12

"If you think you can hurt my people and get away with it," Michelle says tightly, "you are sadly mistaken."

She sounds so noble, like the hero of an action movie. I pick up Jacob's shock of indignation, and throw him a little grin before he can speak: lemme handle this. He catches my meaning and doesn't cut loose whatever rant he's got building. Good. It won't do any good to get angry. That's playing the game her way. We don't have to do that now, because she just fucked up. She moved it off the social battlefield and onto the physical one. Oh, Michelle, you funny funny girl.

I look back to her, ignoring the gun, though I keep a peripheral eye on her trigger finger. It's relaxed at the moment. If I see that knuckle tighten, Shit Happens. I do hope I can keep it from being serious shit, though. I'd hate to have to write off St. Louis.

"I was just playing," I tell her innocently. "That's how I play. You know that. If he doesn't like to play rough, he shouldn't tease me." I tilt my head, glance at the gun, then back at her face. "Now I'm confused. Do you really want to fight, or is this theater?"

Her jaw tightens for a moment. "Alyssa, take Alistair somewhere safe."

Mary Tyler Moore scoots in and helps the eyeless, whimpering Alistair scuttle away. They look a lot alike, come to think of it. Wonder if they're sibs. She shoots me a furious look over her shoulder just before they go out the door. Well, I'm not here to make friends.

"I'm waiting, Michelle," I point out. "Is this a combat situation, sweetheart? Are you finally making your move against Philippe, is that what this is?"

That throws her. It throws everyone. I can see the confusion; her people, who were ranging out to surround us, sort of drift to a halt.

"What are you talking about?" she snaps. "How could punishing you for what you did to Alistair possibly --"

"I'm an official messenger from an ally during wartime, lady. You can't be that stupid."

Her hero pose softens just a fraction. Uncertainty. "What do you mean, wartime? There's no --"

"So he decided not to brief you. I don't blame him." Just a little more pressure... "Philippe sent us down here so you could feed us, but instead we get this fuckery. You don't trust Ernest Otiambo not to send armed attackers into your --"

"Be quiet," she snarls.

"Everyone knows you think you should be the boss. So now you're finally --"

I see the knuckle tighten. I drop into a sprinter's crouch, then launch myself forward; I hear the shot go overhead just as my fist hits her solar plexus. We don't breathe, but there's still a nerve cluster there. She folds over my punch with a grunt, stunned just long enough for me to twist the gun out of her hand and throw it to Jacob.

What he does with it, I can't see, since I'm scooping Michelle over my shoulder and heading for the patio doors, but I feel his fear harden into something new. Just as tight, just as shivery, but clear and sweet and strong. He'll pull that trigger if he has to. Oh man did I get lucky when I turned him.

"Nuh-uh," he says warningly, presumably to someone who moved to help Michelle. "Let it play. She wouldn't help if it was you, right?"

Michelle pushes herself away from my back with her hands, so as not to be such a potato sack, but doesn't do anything as undignified as struggle to get down. "You are making a very big mistake, Jack Saturday," she growls.

"Aw, c'mon, we're just having some fun, right?" I use her feet to shove open the patio door. I wave cheerfully at the breathers, who are edging away with uncertain looks.

Michelle twists to see where we're going, and gasps. "Don't you dare! This is a vintage one-of-a-kind -- it's pure silk -- this isn't funny --"

"Buddha says attachment is suffering." I drop her in the pool.

One of the breathers lets out a startled laugh, then quickly covers her mouth, looking guilty. Me, I laugh freely. It's the funniest thing I've seen since -- hell, it's even funnier than Jacob snorfling cow blood out his nose.

Michelle's having a hard time surfacing, dragged down by her clothes. Dead folks aren't terribly buoyant. At last she kicks off the bottom and gets a hand on the edge to haul herself up with. Her mascara is running, her hair's gone flat, and she generally looks like a drowned chihuahua. I squat down to offer her a hand. She gives it, then me, a suspicious glare.

I lean a little closer, letting my smile fade. I whisper, "I could've killed everyone in that room. Be glad I'm in a playful mood."

Her eyes narrow. She takes my hand.

As soon as her feet hit pavement, she strides past me and into the house, head high. I follow her in, still chuckling. The looks on all their faces are priceless. She makes vague beckoning gestures.

"Ike, get our guests something to eat." She makes the word sound filthy. "I'm going to see to poor Alistair." When she reaches Jacob, she holds her hand out. "My gun, please."

