Midnight Bites (25 page)

He gave me the full, devastating smile, and leaned across the
counter to kiss me. His lips were cool and sweet and softer than they had any right to be, but he was gone before I could really savor it.

He'd left $4.50 on the counter—his way of saying that I should have a drink myself. Which I did, making it extra sweet and extra strong, like him.

It was only as I was sipping the drink that I realized Gloriana was staring at the door through which Michael had gone. She finally leaned over and pecked Oliver on both cheeks in a European sort of farewell, and took her cup of O to go . . . following Michael.

I didn't like that.

At all.

•   •   •

One o'clock crawled slowly toward me, to the point where I checked the coffee shop's clock against my cell phone
and
my watch, just to be sure. When the hand finally dragged itself to twelve forty-five, I stripped off my apron and chirped to Oliver, “Lunch!”

“Don't you have time to make up?” he asked, not looking away from the cash he was counting for the bank bag.

“Yeah, I'll stay late.”

“I'd rather you worked through lunch.”

“Sorry, slavery's gone out of fashion,” I said, and hung up my apron on the old coat-tree at the end of the counter. “Gotta run.”

He grunted and waved his hand. I retrieved my purse from the locker and dashed out.

It wasn't a long walk home, but it was unexpectedly chilly; rain clouds were rolling in, dark and ominous, and the wind had kicked up. It blew sand and broken bits of grass across the roads, rippled the leaves on the trees, and generally made walking less fun than usual. I was happy to turn down Lot Street and see my big, shiny black hearse parked at the curb. Death's party bus. Holla.

I couldn't wait, and broke into a jog up the walk, up the steps, across the porch, and unlocked the front door as fast as I could.
Yes!
I slammed the door and threw my stuff on the hall table; Michael's keys were already there, in the candy dish. My heartbeat sped up even faster. “Let's get the party started!” I called, and walked down the narrow hallway toward the living room.

On the way there, I passed the formal parlor room, which was basically a furniture museum; we never sat in there. Except this time I registered people in there as I passed. I stopped, backed up, and found Michael sitting in the big red velvet wing chair.

Gloriana
was sitting on the settee, her to-go cup on the marble coffee table. She had her legs crossed, and seemed
very
comfortable.

In my house.

With my boyfriend.

“Michael?” I asked. He stood up, looking guilty and nervous, which was new for him. “What's going on?”

“Uh . . . this is Gloriana.”

“I know who she is. I told
you
who she was.”

“Eve,” Gloriana said, all warmth and sweetness and apology. “I only wanted to meet Michael, as he's Amelie's newest child. I am a curious creature, I know. I mean nothing by it.”

“Eve, chill,” Michael said. “She just came over to say hello.”

“I see.” My voice sounded flat and pissed, even to my own ears. “That's great. Now she can just say good-bye, too.”

“I meant no offense, most surely. Here, I'll be going.” Gloriana stood up and extended her hand to Michael, knuckles turned up. “It was charming to meet you, Michael Glass.”

He took her hand and looked briefly confused about what to do, then lifted it very formally to his lips and kissed her knuckles. Not
kissed
kissed, more of a brush of his lips, but it still made me feel light-
headed and sick inside. “Welcome to Morganville,” he said. “Hope to see you around.”

“Oh, I'm sure you will,” Gloriana laughed. “After all, the sign says
You'll never want to leave
—isn't that true? I already find much to like about Morganville.” She flicked those green eyes toward me. “Eve. Thank you for your hospitality.”

“Yeah. Don't forget to take your blood with you.”

Michael gave me a look. I gave him one right back. While we were doing the silent stare thing, Gloriana retrieved her cup and headed for the door. Michael moved past me to open it for her, and handed her a big, floppy black coat and hat to throw on. “There's an entrance to the underground a block down,” he said. “Look for the glyph. You can bring the coat and hat back later.”

“Thank you,” she said, and swaddled herself up in the sun-defying garb. She looked like a waif playing dress-up. “You are so kind, Michael.” She pronounced it French, like
Meeshell
. “I will return the kindness soon.”

