“So do you remember me?”
He stood, close enough for me to appreciate the warm amber notes of the cologne he wore. I pulled back, but he used the instability of my momentum to pull me near. His lips were so close to my temple I could almost feel the soft brush of his beard against my skin. “Please, remember me.”
A rush of images flooded my brain. Hands sliding up my throat to cradle my head. Cheap, thin motel sheets stained with tiny specks of blood. Lips at my ear, whispering that it was all right to be afraid. That this part was always difficult, but when I woke up, I would be like him, strong and beautiful.
Cool, strong hands curled around my elbows, catching me before my knees buckled under me. I surfaced from the strange memory fog and found Mr. Gentleman staring down at me, his lips quirked into an amused smirk.
Holy hell. No wonder he seemed so familiar. This guy was my sire.
8
Be careful of the connections and friendships you form in the world of the undead. Just as when you were living, you want to be careful of the influences you allow around your children.
—My Mommy Has Fangs: A Guide to Post-Vampiric Parenting
He was real. The man from my dreams, the matinee idol with the warm eyes and the naughty smile. He was standing right in front of me. He was real.
I remembered more and more, even as a thrill fluttered through my belly, hot and fast. I remembered his long, muscled arms winding around me, cradling me gently against his chest. I remembered him distracting me with stories—stories of his near-idyllic childhood in Cleveland in the 1950s and the Ocean’s Eleven–style heist gone awry that led to his being turned, along with his best friend, Max. It had taken the pair almost thirty years and several schemes before they paid off the debt to their vampire “creditor.” Someday, he promised, he would introduce me to Max, who he was sure would love me before he even met me.
My sire was every bit as physically imposing and, well, devilishly sexy as my dying brain had imagined. But he’d also been oddly considerate, comforting almost, in a way I hadn’t expected. He’d honestly tried to make my transition as painless as possible. It wasn’t his fault there was no such thing as a painless vampire birth.
My sire clasped my hands before sliding his own up both my arms.
“Well, you turned out just as I’d hoped,” he purred. “A simply divine creature.
“I’m sorry I missed your transition. Mrs. Nightengale made it very clear what would happen to me if I came anywhere near you. But I think I’ve given her warnings a respectable amount of consideration and am now going to ignore them.”
“Well . . . I have questions.”
He grinned, even as I pulled my arms out of his grasp and stepped back. “I knew you would.”
I began counting the queries on my fingertips. “One, what the hell do you think you’re doing here? Two, who the hell are you? Three, how did you find my house? Four, are you aware that the Council told me never, ever to talk to you? And five, just to reiterate, who the hell are you?”
“Do you want my name or some deep philosophical explanation of who we really are on the inside?” he asked, his breath feathering across my neck as he circled me. It took all of my strength not to shudder under that whisper of sensation over my skin. “We’re so much more than our names, aren’t we?”
Even though I was ninety percent sure he’d stolen that line from a postmodern Dracula remake, I couldn’t help but duck my head as he rounded me like a predator. And when he smirked, I wanted to lick that little divot over his lips.
Seriously, I was going to have to have sex soon, or I would be making some very unfortunate decisions.
“You, sir, are the devil in a Sunday suit,” I told him.
He spluttered. “What?”
“The very picture of charm, drawing me in, lulling all those natural alarms that go off when a woman hears a line of bull.”
“I don’t think I should be flattered, and yet, somehow, I am.” He stared at me for a long time, and the tension seemed to ease from his frame.
“So what can I do for you . . . ?” I asked. “There was a pause there, which was a chance for you to tell me your name.”
“Finn Palmeroy,” he said, reaching out to shake my hand. Given the whole wanna-lick-the-upper-lip-divot reaction, I didn’t trust myself to touch him. So I gave him a nod—a friendly nod but a nod. He handled this miniature snub with grace. Hell, he looked pleased.
“I guess you already know my name, given that you tracked me down like a deer.”
“Yes, Libby, I know a little about you but not much. I checked your driver’s license before I buried you at the park.”