He shrugs and drops it into her hand. That's a bad moment there, because she might just be dumb enough, and I'm not close enough to stop her. If she makes that mistake -- the things I'll do to her, they'll be muttering about behind their hands with elliptical pauses and queasy gulps for fucking centuries.

But she doesn't aim it at him. She just turns and strides out of the room, dripping, high heels clicking sharp and angry on the parquet floor. The rest of them trail along behind her, making a good show of pretending to forget we exist. Only the Hawaiian doesn't move. The door shuts with a decisive thump. I let my breath out nice and slow. I don't need to grab Jacob and fuss over him like he's a little kid. He's fine. I'm fine. It's over.

The Hawaiian shoves his hands in his pockets and breaks out grinning. "Dude. You threw Michelle in the pool."

"She needed to cool down," Jacob points out. He walks over and sticks out his hand. "I'm Jacob Glass."

The guy shakes hands with cheerful enthusiasm. Then the hands go back in the pockets. "Ikaika Hawea. Call me Ike. Can I call you Jake?"

"When I shorten it I go by Jay."

"Cool. Hey, Jay." Ike beams. The rhyme pleases him.

Yep, dumb as a bucket of mud. Cute though.

Friendly, too, like a big mellow dog, and apparently immune to all the tension and drama we just went through, because he does precisely what Michelle told him and doesn't give us any crap. He finds us a couple of donors who haven't been tapped lately -- one of the swimmers, and one guy who's napping in a different room and has to be woken up -- and then challenges us to a game of 9-ball. He kinda sucks at it, but so does Jacob, so they're evenly matched. I lounge around and mock them both, which they take in good humor. We find some really good whiskey behind the bar and get a little bit tanked. Jacob drinks more than both me and Ike put together. I think he's trying to soothe away the lingering effects of that moment when he was ready to kill someone.

When the sky starts to lighten, Ike takes us to get our baggage, then shows us to a couple of rooms upstairs. "They share a bathroom, so, you know. Gotta take turns." He laughs a little.

"We only need one room, actually," Jacob corrects. "Jack? Do you care which one?"

Ike points at me and Jacob back and forth. "You guys are --? Oh! Hey, that's cool. You coulda said. But it's cool."

"Very cool," I agree, draping an arm around Jacob's waist. "Later, gator."

"Later, skater!" Ike replies cheerfully, and strides off down the hall, hair swinging. We watch him go, both a bit mesmerized.

"That is one beautiful man," Jacob says slowly.

"Sure is."

"But there's nothing in his head but fluffy pink clouds."

"Ayep."

"Totally straight, too."

"Looks that way."

"No chance of a threesome."

"None whatsoever."

He looks at me sideways, grinning ear to ear. "One of these days, though, you and me have to pick up some big, pretty guy and dominate the hell out of him. Okay?"

"The kink is strong with this one," I intone. I actually kind of hate the idea, but I don't feel like figuring out why right now.

I pick the corner room, and we haul our bags in. There's kind of a woodsy theme going on in here: brown and green leaf pattern wallpaper, bedspread printed with various vegetation, a shelf of carved stone wolves and bears and ravens, Craig Blacklock photos on the walls. The kind of thing you'd find in a resort up north; weird to find it this far south. I like it, myself, but I'm aware I have no taste. Better than motel decor, anyway. I deadbolt the room door and the far door of the shared bathroom. The bathroom's all slate tile and thick gray towels, and the bathtub is a little bitty jacuzzi. I can think of uses for that.

I catch my reflection in the mirror. Take a moment to pose. I am such a rock star. I should let Jacob dress me up more often. I start stripping off my rings and arm-jangles, piling them on the granite counter. When I'm dropping the last of them, it finally occurs to me that Jacob might've wanted me to leave them on, just like I'm hoping he's still wearing that shell choker to show me where the nibbles go... and having thought that, I realize he hasn't said a word since we came in here. That's not like him. He should've at least said something snide about the decor. I'm not getting much of anything through the bond, just a busy, inward-turned thoughtfulness. I poke my head out of the bathroom to see what's up.

He's sitting on the far edge of the bed, staring out the window, or maybe at his reflection in the glass. His slumped shoulders do not give an impression of good cheer.

No problem. I've got the cure for that. Kicking off my boots, I crawl across the bed to grab him from behind, hands sliding across his chest.

He tenses, then leans away from me, pushing my hands off. I'm so surprised, I don't even try to fight him on it. I lean beside him instead, looking for a clue in his face, but he's just glaring at his knees.

