“Ah, fuck,” he said.
The vampire rested one knee against the mattress across from him, there so fast that Wes wasn’t sure when he’d moved. Then he was pressing into Wesley’s space, not quite touching him but still somehow pushing him back against the headboard with his presence alone, as though the force of his hunger were a physical thing. He caged Wes in, a palm to the wall above one of Wesley’s shoulders and another so near his ribs that Wes could feel the barest brush of his coat’s sleeve with every breath. He leaned close to Wes, mouth open and head cocked, face out of view beyond Wesley’s periphery.
A tremble ran through Wes. He almost regretted calling the bloodsucker back, but he needed him here, needed not to lose him to the night. Wes would happily give as much blood as he had to, put up with his heart fluttering and his stomach twisting and determinedly turn his fear into a wave of motivational adrenaline, if it meant crushing Vitalis-Barron to dust.
Then the vampire’s tongue slid up the side of his neck, and all concept of revenge flitted out of Wesley Smith Garcia’s mind, leaving with a gasp that felt a little like a sob and a bright, almost painful ache that slid serpentine through him. It lasted forever and not nearly long enough, an almost agonizingly gentle suck following the tongue-pressure. The vampire pulled away again, slower this time.
Everything in Wesley begged to call him back.
4
VINCENT
“You can eat me,” the human had said.
He’d said that. Vincent had absolutely, definitely heard it with his own ears. Which meant that this was okay. It was not just that Vincent needed one more taste, with the scent of all that blood in the air, smelling like ambrosia and nectar and every other mythological delicacy. And the man had been oozing all over the place, so any decent vampire wouldn’t have left him there tokeepbleeding, right?Right.
But as Vincent scooted away from him, nearly falling off the bed for a second time in the process, he was still fairly certain that this was the worst thing he had ever done as a vampire. He should leave now, just to make sure it never happened again.
“Wait,” the human said. This time his voice was softer, lower. His head leaned against the wall still, his body loose where it had been so tense under Vincent’s. The edge of his lips lifted a little. “Please.”
Vincent could feel himself leaning toward the open window, but he couldn’t quite force his legs to move. In the light of the nightstand lamp, he could finally make out the room in full color, the combination of it all so bright and alive: video game décor and movie posters, old bottles lined across a shelf with a collection of tiny Pride flags propped in them, a collage wall featuring shot-glass towers and absurd food, rooftops and mountain vistas, concerts and skydives. Most of the pictures showed the room’s owner at various stages of teenage and adult life, his smile brimming and his posture carelessly happy. It looked like the portrait of a man who ran with the wind and never said no to anything.
He was even more handsome while awake, his skin a warm tan and his brown eyes large and excitable in a square, well-jawed face with high cheekbones that seemed just the right size for the massive smile that filled it in his pictures. Right now, his mouth was growing tight as his eyes wandered over Vincent in a way that made Vincent’s skin crawl, the attention a hair to the left of what might have been decent. Vincent couldn’t quite tell what the man was looking for, but he could guess it had something to do with stereotypes and the way Vincent had proceeded to perpetuate almost every last one of them. Unlike the human stereotypes, or their real-life basis, at least this man hadn’t screamed or come at him with an ax.
“Shit, you’re kind of feral,” the human said, finally. “It’s a nice aesthetic, though. Like a dumpster grunge or something?”
“Thanks?” Vincent had found this particular coat in a thrift store, not a dumpster, but after wearing it most days for the last three years he figured that was probably where it belonged. He glanced back along the edge of the man’s shirt, still wet and red. What a waste.
The human followed his gaze and his brow shot up. “I’m not bleeding anymore, right?” He pressed his fingertips to his neck so firmly he seemed to be checking his pulse.
Vincent reached for him on instinct. “Careful!” He pulled back almost as fast, cringing. “The new skin’s still delicate there.”
The human whistled. “But you healed it? Just like that?” He continued to touch the spot. “Is that why I haven’t had much of a mark?”
Vincent swallowed, looking away from the man’s fingers—from the way he was so perfectly highlighting his neck while still covered in his own delicious blood. Vincent really needed to work through whatever the hell had gotten into him before this became his personal fantasy for the next month. He swallowed yet again and managed to say something that sounded an awful lot like, “I’m not hereeverynight,” except it definitely came from the mouth of someone quite a lot less stable and far more breathless than him.
The man’s lips quirked. “Seeing other humans, are you?”
Vincent wanted to die. If someone could come stake him right there, he’d probably saythank youandhave a nice dayafter. Though, who was he kidding, that would be his response no matter what. At least politely depressed vampires weren’t also a stereotype. “I should really just—”
“I’m Wesley. Or Wes.” The human held his hand out, fingers still crimson from where he’d initially touched his bleeding neck bites.
Vincent stared at Wesley’s elbow, trying to look somewhere on his body not currently covered in an aromatic delicacy. He swallowed. Again. “You have blood on that hand.”
Wesley pulled the arm back. “Oh shit, is that a vampire faux pas or something?”
Vincent couldn’t find a courteous way to sayno it just makes me want to suck on your fingersso he opted for, “I’m Vincent.”
Wesley grinned and nodded, his curls bobbing lazily around his ears. “No way. There was a kid whose family lived down the street from here in elementary named Vincent; we used to call him Vinny the Vampire because he was always lurking behind the curtains and wouldn’t hang with us.” The smile faded, but it turned into something almost brighter, a wide exuberant thing that seemed to shine out of him. “Oh fuck.” He cackled. “Vinny Barnes? Is thatyou?”
Vincent fought not to give into the dread coiling in his gut at the thought of this human—this breathtaking, larger than life human he could now vaguely recall as an annoying, larger than life child—remembering him so shy and miserable. “Barnes, yeah. No one’s called me Vinny in years.”
Not since his parents had told him he had an hour to collect his things. They were adamant that he wouldn’t burden them with this, not after all the complaining he’d done growing up, all the sick days he’d made one of them take off to watch him mope on the couch when he wasn’t even ill to begin with. This was the last straw, they’d said; he was an adult now, and if he couldn’t make his way on his own then he didn’t deserve the life they’d toiled to give him.
Except he didn’t think they’d used his nickname for that lecture, either. One of his sisters, maybe, in the couple scattered phone calls he’d exchanged with them before their reprimanding pity had grown too much to bear. That had still been three years ago, at least.
Wes kept watching him, his gaze sharpening. “But you weren’t actually a vampirethen? You were just a kid.”