He watched her go. I watched him watch her go, and then he shut the door, locked it, and without looking at me said, “So, just how mad are you?”

Without a word, I turned and walked down the hall, into the kitchen, and poured myself a glass of water. I wasn't thirsty, but there was a burning pain in my throat, and besides, it gave me something to do with my shaking hands.

I heard the door open as Michael followed me in. “Seriously,” he said. “Eve, I was just being friendly. She's new in town.”

“Oh, so the hand-kissing, that's just being friendly? I never see you doing it to Oliver.”

“A lot of these older vamp women, it's what they expect. They don't shake hands, Eve.”

“Well, they need to bring their undead asses into the twenty-first century, then, because hand-kissing went out with the guillotine, didn't it? And since when do you do what's
expected
, anyway?”

Michael shook his head and leaned back against the counter. “It's not like that.”

“Like
what
?”

“Like I want to take her to bed, which is what you're thinking, Eve.”

I couldn't believe he'd gone and said that right out loud, even if I
was
thinking it. Not in such polite terms, though. “Then what's it like?”

“Like I'm . . . curious. Look, she's friendly, not like a lot of the others. I can ask her things, about being . . .” There was more color in his cheeks than normal; that was the closest a vampire could come to blushing. “About being what I am.”

“What kind of things?” I demanded.

Michael met my eyes. “Like how likely I am to lose control and hurt somebody close to me. That kind of thing. Especially when I'm hungry and we're together.”

Oh.
That hurt, in all kinds of unexpected ways; these were personal things, and it wasn't just personal for him.
I
was the one who'd drawn the line with him, who'd said I was never, ever going to let him bite me, especially not that way. And it wasn't something we talked about, not ever. Especially not with third parties who might be named Sexy Hell Kitten. “And you thought it was okay to discuss all this with a vamp you met, like, thirty seconds ago.”

“We've been talking for an hour, Eve. It wasn't like it was the first thing out of my mouth.”

I swallowed. “Did you kiss her?”

“Eve!”

“Did you?”

“Jesus, of course not.”

“Did you want to?”

Michael just looked at me for a few, fatal seconds, then said, “She's got that effect on guys, so, yeah, I guess I thought about it. But I didn't do it.”

That didn't make me feel any better. Gloriana would be back. At the very least, she'd return the hat and coat, and if I wasn't here, he'd get all cozy with her again, and . . . things could happen. It wasn't that I didn't trust Michael—I did, I really did—but . . . she wasn't just any random chick. She hadn't stopped in just to pay a social call; Gloriana was hunting.

She was stalking my boyfriend.

“Over my dead body,” I murmured. Michael looked startled. “Sorry. Talking to myself.”

He sighed, straightened up, and crossed to stand right in front of me. He took the water glass out of my hand and put it carefully on the counter, then leaned in and kissed me, sweet and hot and hard. He braced himself with his hands on either side of me on the counter, and
damn
, the white fire of that just about wiped out anything else I had on my mind, including Gloriana's sly, sweet smile, or the way Michael had looked after her when she'd gone.

He was mine.
Mine.

His hands left the counter and stroked through my hair, down the column of my neck, spread out on my shoulders. My top was stretchy enough to slide down my arms under the pressure of his palms, and I shivered as cool air hit my skin.

Michael picked me up in his arms like I was a bag of air, and for a
long second he looked down at my face. His expression left me breathless. “You know I love you,” he said. “You know that, don't you?”

“I know,” I said. “But I know that can change.”

“Never,” he said, and kissed me again. “Never.”

And for a little while, as he carried me upstairs to his room, I believed that would actually be true.

Always.

Even though I felt the tangle of frustration in him when his teeth grazed my neck, and he didn't bite.

•   •   •

I didn't hear about Gloriana for three days, until Michael told me there was going to be a big to-do in Founder's Square on Friday night to welcome the newest arrival. He had an invitation, of course; all the vampires got them. Some humans did, too, including our bookworm housemate, Claire . . . who, not surprisingly, decided that our
other
housemate, Shane, would be her plus-one to the party. I was kind of shocked that Claire decided to go, though; she wasn't generally the dressed-up party type (or the dressed-down party type, come to that).