"Hey," I murmur. When this has no effect, I shove at his shoulder with my head like a cat that wants pettings. That, at least, earns me a weary little smile. The smile doesn't last long, though. I sigh. "What are you sulking about?"

"I'm not sulking."

"Looks like sulking to me."

"I'm conflicted. It's different."

"Oh, yeah, conflicted is the manly kind of sulking."

He flickers another smile, a touch more amused than the last one. "I'm not mad at you or anything. I'm just thinking stuff over."

"Like what?" I flop over on my back and let my head hang over the edge of the bed. My scarf and sunglasses fall off. I let them lie. "You better not be thinking you don't like the Jack-molesty anymore. I'll cry like a baby, I warn you, I'll do it in public, it'll be so embarrassing for everyone."

That was definitely a bit of a laugh I just heard. His hand rests on my stretched stomach. "I sort of want to see that just for the novelty value. But no, it's not about you. I'm just kind of..." His fingers idly worry at my t-shirt, working it little by little out of my waistband. "Frankly, I'm ashamed of myself. I froze up. I made you rescue me. And you overreacted, which I knew you'd do -- you blinded a guy and almost got shot and generally escalated things to a really bad level, all because I couldn't handle some jackass bad-touching me outside my clothes. It wasn't that big a deal. I feel like such a chickenshit."

After a while his hand falls still, and I realize he's waiting for a response. "You said conflicted. What's the other half of it?"

He gives a dry chuckle. "Well, Michelle and her attack redhead are horribly irritating people, and I really did enjoy watching you own them completely. Even if I did just about shit out my own spine when the gun went off. I mean, fuck."

With a delighted laugh, I curl around his middle and grin up at him with my head on his thigh. "God, what an awesome phrase. I'm gonna use that."

"Feel free." He smiles down at me. This time the smile doesn't go away. Score. Am I good or what? He follows a shiny thread along my sleeve with a fingertip. I can see the bead of his navel ring poking out the soft fabric of his shirt, and it reminds me that he's too sexy for his clothes and needs to get out of them pronto. Except for the choker. He can leave that on.

I catch the ring with my teeth and give it a little tug, then start nuzzling my way up. Destination: ear-nibbles. Before I get very far, though, he puts a stilling hand on my shoulder.

"Jack, I'm not... I don't really..." Awkward, apologetic. Bad sign.

I make puppy eyes. "Jacob..."

"I'm sorry. It's just, they really creeped me out, and I'm still kinda in that... that skeezy atmosphere. You know? It's really not a turn-on."

Goddammit, this is so unfair. This is the sexiest I've ever seen him, I've been looking forward to it all night, and now he won't let me just because Michelle's trashy? Why let her spoil it? Anyway, it doesn't even make sense, it's just him and me here, and we're the same us as before, so what changed? Only that he suddenly went all schoolgirl on me for no fucking reason!

I open my mouth to argue. A look of pained expectation flickers through his eyes. We're about to have a fight. And I want to fight with him, I want to yell and throw things and stomp around, because wow that would be dramatic and cathartic and all. But there's something Abe taught me to do, drilled it into me until I made it a habit: before throwing a tantrum, I have to think of one other option. I can't cut loose and holler until I've visualized one way it could go differently. Then I can decide which way to play it.

Usually, I decide yelling's the fun way and do it after all. I don't think that's what Abe intended, but I gotta be me.

This time, though, the other possibility that comes to mind actually sounds pretty good. Not so much the thing itself, as the way I think it will make Jacob act. Positive long-term effects. Also, it lets me get my hands on him, even if I don't get laid.

"How about cuddles?" I say. "Are cuddles okay?"

He gives me an incredulous look. "What kind of psychopath are you?"

"Get your shoes off and lie down. I'll get the windows."

As I go around closing curtains, I feel his bemusement. It's balancing a sort of crumply gratitude. If he wasn't so surprised to hear the word 'cuddles' come out of my mouth, he'd be sniffling. I flick the lights off and scoot in next to him. Entertaining as it would be if he broke down, I like the laughing Jacob better than the mopey one, so I keep it cheery as I gather him against me.

"Naturally I'm just using you for my own selfish purposes. Of hugs. Selfish hug purposes."

"Naturally," he echoes.

He burrows his face against my shoulder, pauses, sits up again. Gestures for me to get the long-sleeve shirt off. Once that's done, he rests his cheek on my silk-t-shirt-clad chest with a sigh of appreciation. I wrap one arm around his shoulders and pet his hair with the other hand. Every time my fingers go through, a little more tension drains out of him.

