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I loved that I was able to spring up and catch Norm’s pudgy form before he was a smear on the parking lot. I did not love the look on Whitesnake’s face as he came storming out of the bar.
“Run!” I hissed as Whitesnake advanced. Norm, obviously accustomed to this occupational hazard, scurried to his nearby car, found his magnetic Hide-A-Key, and pulled away in less time than it takes to say “Gratuity included.”
I turned my attention back to my face-rearranging buddy, who was seconds from slamming me like a rag doll into the hood of an old Mustang. Let me tell you, solid American engineering hurts. My legs flailed as I thumped back against the hood, landing a lucky kick to the side of his head. He flinched, letting me land another one, planting the toe of my canvas sneaker in his ear. It also gave me time to shove the heel of my hand under his chin, not to hurt him but to direct his breath away from me. How could someone who didn’t eat or, for that matter, need to breathe have breath that smelled like expired Parmesan cheese?
The breath, combined with chapped lips and eyes that were “I just ate special brownies” red, added up to someone I didn’t want hovering close to my nose. I gave Whitesnake another quick punch to the mouth, his teeth scraping deep across my knuckles.
I must have hit him hard, because one of his canines clacked to the ground.
I quickly surmised that fangs are the one thing we didn’t grow back, because he was really, really pissed about it. I barely got out an “Oh, cr,” before I was splayed over the hood, gaining intimate personal knowledge of the hood ornament in a manner I’d rather not discuss again.
With the pummeling, my head snapped back, and I caught a glimpse of Andrea dozing blissfully in the front seat.
“A fat lot of help you are!” I yelled just before Mr. Whitesnake took this lapse of concentration as an opportunity to try to crush my skull with his bare hands.
The popping noise my cranium made was something that would make my skin crawl for the rest of my long, long life. I made an embarrassing girlie squeal as I tried to pry his fingers away from my scalp. Having exhausted my limited fighting skills, I resorted to the one thing that always worked in elementary school.
I kicked Whitesnake in the nuts.
And I was thrilled to find that it worked on men both dead and alive. He crumpled to the ground, howling. I sat up, postponing running and screaming long enough to let my skull knit back together.
A bemused voice sounded from behind the car. “OK, honey, I don’t care what he’s done to you, you just don’t kick a man in his goods. It’s just not done.”
9
Try to avoid conflicts with other vampires until you can gauge their strength and control your own.
—From The Guide for the Newly Undead
The lager drinker had emerged from the bar to watch me get my ass kicked. How gallant.
“I’ll keep that in mind while I’m having my panties surgically removed,” I griped after snapping my jaw back into its socket.
I followed the sound of his laugh, focusing somewhat bleary eyes on the source of that smoky, smirky voice. It was one of those roguishly handsome faces, the ones that usually got me to do their homework in high school. Deep-set seawater-green eyes, high cheekbones, and a long patrician nose that had obviously been broken at some point. He was in his mid-thirties when he was turned, but the smile and the crinkles around his eyes gave him an impish quality. He was the first vampire I ’d met whose smile actually reached his eyes. And he was the only one I’d met who wasn’t wearing leather in some form.
“Jane Jameson.”
He grinned. “Like the porn star.”
I gaped at him. “What? No, Jane Jameson.”
“Oh, not as fun,” he said, making disappointed clucking noises. He grinned and stretched out a long -fingered hand. “I’m Rich—”
The introduction was interrupted when my now-recovered opponent sprang up from the ground and lunged for my throat. I stepped out of the way as “Rich” caught the guy by his collar and jerked him back into a sleeper hold.
“Now, that’s not very nice, Walter,” Rich said, folding Whitesnake’s arm into a painful origami formation. I could hear the bone creak toward breaking.
“That bitch broke my fang!” yelped Whitesnake, whose mystique was somewhat shattered by being named Walter.
“That’s no way to talk to a lady. Now, say you’re sorry,” Rich said, the mock patience in his voice in direct contrast to the snap-crackle-pop of Walter’s ulna.
“Gah!” Walter yelled, which was not the response Rich was expecting, judging from the way he jerked Walter’s arm up. I’d never heard a bone break before. It was an experience I ’d rather not repeat. Blech. I’d also rather not repeat what Walter screamed at Rich, which would guarantee me box seats in hell, as Aunt Jettie would say.
“That’s no way to talk to me, Walter,” Rich said, grabbing Walter by the scruff of his neck as the broken limb dangled.
“You’ve been warned about robbing the Cellar. Norm’s been given permission to dust your hide with silver shot. He just doesn’t have the heart to do it, ’cause you don’t have the sense to duck.”
I protested that all this bone-breaking wasn’t necessary. I was fine, no harm done. And thanks to Walter, I was more than alert enough to drive home safely. Walter called me some very creative names and repeated his anatomically impossible instructions to Rich. Rich paused and watched Walter’s arm set itself, then he wrenched it again.