I was sorry I asked when I finally did.

“Oh, I met her,” Claire said, as we were doing laundry in the basement of the Glass House. She was sitting on the dryer this time while I dumped dirties into the washer; as usual, she was reading, this time one of Charlaine Harris's vampire books. She probably considered it research. “Gloriana, I mean. She seems nice.”

Nice?
I almost dropped the laundry detergent on my toes, which wouldn't have been as much of an owie as you might think, since my boots are steel-toed. “How'd you run into her?”

“She visited Myrnin.”

That
was strange, because Amelie was really damn serious that nobody, but nobody, visited Myrnin; those of us who knew Claire's
boss at all had sworn under pain of actual, bloody death not to talk about him, ever, to anybody not in the know. Gloriana just strolling into the equivalent of a highly secure facility seemed . . . unlikely.

Except that I'd met her, too. Gloriana seemed like she could charm her way into Fort Knox, and the guards would stand in line to help her carry out the gold. “How'd they get along?” I asked.

“Oh, he was all suave,” Claire said, and nearly giggled. “He actually ran off and got dressed up for her. It was cute. Well, I can understand why. She's pretty . . . pretty. They know each other, from olden times. Maybe he dated her once.”

“Maybe,” I said. Weirder things had happened. “So, you liked her?”

Claire turned her head and looked at me; she'd gotten her shoulder-length hair cut again, shorter, but it was messy from the wind outside. Still cute, though. Her big, brown eyes were way too smart for either of our good. “You didn't?”

I hadn't told her about Gloriana's visit to the house. I wasn't sure why; I usually come right out with my latest drama, but this had felt . . . more dire than usual. And really personal. Now I just shook my head and focused on adding detergent in the right amounts for the colored clothes. Although I was tempted to bleach the hell out of Michael's stuff. “You ever have that happen where you meet someone and just—clash? We were like a gravel and cream sandwich.”

“That is the weirdest thing you've ever said. I suppose you were the cream?”

“Of course I was the cream. Sha.”

Trust Claire to not get distracted. “Something happened with her and Michael,” she said. Wow. Zero to correct in one-point-nothing second. “Right?”

“Do you really think I'm that shallow that—okay, yes. She came over here. I found the two of them together.”

Her eyes widened, and she slipped down off the dryer. “Seriously,
together
? Like—”

“No, not like. Tea in the parlor, or the vampy equivalent. You know. Sitting, talking.” I frowned. “But it was way too nice. And besides, here, he's
mine
. You know?”

Claire nodded, not that it made the least bit of sense. She's a good friend. “Did you talk to him about it?”

“Oh, sure. Nothing happened, yada yada. The usual. But my maydar went off like crazy.”

“Maydar?”

“As in, he
may
be thinking about superhot sex with her. Like radar, only not as sure.”

Claire rolled her eyes. “Did you
ask
?”

“Yes,” I said. “I asked.”

“And?”

“And he took me to bed.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” I frowned unhappily down at the clothes, slammed the lid, and turned on the washer. “Oh. Exactly.”

“Exactly what?”

That was Michael, standing at the top of the basement steps. Claire and I did the guilty dance. She dropped her book, and hurriedly picked it up. “Nothing,” I blurted. My cheeks felt warm, and I was glad I was in shadow until I remembered, duh, vampire eyes. “Girl talk.”

He nodded, looking at me with a little sadness in his gaze, I thought. “Just wanted to remind you that we're out of milk again. And hot sauce.”

“Why are those two always out at the same time? Because those do
not
go together.”

“I suspect Shane. He'd put hot sauce in anything,” Michael said.

“Ugh,” Claire sighed. “So true.” Michael didn't leave, and after a second, Claire cleared her throat, closed up her book, and said, “Yeah, I've got something to do. Upstairs. Away from here.”