After a while, he says softly, "But seriously. Do you get anything out of this?"

"Sure. It's nice."

"Really?"

"Your hair's soft. I like your weight and the way you smell. And I can feel your mood through the bond, so, you know. Even though I don't echo it automatically, I do like when you're happy."

He lifts his head to give me an inquisitive frown. "Bond? What?"

I blink at him, trying to figure out what he's asking me about the bond. Seems pretty straightforward to me. Then I smack myself on the forehead. "Duh, how would you know? I never told you about it. Christ. This is why I told Abe I'm not cut out for this."

That gets a surge of fondness out of him for some reason. "Well, you can tell me now. No harm, no foul." He snuggles back down.

"I'm talking about the novice bond. It's a psychic link that happens when you turn somebody. It fades with time as the novice gets stronger. Abe's theory is that my psi is keeping you alive, to some extent. Like my blood is still connected with me even though I gave it to you."

"Then if you die, so do I?" Bit of a shudder, maybe remembering how close I came to getting shot tonight.

I reassure him. "Not now, you're autonomous by this point. Apparently if the master dies within a couple days of making a novice, the novice sometimes dies too, but I never saw it. Abe collects these anecdotes, you'd have to ask him. If he's right, though, I'm making you stronger. The longer we're linked the stronger you get. He kept me pretty much in his pocket for the first five years after he made me." I hesitate, then laugh dryly. "Okay, that was mostly because he didn't trust me not to freak out if he left me alone."

"That must've been rough," Jacob says sympathetically, smoothing his hand over my shoulder.

"Eh? How so?"

"Well, you've clearly got a big crush on him, and you said he's asexual, so..."

"Oh. That. Yeah, I guess it was kinda frustrating." I'm lying. It was agony. That was years ago, though. I'm so over it. "Anyway, by now our bond's thin enough that he'd have a hard time even using it to track me. He can tell if I'm in the next room or something, that's about it."

"So you can use this bond to tell where I am, and you get empathic data through it? Heh, you must be sick of my emotional fluctuations by now."

"I don't get all your emotions. Just kind of a general snapshot of your state. About what I get from looking at your face when you're not fronting."

"Can you read my thoughts?"

"Haven't yet. Strong surface thoughts, maybe, if you direct them at me on purpose. Try it. Send me a word as hard as you can."

Nodding slightly, he closes his eyes. A moment later I get a confused flash of blue, a sense of remembered amusement, and finally the word car half-eroded by mental static.

"Dude," I laugh, "your head is not a real organized place, is it? I could hardly pick 'car' out of that hairball you just tossed me. Maybe sending me pictures would make more sense."

"I'm a visual thinker," he concedes. "At least you got it. Huh. That's really cool, actually. Just a couple weeks ago I would've been so excited about it. Proof of psychic ability! Whee!" I feel him grin against my shirt.

"All vampires are psychic. It's part of the total package. Some are more psychic than others. My psi's not real impressive, but Abe trained me to use what I have, so I can usually defend against someone stronger. When this clusterfuck is over he'll train you too. There's a kind of mental aikido you can do, you don't try to fight the other guy, just redirect the energy. Abe says being a nutcase gives me an advantage there. Seems I was already good at dodging thoughts I don't like, whether they're mine or not."

"I presume this is the same power that lets us trance people."

"Bingo. If you're strong enough and you know how to use it, you can even trance other vamps. I tranced the Fake Brit for a second, that's how I got him off you."

Jacob sighs. "You could've just left it at that. Or punched him or something. Dumped him in the pool."

"He pissed me off."

"How so? It was nothing we didn't expect."

"You're mine. Nobody else gets to play with you."

"How flattering." Jacob whispers a laugh. "I'm on the same level as your favorite boots."

"Hey now," I say conciliatingly, giving his shoulders a squeeze. "I would burn my boots in a barbecue before I'd let somebody else grope you."

"How romantic. What about your pirate flag bandanna?"

"Umm..."

"You utter dick." Laughing out loud, he punches me in the stomach, not very hard.

"C'mon, Jolly Roger and me go way back. Ow, okay, yes, the bandanna too."

He lifts himself to study my face. "What about me consensually groping someone else, how do you feel about that?"

"Nuh-uh." The rush of jealousy that clenches my stomach is surprisingly strong. I let him see the fierceness of it in my eyes. "No way. You're mine."

