Ravenous

Chapter 14

Without meeting Holly's startled gaze, Alessandro turned and left. Frustrated lust climbed up her frame, heating every muscle along the ladder of her bones. Holly pressed her palm to her forehead. Her skin felt prickly, her cheeks burning.

Men.

Vampires.

I suppose it would seem strange if I asked for a cold shower before dinner. Fortunately Macmillan seemed too absorbed in his culinary extravaganza to notice her distraction.

The dining room was more formal than the rest of the place, as if he put more importance on that room. The carpet had a dark gray and plum Afghani pattern, the chandelier a sleek, modern design in pewter. The table and chairs were black. By contrast, the green salad looked positively startling.

They began with a light seafood bisque, then medallions of lamb in rosemary sauce, accompanied by peas and couscous. Halfway through her plate Holly was full, but it was too good to stop stuffing herself. If Macmillan quit the force, he had a future as a cook.

They ate with such gusto they barely spoke at first. "I don't get vampires," Holly finally said.

"Who does?" Macmillan replied with a shrug. Now that they were alone he was much more relaxed. "Your friend showed up on my doorstep and refused to budge. This after dodging my calls for two days. He gives me absolutely golden information on the case and then takes off without a word. It makes it hard not to wonder what the hell he's up to."

Protecting his interests. "I think he was called away."

"Probably that queen of theirs. From what I hear he's her local go-to guy."

"He never talks about her."

"No surprise there. Omara's a piece of work. About as big as a saltshaker and rules the vampires in a third of the continent. I saw her when she came by to see the brass at the police station downtown. If nothing else she knows public relations, how to schmooze the suits. But if you catch her off guard, her eyes say you're nothing but a bug."

"A vampire's existence is about hunting and territory. Probably the right analogy is livestock."

Macmillan laughed, the light catching the dark waves of his hair. "Y'know, I get that. After working a few cases that involve the supernatural, I think I've stopped taking growing old for granted."

Holly savored another bite of lamb. "Speaking of winding up as someone's dinner—and I know this sounds very clichéd—it is unusual to meet a man who cooks so well."

"I like food. I really love cooking, but I don't have time to do it much."

"Where'd you learn?"

"My mother was a terrible cook. I learned out of self-defense." He gave his fleeting smile, but it lingered in his eyes. "She worked in a land developer's office. She used to own this place."

"Any siblings?"

"Nah, my dad died not long after I was born, but I have plenty of aunts and uncles and cousins. I think I'm related to half the city. The Scottish half, anyway."

He set his fork down, a slight tensing of his body signaling a change in mood. "I'm glad you came, because I really need to talk to you. Going over the case was great—it was actually really helpful—but there's this other thing I needed to ask you about."

"The personal thing." Holly felt her senses go on high alert.

"Yeah." He sat back, turning his face to the window. "Something really weird happened to me last night. Given what's been going on, that's saying something."

Holly put down her fork. "So, Detective, what could be stranger than killer slime?" Did I just say that?

"Call me Mac." Rising, he took the plates into the kitchen, as if he needed a break before he continued. He returned a moment later with parfait glasses filled with chocolate mousse. He set one in front of her with the air of Michelangelo unveiling his David.

"Omigosh," was all she could say.

It had layers of dark, light, and medium chocolate topped with melted fudge and mint leaves. He set a long-handled silver spoon beside it. "This is my party piece. Enjoy."

"It looks amazing." Holly thought about how stuffed she was, but knew she would eat every bite. "How come you're not either married or four hundred pounds?"

"I don't eat like this often," he replied. "And I do have serious character flaws."

She took a spoonful, speechless as the chocolate melted on her tongue. He watched her reaction with obvious pleasure.

"How serious are those flaws?"

He looked down at his dessert, showing long, dark lashes. "I like handcuffs."

"Oh, yeah?" Holly took another spoonful of parfait. She remembered parfait meant perfect in French. "Fur lined or regular?"

"Negotiable." This time he smiled enough to show strong, slightly crooked teeth.

"Sorry," she said, mentally backpedaling. "Chocolate brings out the flirt. You were going to tell me about the weird thing."

He sat back, all the humor gone. "I've been home today. Some sudden bug."

Holly set the spoon down. She hadn't actually believed his sick-day story. "Yeah?"

Macmillan's gaze drifted away. "Maybe it was food poisoning. I dunno. I went back to work after dinner last night. I got into a completely stupid argument with my supervisor. Then I got deathly ill."

"Any ideas why?"

"I went for dinner and met this hot girl. Her name was Jenny."

Holly's eyebrows went up. "And this is a problem?"

"She kissed me."

"Woo-hoo," she said flatly. Definitely not dinner-date conversation.

Macmillan gave her a level stare. "I think she did something to me. It felt weird. She felt weird. I felt weird after."

