Midnight Bites (44 page)

The living room was profoundly silent after that, and Michael's vampire senses—on high alert—heard every click of the clock on the wall, the low hum of electronics, the heartbeats of his friends, the subtle whisper of their breathing.

“Sit,” Rozhkov said again, staring up at Eve.

She did.

Michael shivered from the barely controllable impulse to rush forward. He felt the displacement of air like needles on his skin as Shane stepped off to his left, out of the way, ready to make a move when needed. He felt immersed in his senses in a way he rarely did, an entirely vampiric dimension of the world that
hurt
; it pressed on him in so many intimate ways.

“You know,” Rozhkov said—not to Eve, but suddenly to Michael, driving it home with a shift of his focus—“you would not feel so
discomforted if you didn't keep the world pushed so far away. You fight what you are, and it makes you weak, Michael. We all know that. All except you, perhaps.” He laughed a little. It sounded sad, but it had the flash of fangs behind it. Rozhkov was disconcertingly contradictory. He shifted back to Eve. He hadn't tried to touch her, which was good; Michael wasn't at all sure he could hold back if that happened. “Your great-grandmother, we were speaking of her. Ulyana. I knew her.”

“You kidnapped a lady and threatened to kill her so you could ramble on about old dead people?” Eve asked. “Get help.”

Rozhkov's faint smile disappeared, and there was something about his face that seemed like all the life had drained out of it—a corpse's face, except for the living fire in his blue eyes. “Careful,” he whispered. “Your blood only takes you so far.”

Eve had a finely tuned sense of danger, thankfully, and she shut up and went still. Michael met her gaze and held it steady.
I've got you,
he told her.
You're safe.

Her faint smile said,
I know.

“What do you mean, her blood?” Claire had been very quiet, but now she spoke up, and Michael sensed her moving forward on his right. “What do you want with Eve? Or rather,
from
Eve?”

“Clever girl,” Rozhkov said. “I'd heard as much about you. It's gratifying to know that gossip can convey truth, occasionally. I'd heard much of the four of you. It seems it's all true.”

“Answer the question,” Shane said.

Rozhkov made a motion that wasn't quite a shrug, wasn't quite a headshake. It was something that came from some earlier time, and a distant land, and it had the feeling of disinterest to it. “There is power in some bloodlines; even you untutored children must know that. Power handed down, life to life, generation to generation. Yes?”

“I'm not some witch,” Eve said. “I might wear the look, but—”

“Not witchcraft,” he said. “But your blood holds a secret that you do not know, and cannot use. I can.” He turned toward Eve, and Michael took a step forward, fists clenching in a sudden rush of dread and fury . . . but the other vampire only touched her hand very gently, with fingertips as pale as snow. Traced the blue lines of veins in her wrist. “Therefore I ask that you donate your blood to me.”

“Wait, back up,” Eve said.
“What?”

“You give blood, as part of your taxes in Morganville, do you not?”

“Well . . . yeah . . .”

“Then I only ask you to give it to me.”

Michael's urge to hit the man was only getting more pressing. Asking for Eve's blood was personal.
Way
too personal. In vampire terms, it was like sex, and he was doing it
in front of her vampire husband
. He knew Shane and Claire might not get the distinction, but he knew Eve did.

She pulled her hand back and folded it into a fist. “I'm spoken for, in case you hadn't gotten the memo.”

Rozhkov studied her for a moment, then nodded and sat back. He seemed different now. Thoughtful. “I suppose I must tell you the truth, then,” he said. “I am ill, you see. You may ask Glass if you wish confirmation of it.”

Michael unwillingly nodded.

“It is an affliction that strikes old vampires, sometimes. We . . . begin to lose our essence, which is diluted by so much borrowed blood in our veins. We lose touch with who we were, and when that happens, we lose . . . too much. So from time to time, the oldest of us must find one who shares that blood with us, to remind us of who we are.”

Claire, of course, worked it out first. “Wait. You mean you're
related
to Eve?”

“Distantly, through many, many generations,” Rozhkov said. “Your great-grandmother Ulyana granted me this favor, once. I only need a single small amount from you. Just enough to reconstruct my own—what do you call it, the chains of life?”