His eyes darken, and the corners of his mouth turn up. That hot indigo suggests I might be getting laid after all. "You realize," he says quietly, "if I can't shop around, neither can you. It's only fair."

"Oh, are we being fair now?" I tease, but before he can respond I add, "Okay. Yeah. You have exclusive groping rights until such time as we officially terminate the 'with benefits' portion of our friendship. Is that what you want?" Right now I'll promise him anything that might get him out of those jeans.

"It'll do," he breathes. He bends to seal the agreement with a slow kiss. I feel the moment when it could stop there go past, and instead of pulling away he shifts above me and keeps kissing.

Cuddles work. I'll have to remember that.

I let him set the pace, wary of sending him back into squicked-by-the-locals mode. He takes it real slow; a relaxed makeout with gentle roaming hands. That's fine with me. I could spend an hour just feeling his back muscles stretch and tighten as he rolls against my thigh. I have to admit, though I don't know if I like the idea of official couplehood, I can't think of anyone who'd be remotely hot enough to dump Jacob for.

Well, except Abe, but that's --

OW. What-the-fuck sudden stabbing pain in chest again, why does that keep happening to me?

Fortunately, Jacob takes my sharp gasp for an expression of a different kind, and keeps going. It isn't hard to push those disturbing thoughts aside and focus on the feast at hand. It's not even dawn yet, we've got time to get up to all kinds of mischief. The pain fades as I reverse our positions, pinning Jacob with my weight so I can go after those ear-nibbles I was planning earlier. He clutches at my ass and groans eagerly. Yeah, he won't be changing his mind now.

"I thought of a use for my scarf," I whisper in his ear.

He moans and arches against me. "Godyes."

It doesn't take me long to put my idea into practice. The rungs of the headboard are sturdy, the scarf is silk, and Jacob doesn't have a pulse; I can pull the knots really tight without doing any damage. His wide black pupils are almost swallowing the blue before I fasten his rolled shirt over his eyes.

I've never been one for the elaborate kind of kink, rubber suits and harnesses and shit like that, but I do appreciate a bit of old-fashioned bondage. There's nothing quite so gorgeous as a strong man tied up and blindfolded and loving it. And Jacob is a whole new level of gorgeousness all on his own. The way his arms bunch and ripple as he tests the scarf, the way his lips part in a silent gasp when I do something he particularly likes, the coppery taste when I plunder his open mouth that tells me he's far enough gone to fall afoul of his own fangs.

As I slowly and relentlessly drive him insane, I consider the possibility that our little agreement could last for years. It's not impossible. I'm not looking for permanence, but it's not inconceivable that I just plain won't find anyone better. The thought is both exhilarating and claustrophobic. I don't know if I like it or not. What I do know is that nobody's going to make that decision for me. I won't let anyone take him away from me. I'll get serious about protecting him, make sure he survives this road trip and gets home safe with me, then train him until he's more dangerous than anyone who might take a pop at him. I don't know how long I want to keep him, but I know I don't want him stolen.

Energized by a rush of possessiveness, I pick up the pace, kiss him hard and sloppy, cutting my tongue on his teeth. The movement of his head on the pillow rubs the blindfold off. I back off to watch him watch me watching him. He looks lost, almost scared, a little defiant, as if daring me to push him just a little farther. So I do: I grab his hips and pound him so hard it must be hurting him. His eyes roll back, his neck arches, every muscle in his body goes hard. He looks like he's screaming, but he doesn't have the air for it; the only sound he makes is a tiny choked whine. It's the sexiest sound I've ever heard, and it drives me over the edge right after him.

Eventually I remember he's still tied to the headboard. He lies with his eyes closed and a sated smile on his face while I pick the knots loose. As soon as his arms are free, he wraps them around me and pulls me back down. All right, I guess we don't have to clean up just yet.

"You're too selfish to make a good dom," he murmurs, opening his eyes to give me a heavy-lidded glare. "Ironically, I find that incredibly hot."

"You looked pretty well dominated to me," I chuckle. His hair is making sun rays on the pillow; I arrange them with my fingertips into a more symmetrical arrangement. "Also, that smirk you're doing now? That's what Lucifer looked like when he gave God the finger. If I was an artist I'd do a chapel ceiling of it."

"Mm? And who'd model for God?"

"Me. Duh."

"Heh, of course." He lifts a lazy hand, dutifully flips me off, and then snuggles up against me and goes to sleep.