"Can you elaborate on the weird part?"

"Angry. Hollow. Sick to my stomach. Sort of like I'd lost my life savings and been pumped full of toxins at the same time. I don't think it was ordinary, y'know, science-based stuff. It was worse. Bad magic."

"But you're okay now?"

"Yeah, by the afternoon I was starting to come around." He lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "The only aftereffect is that I'm hungry all the time. Starving. Probably why I went on this cooking binge."

"Could be worse, I suppose."

"Yeah, but now I'm nervous about what happened. It doesn't feel totally gone, and I can't afford a relapse in the middle of a multiple-murder case. I won't have my leads handed over to archrivals and bumbling goofs."

Holly nodded. Now everything was making more sense. "So basically you want me to find out what sort of whammy, if any, this girl put on you, and whether it's over and done with."

"In a nutshell. I remember thinking I wanted a day off, but hey, not like that."

"Right." Holly pondered a moment. "It's true I might be able to detect something if you've got some sort of psychic flu."

"How?"

"Um, different ways. The easiest is really pretty primitive. If she gave you something by kissing you, I could sense it the same way. By kissing you, I mean." Holly couldn't hold his gaze. "All in the interest of medical science, of course. Witches are generally immune, so there's no chance of passing it on."

Macmillan looked both startled and pleased. "Hey, this is like playing doctor the way it should be done."

"Yeah, well, um, witch doctor, maybe." Holly fought to look cool and professional, as if this were all in an average day's work. "Let's just do it, okay?"

They both got up, as if pulled by the same string, and moved to the end of the table. Macmillan took her hand. "No need to rush."

Holly stopped, looking down where he clasped her palm in his. His fingers were strong and square-tipped, a practical man's hand. Slowly her gaze traveled up the expanse of his soft red sweater to his face. He is awfully good-looking.

At his touch Holly's body fell still, though her heart began to race with anticipation. Macmillan's fingers slid up her arm, the slow brush of flesh against flesh. It fanned the embers of her moment with Alessandro, rousing an appetite not yet sated. She turned in to his chest, wanting to feel more of him on more of her. His hand traveled over her shoulder and up her throat, coming to rest in the thick fall of her hair.

Yup, this is more than a diagnostic kiss. More than I bargained for.

But it was just one kiss, and maybe it would serve as an antidote to forbidden desires of the vampire kind. An amiable lust danced in her blood. Macmillan—Mac—was warm and friendly, and his obvious interest made her feel desirable. It was liberating. No expectations, no future. No unrequited longing. He was just a good, plain, sexy man, easy on the heart.

Holly's fingers scrunched the thick knit of his sweater, the springy fabric full of the aromas of cooking and the clove aftershave he wore. She caught his earlobe in her teeth, thinking he was the most delicious, edible man she had ever met. His food obsession was taking over her thoughts.

Mac kissed her eyelids, his lashes flickering against tender skin. Holly raised her hand to his cheek, fingertips tracing the first shadow of roughness. Then her mouth found his, their lips hot and sweet with sugar.

Down to work. She opened her senses, searching for traces left by his mysterious Jenny. There was a whisper of something, subtle as a falling feather. She pursued it, considered it, but found no cause for alarm. Probably just the passing shadow of Jenny's presence. No hints of anything more. In fact, every double X chromosome in her said there was nothing wrong with Detective Macmillan.

Distraction shattered her thoughts. Strong and competent, Macmillan's hand quested downward, cupping her backside. Enough heat rose between them to threaten the synthetics in her little black dress. OK yeah. Cooking was not his only skill set, and she writhed against him, taking an animal pleasure in being stroked in all the right places. She felt warm, and fed, and wanted.

She pressed against Mac's weight, enjoying the sheer physicality of their bodies in space. Whether or not the encounter had a future, its present was damn fine. Delicious languor radiated from her belly, making her lean in even as she broke the kiss. Their lips parted with a faint electric tingle.

"Wow," she said, feeling suddenly shy.

If possible, Macmillan's eyes seemed even darker than before. There was a sheen of perspiration at his temples. He was feeling the heat as much as Holly was. Goody.

"What's the verdict?" he asked in a whisper.

Holly felt a sloppy grin cover her face. "Oh, I think you're healthy. You shouldn't have any more problems."

Relief widened his eyes. "Hallelujah. Then go make yourself comfortable and I'll bring our coffee." He gave her a sly grin. "Maybe we can discuss a program of preventive health care."

Holly gave a bemused smile, all logical thought having swooned away. She wandered into the living room, the air around her chill after the heat of their embrace. Her skin felt alive to the texture of the couch, the brush of her skirt against her thighs. Mac's embrace had held unexpected depths. It buzzed with the prospect of more. Holly felt like a skydiver at the brink of her jump.

