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I pursed my lips. “I’m still saying twenty-five thousand.”
“Which means you never quite learned how negotiating works.”
It was a struggle, tensing my lips enough to avoid smirking. “How badly do you want to get off that floor, Mr. Calix?”
He grumbled. “Done.”
“One week,” I said as I knelt in front of him, my voice firmer than I would have thought possible under the circumstances. “That means seven nights. Not seven days and eight nights. Not seven and a half nights. Seven nights.”
“Done.”
“Excellent.” I gave him my sunniest “professional” smile and offered my hand for a shake.
“Don’t push it,” he muttered, closing his eyes.
I sighed, pulling my cell phone out of my bag to call Gigi. I wasn’t going to make that booster meeting, after all.
2
The first rule of caring for a stray vampire: Don’t tell anyone you’re taking care of a stray vampire.
—The Care and Feeding of Stray Vampires
The moment I started dialing the phone, his hand snaked out and smacked it away. My precious BlackBerry shattered against the kitchen wall into splinters of black plastic. I shrieked indignantly, my mouth agape as I watched the shards tinkle to the ground.
He killed my phone. He ruthlessly murdered my phone! Mother … fudger.
My phone was my lifeline, my tether to my clients. It was what kept me available for their needs, their wants, each and every whim. I never ignored a call. Ever. If I wasn’t able to answer, hair-trigger frustration and undead diva temperaments could lead to lost business. Lost business meant lost income, and lost income meant … I fought the rising panic clawing at my throat.>What had I tripped over? I pushed myself to my feet, stumbled over to the fridge, and yanked the door open. The interior light clicked on, illuminating the body stretched across the floor.
Shrieking, I scrambled back against the fridge, my dress shoes skittering uselessly against the tile. I couldn’t seem to swallow the lump of panic hardening in my throat, keeping me from drawing a breath.
His shirtless torso was well built, long limbs strung with thick cords of muscle. Dark waves of hair sprang over his forehead in inky profusion. The face would have been beautiful if it hadn’t been covered in dried blood. A straight nose, high cheekbones, and full, generous lips that bowed slightly. He had that whole Michelangelo’s David thing going—if David had been an upsetting religious figurine that wept blood.
A half-empty donor packet of O positive lay splattered against the floor, which explained the rusty-looking dried splotches on his face. Had he been drinking it when he … passed out?
Vampires didn’t pass out. And most of them could sense when to get somewhere safe well before the sun rose. They didn’t get caught off guard and collapse wherever they were at dawn. What the hell was going on here?
I eyed my shoulder bag, flung across the room when I’d fallen on my face. Breathing steadily, I resolved that I’d call Ophelia at the local World Council for the Equal Treatment of the Undead office and leave her a message. She would know what to do. And I could get the hell out of there before the hungry, ill vampire rose for the night and made me his breakfast.
I reached over him, aiming my arm away from his mouth. A strong hand clamped around my wrist. I am ashamed to say that I screamed like a little girl. I heard the telltale snick of fangs descending and panicked, yanking and struggling against a relentless vise grip. A tug-of-war ensued for control of the arm that he was pulling toward his chapped, bloodied lips. He tried to lunge for me, but the effort cost him, and his head thunked back to the floor with a heavy thud.
With my hand hovering precariously over his gaping, hungry mouth, I did the only thing I could think of—I poked him in the eye.
“Ow,” he said, dully registering pain as I jabbed my index finger against his eyelid. The other eye popped open, the long, sooty lashes fluttering. It was a deep, rich coffee color, the iris ringed in black.
“Ow!” he repeated indignantly, as if the sensation of the eye-poke was just breaking through his stupor.
With him distracted, I gave one final yank and broke free, holding my hand to my chest as I retreated against the fridge. I took another donor packet from the shelf. I popped it open and held it carefully to his lips, figuring that he wouldn’t care that it wasn’t heated to body temperature. He shook his head faintly, wheezing. “Bad blood.”
I checked the expiration date and offered it to him again. “No, it’s fine.”
His dry lips nearly cracked as they formed the words, “Poisoned … stupid.”
“OK … jerk,” I shot back.
The faintest flicker of amusement passed over his even features. “Need clean supply,” he whispered.
“Well, I’m not giving you mine,” I said, shrinking away from him. “I don’t do that.”