“DNA,” Claire said. “You need Eve's blood to fix your broken DNA?”

“I suppose that is as good an explanation as any,” he said. “So yes. I could take it by force, of course, but I would prefer not. You are, after all, family.”

Eve stared at him, a frown deepening between her brows. “Family,” she repeated. “Yeah, that's rich. I kind of loathed my family, you know.”

“All families are full of good and bad. But I ask you, for blood's sake, to do me this favor. This honor.” He met Michael's eyes once more. “I ask that it be allowed, just once. I take no more than a taste.”

“It's Eve's decision,” Michael said. He wanted to make it for her, but he knew how she'd take that, and he also knew, deep down, that she'd be right to be angry. “Ask her, not me.”

“I have,” Rozhkov said. He returned that unsettling stare to Eve's face.

She didn't meet it. She was looking down at her hands. “I don't know you,” she said. “All I know is that you're desperate enough, or cruel enough, that you'd threaten the life of an innocent person just to get my attention. If it's desperation, then maybe I should do this, or you'll do worse. If it's the other thing . . .”

“I
am
cruel,” Rozhkov admitted. “I am old. Not as old or as powerful as Amelie is, true, but I know the world in old ways.” He gave her a sudden, strangely sweet smile. “One would also say I have learned this
new
world, because I did not resort to violence.”

“Yet,” Shane said.

“Yet, yes.” Rozhkov's gaze remained steady on Eve. “I do not beg. If you tell me no, I will go. Perhaps I will sicken. Perhaps I will do terrible things as my senses twist in on me. I do not know, as I have never let my—debility grow so strong. But is your decision, as Michael said.”

Eve's shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. “Hell.” She suddenly lifted her wrist and held it out to him, and her eyes squeezed tightly shut in anticipation. Her whole body was clenched, rebelling against the decision, and Michael knew he looked just the same—
felt
just the same. He wanted, with every cell of his being, to pull her away from Rozhkov, get her safe from him . . . and it took every single ounce of will he possessed to hold still as the other vampire raised Eve's arm, then parted his lips, and the fangs came out.

“Mike?” Shane's voice was sharp with tension, and his friend was practically vibrating with eagerness to get into it. Claire was quiet, but she was looking at him, too, from the other side. If he lost it, they'd go with him.

It's Eve's decision. Eve's decision.
The mantra beat in his temples like a hammer, loud and just as painful, and he almost lost control as he saw the pain sheet across her expression as Rozhkov bit down.
No no no no no . . .

And then it was over. He was true to his word. A single quiet mouthful, and then Rozhkov pressed a pale hand over the wound, sealing it. Eve pulled free and clamped her own hand over the bite mark. It wouldn't bleed much, Michael knew. Part of the vampire's bite was a healing agent that flooded the wound as the fangs withdrew. He smelled the blood, but not for long.

Rozhkov closed his blue eyes and slumped against the cushions of the sofa. The relief on his face was as intense as suffering. “Thank you,
devushka
. I am in your debt. In return, I will make you a promise.
Never will I threaten you or those near you again. And should you need me, you may call upon me for a favor, yes?”

He got up and walked toward the door, but Shane stood in his way. From the hard set of his face and ready stance, he was still ready to fight if he had to.

“Shane,” Eve said faintly. “Let him go.”

Michael nodded. Shane didn't like it, but he backed off.

“An excellent decision,” Rozhkov said, as he walked down the hall—silent on the hardwood floor. “One must trust family.”

Michael felt the other vampire's presence fade into the night outside, and let himself finally relax. “What do you know? We didn't have to fight anybody,” he said. “Interesting.”

“I'm just a little bit disappointed,” Shane said, and made a space of about an inch between two fingers. Claire walked over to him and compressed the space to a minuscule amount. “Okay. Maybe not so much.”

As Shane put his arm around his girl, Michael went to Eve and extended her a hand. She looked up at him, then let him pull her to her feet and into a hug.