But did she want to jump? Or did she want simply to walk away?

The sound of running water came from the kitchen, coffee on its way. What sort of a conversation would follow a kiss like that? What was Mac expecting? Holly leaned her head against the back of the couch, not sure what she wanted to happen. Even with all the spells she had at her disposal, she didn't have the gift of reading minds, especially her own.

The water sounds stopped. Coffee was getting closer and, with it, the need for decisions. Holly grabbed her handbag from where she'd left it by a chair, reapplied her lipstick, and waited.

And waited. Then she took off her shoes and picked up a magazine. Holly flicked the pages impatiently while she waited some more. How long does it take to make coffee?

She got up and went to the kitchen, expecting to hear more running water, maybe the clatter of silverware, but it was quiet. And empty. Dishes were piled in the sink; the dishwasher door was ajar. The coffeemaker carafe sat on the counter, full of water. It looked like Mac had set it down, interrupted in the middle of making coffee, and never come back.

Holly put her hands on her hips. Perhaps he had passed out somewhere, overwhelmed by her womanly charms. She checked the bathroom. It was white and chrome and empty of sprawled bodies.

Next Holly tried the study. It was a small, spare room with a desk, computer, and filing cabinet. On the wafer-thin monitor, a string-art screen saver did slow cartwheels in the darkness. She wiggled the mouse, but no Help, I've been abducted by aliens message flashed onto the screen. She was getting irritated and a bit scared.

Onward to the bedroom. Images of furry handcuffs and stethoscopes danced in her mind, giving life to all the bad-date urban legends that lurked in her imagination. By now in no mood to find Macmillan reclining on a fur rug, she flipped on the overhead light.

Mac was sprawled face-down on the bed, one arm dangling off the side. Then she smelled sickness—psychic sickness, a faint, desiccated, dusty smell, as if death had been dried and ground into a powder.

Omigod, how did I miss this? Alessandro said Mac didn't smell right!

Holly ran to the bed, grabbing his shoulder. The sweater was soaked through with perspiration, his hair trailing in sodden waves. "Mac?"

His only reply was a gurgling haul of breath.

Panic lanced through her. Sweet Hecate, this happened so fast! There must have been something there, festering, but something so foreign she didn't recognize it. Something hiding.

She dug her fingers into Mac's shoulder muscle, hoping for a flutter of consciousness that didn't come. She bent close. "Mac, can you hear me?"

The foul energy rolling off him nearly made her gag. As she recoiled, he made a noise between a grunt and a moan. At least it was something. Holly grabbed the phone from the bedside table, dialing 911.

"Ambulance, please!" Holly pleaded.

The plastic receiver slipped from her sweating palm, forcing her to give it a white-knuckled grip. The dispatcher was saying something. Holly stared at Mac's prone form, chewing her lip.

"What is your address, please?" the voice on the phone repeated, the woman's tone sharp.

Holly gave directions, stammering when she tried to recall the apartment number. No, she didn't know what was wrong. Yes, she would be there to answer the door.

She was panicking. It was the horrible, cloying energy, black like tar, thick in her throat. Rot. Decay. Despair. Not a smell so much as an aura of horror. A gray tide sloshed across her vision.

She dropped the phone. I'm going to be sick.

Window. Hard to open. Lock sliding through her fingers.

The dispatcher's voice came in tinny mumbles from the dropped handset.

A blast of cold air rushed into the room. Holly braced herself against the wall, her mouth nearly touching the wire mesh of the screen. The wind seemed impossibly sweet, the room unspeakably foul.

"Oh, God."

She turned at the sound of the wet, rasping voice. The fresh air must have revived Macmillan, too. He was trying to sit up, but every limb shook until the bed itself rattled. He angled his face to her, the whites of his eyes wide with terror. "What's happening to me?"

Holly shook her head. "I don't know." The confession brought a sting to her eyes. I failed him. I should be able to help, but how? Tears slipped out, hot with guilt.

"You said I was okay." The words came out like a cry from the heart.

"I couldn't find anything. Honestly. I've never seen this before."

"No." He was on his side now, his legs curling into his chest. His breath was coming in jerks, as if each would gag him with the effort. "No, it can't be. OK God, it hurts."

He stopped speaking, his eyes squeezed tight. His mouth opened in a soundless scream as fresh rivulets of sweat ran down his cheeks, soaking the pillowcase. Warped power rolled off him in waves, as if his very soul were vibrating out of phase.

Holly's gorge rose, but she fought it back, steeling herself for his sake. She fell to her knees beside the bed. "The ambulance is coming. They'll help. They'll make it right." They

won't have a clue what to do, but they may keep him alive long enough for me to find an answer.

"Don't leave me," he said, gripping her hand so hard that it cramped.

"I won't," she said.

"Holly, I'm losing myself."