Page 3 of Clay White
So in the overly warm wreckage of that Chinese restaurant, I pulled my old gun out and pointed it at Marek.
His smile reappeared, brittle as old glass, but he didn’t move.
“I’m a good shot,” I informed him. “Always have been.”
“Doesn’t matter much at this distance, does it?”
“Not really.” I kept my hand steady and hoped my confusion didn’t show. “You got a death wish or something?”
That made him laugh. “That wish was fulfilled nearly three hundred years ago, my friend.”
I was too shaken to respond to that last part. Three centuries. I’d heard of vampires that old but had never met one. “Forget the semantics. You’re lively for a dead guy—are you aching to be a bona fide corpse?”
His expression went somber. “No. I’m not sure why, but even after all this time, I’m not eager to depart this plane.”
“You’ll depart real quick when I pull this trigger.”
“Yes,” he said. And then he moved so fast that my eyes couldn’t track him. Before my instinct to shoot could even kick in, my gun was skittering across the floor and Marek’s arms were wrapped around me in a python-like embrace. I couldn’t lift my hands to defend myself, and although I tried to kick him, he held me so still that I couldn’t get enough momentum to do any harm. His fangs scraped my neck as delicately as a razor.
But he didn’t bite.
I should have been struggling, even if I knew he was stronger. I could have shouted and screamed. I could have spit empty threats of retribution from the Bureau. But I didn’t do any of those things, and my heart continued to beat slow and steady. Despite the sharp teeth pressing against my skin, I wasn’t afraid.
“Who has the death wish?” Marek whispered. He sounded amused.
“I don’t want to die.”
“Perhaps.” Still holding me, he moved back a little so he could look me over. “You’d make a wonderful vampire. Beautiful and quite terrible. Is that what you’re hoping for?”
I growled my denial and he smiled. “Good, because I won’t do it,” he said.
“Then just fucking kill me.”
As the words left my mouth, I realized the truth. I did not honestly want to die. But life was a heavy burden, and ever since I’d been a small child, I’d expected one of the monsters to finally win. No waiting any longer—which was some sort of relief.
But Marek released me and took a step backward. “If I wanted to murder you, I would have done so before you pulled your gun.”
“Then what do you want?” I shouted.
He stood looking at me. Something in the way the light hit his eyes, something in the way he held himself… I don’t know. Maybe it was just the goddamn fangs. At that moment he appeared completely inhuman, a creature as alien as a space dragon from Mars. Distant and inscrutable.
But he didn’t frighten me, and in that strange alien face, I recognized something familiar. Something I saw every time I looked in a mirror.
“I need to warn you,” he said.
Instead of listening I moved toward him and grabbed the back of his head. And I kissed him, fangs and all, feeling the sharp pricks on my tongue and tasting the hot metal of my own blood. He could have broken away—he’d already shown his strength—but he pressed closer and laced his fingers behind my neck. I didn’t know if he wanted me the way I suddenly wanted him or if he only craved a light meal, and I didn’t really care. For that moment I had him against me, hard and solid, and he gave his mouth to me freely. Nobody ever gave me anything.
We fell, Marek and I, landing on the dirty floor in a tangled pile. I was on top. Our mouths never lost their connection, but now his hands roamed over my shoulders, my back, my ass. Sometimes he squeezed me hard enough to hurt, as if reminding me what hecoulddo if he chose. The little bursts of pain spurred me on, and I ground against him.
I’m not a thinking man. Never have been. I do things, sometimes rashly, sometimes to great detriment—yet my recklessness has saved my life more than once. I pawed at Marek’s clothes, heedless of consequences, wanting only to touch him, to penetrate his body as I was penetrating his mouth. If he killed me in the process, well, there are worse ways to go. I’ve seen them.
With his shirt in tatters and his jeans pushed down his thighs, Marek suddenly went very still beneath me. He pushed my head back a little and held my face with surprising gentleness. My blood smeared his lips and chin like poorly applied lipstick.
“I need to warn you,” he repeated.
“Kill me or don’t. I don’t give a fuck about warnings.”
“But you still give a fuck about something, don’t you?” Soft voice, soft hands, pale eyes showing warmth—a monster with a façade of tenderness. At least he could manage the façade. I never could.
