered with a heavy hand. She came immediately, torquing up off the mattress, crying out. Before the sensations faded, the sheets were tossed from the bed and a mouth was on her between her thighs. She grabbed onto thick, luxurious hair and gave herself up to what he did to her.

While she orgasmed for the second time, he pulled back. There was the sound of clothes being pushed down and then-

Jane cursed as she was filled nearly to the point of pain, but she loved what was happening… especially as a mouth came down on hers and the erection inside of her started to move. She grabbed onto a surging back and followed the rhythm of the sex.

In the midst of the dream, she had some thought that this was what she had been mourning. This man was the cause of the pain in her chest.

Or rather, the loss of him was.

Vishous knew that what he was doing was wrong. The sex was tantamount to stealing, because Jane didn't really know who he was. But he couldn't stop.

He kissed her harder, moved in her more powerfully. His orgasm rolled in like a firestorm, taking him in a burst of heat, consuming him with a burn that was relieved only as his cock jerked and released inside of her. She came as he did, milking him, drawing out the sensations until he shuddered and fell still on top of her.

He pulled back and looked down at her closed eyes, willing her into an even deeper sleep. She would think that what had happened was nothing more than an erotic dream, an enticing, vivid fantasy. She wouldn't know who he was, though. Couldn't. Her mind was strong, and she could well go insane in the tug-of-war between the memories he'd hidden and what she felt when he was around her.

V eased out of her body and slipped from the bed. As he rearranged the covers and pulled up his sliks, he felt like he was shaving his own skin off.

Bending down, he put his lips to her forehead. "I love you. Forever."

Before he left he looked around her bedroom, then wandered into her bathroom. He couldn't stop himself. He had no intention of returning here again and needed images of her private spaces.

The upstairs was more "her." Everything was simple and uncluttered, the furniture unobtrusive, the walls free of fussy pictures. There was one wild extravagance, though, and he loved it, had the same one back in his room: books. There were books everywhere. In her bedroom the shelving ran floor to ceiling, with each level filled with volumes on science and philosophy and math. In the hall there were more stacked in a nine-foot glass-front wardrobe, with works by Shelley and Keats, Dickens, Hemingway, Marchand, Fitzgerald. Even in the bath there was a short lineup of them next to the tub, as if when she was in the thing, she wanted a few favorites nearby.

She liked Shakespeare, too, evidently. Which he approved of.

See, this was his kind of decorating. An active mind didn't need distractions in its physical environment. It needed a collection of outstanding books and a good lamp. Maybe some cheese and crackers.

V turned to leave the bath and caught sight of the mirror over the twin sinks. He pictured her standing in front of it and combing out her hair. Flossing. Brushing her teeth. Clipping her short nails.

Such normal things, which people did all across the planet every day, vampires and humans alike: proof that in certain prosaic activities the two species were not so different after all.

He would have killed to see her do them once.

Better yet, he wanted to do them with her. Her sink. His sink. Maybe they would argue over the fact that he dropped his floss on the edge of the wastepaper basket instead of making sure it got all the way in.

Life. Together.

He reached forward, put his fingertip on the mirror, and ran it over the glass. Then he forced himself to dematerialize without going to her bedside again.

As he disappeared for good this time, he knew that if he'd been a male who cried, he would have been bawling now. Instead he thought of the Grey Goose that was waiting for him back at the Pit. He had every intention of being completely faced for the next two days.

They were going to have to pour him back into these Hugh Hefner silks and hold him up at that fucking Primale ceremony.