“Did I do the right thing?” she whispered to him. The heat of her breath, her body, was like summer against him, a whole beautiful season made manifest.

“I don't know,” he said. “I hope so.”

He kissed her, and the kiss held, sweetened, and when their lips gently parted, she said, “So. Now you've met my family. What do you think?”

He laughed. “I think everybody's got embarrassing crazy uncles,
devushka
.”

“What does that even mean?”

“No idea.” He dropped his voice to an intimate whisper against her ear. “But it sounds as sexy as you.”

“Shhh!” She was blushing under the Goth makeup now, and he felt the heat curl up from her skin in invisible, sweet tendrils. “Somebody should tell the Lockharts that they're safe. And we should, ah, go home. Right?”

He liked the plan.

•   •   •

In the coming days, they forgot about Rozhkov; he didn't return, didn't so much as show up in the distance, and whatever he was doing seemed far away and very much not their problem. Eve's wrist healed without even a hint of a scar. Life went on, turbulent and calm in spurts.

Michael had never slept soundly since becoming a vampire—too aware of the world around him—but he'd learned to lie still and savor the warmth of Eve next to him as she murmured and dreamed. It was a kind of comfort and peace that he'd never really understood, until he had it.

So he was instantly aware when it started to change.

The first time, it was minor; Eve stirred, murmured something, and sat up in bed. He sat up, too, thinking she'd heard something, but her heartbeat was the same slow, steady rhythm, and though her eyes were open, they were dark and sightless, staring into dreams.

“Eve?” he asked her. She didn't respond. He watched her, worried, but after a long few seconds, she drifted back down to the pillow, rolled on her side, and was instantly still and quiet again, still breathing softly and regularly.

She'd never woken up.

The next night, she got out of bed. She didn't walk; she just stood, staring at the wall blankly, and then, with the slowness of dreams, climbed back into bed and snuggled up tight against him. He folded
his arms tight around her, holding her safe. The next morning he asked if she knew she'd gotten up; she didn't remember.

“Guess I'm a sleepwalker,” she said, and flashed him a carefree smile.

He smiled back, but didn't feel it. It worried him. Eve had always been a sound, peaceful sleeper before—and the blank distance in her when she'd risen had seemed wrong. Very wrong.

The next night, she rose and walked to the window. She tried to open it, but the latch was stiff with age, and after a few tries, she came back to bed.

Michael got up and went to look outside. He saw a dark shape in the shadows by the trees in the yard, but it was gone before he could even begin to identify who it was.

The next night, Eve tried to kill him.

She rose at three in the morning, wandered toward the bedroom door, and went out into the hallway. If she fell down the stairs . . . He followed after her, hovering and unsure whether he ought to try to wake her up, and as she turned, he realized she was holding the silver knife she kept under the bed. Her movements up to that point had been slow and dreamy, but the knife slashed at him with deadly purpose and speed, though the blank, black distance in her eyes never changed.

If he hadn't been gifted with vampire speed, he would have been gutted. He closed with her after avoiding the slash, gripped her hand, and took the knife away. “Eve?
Eve!
” He shook her, hard, but she didn't wake up. She didn't resist.

When he let go, she drifted back into the bedroom, got in bed, and went promptly back to sleep, leaving him with the cold knife in his hand.

God.

Something was wrong. Very, very wrong. And the next morning, she remembered none of it. What if she'd gone to Claire's room? Or Shane's? What would she have done?

He had to find out. Quickly.

•   •   •

Amelie refused to see him. She was, according to her assistant, very busy, and unavailable for the foreseeable future. Michael had the strong, and unsettling, feeling that she'd put him on the no-admittance list to emphasize how deeply angry she still was about his refusal to push Eve away. She'd allowed the wedding, but that didn't mean she was pleased about it.

Oliver, on the other hand, was right where Michael expected to find him: behind the bar at Common Grounds, pulling espresso shots for an impatient, texting college student who obviously had not the slightest idea he was disrespecting one of the oldest, most dangerous vampires in the world. Oliver appeared to shrug it off, but there was a chill light in his eyes that made Michael wonder about that student's future longevity.