Demon Night (7 page)

Her coat still smelled like burnt duck, but only when she sniffed it up close. Ethan wouldn't be
that
near her.

And she didn't usually wear jewelry, but she selected a two-inch cross dangling at the end of a long black cord. It had been a part of a Halloween costume, and was supposed to hang between her breasts—but she wound it around her neck like a choker.

A lot of women wore similar necklaces; Ethan probably wouldn't think anything of it.

The knock made her heart stop, and she forced herself to walk slowly to the door. He hadn't waited, but maybe his apartment was a mess, just like most guys', and—

Tall.

Charlie was used to being level with a man's face, if not his eyes. She had a large frame, though she'd pared down and hardened her soft singing weight at the gym, and she was above average height.

But Ethan was
tall
. And not at all as she'd imagined, when she had let her mind wander that way. She'd seen urban cowboy, blond, with a big hat and a bigger buckle, Wrangler jeans and pointy-toed boots.

She hadn't pictured short, melting-chocolate-brown hair—thick and uncovered—that just brushed his forehead. Eyes the color of fine whiskey, caught between amber and caramel. Shoulders broad enough to carry a woman easily, hips lean enough to wrap her legs around.

He wore boots, but with a rounded toe and sturdy like a construction worker's. The rough weave of his brown trousers caught at her memory, but Charlie couldn't focus below his waist long enough to pin it down, not when his face had those roughly hewn planes and angles, like he'd been carved from oak, and his jaw looked strong and absolutely lickable.

“Hello, Miss Charlie,” he said with the voice that matched his eyes. A scar cut through the left side of his thin upper lip, and crooked his smile just a little.

“Hi,” she said, and for the first time was glad that the rasp in her throat hid her croak.

His gaze fell to her cheek. His jaw clenched, and oak hardened to stone before he met her eyes again. “You all right?”

“Yes.” Beneath his tan corduroy jacket, she saw the edge of brown leather suspenders.

She should have been bold. Should have been unafraid.

She was in so much trouble.

 

Charlie couldn't think of a single thing to say. It wasn't like her; there was always
something
to talk about. But she walked the first two blocks in silence, Ethan a huge presence next to her. The problem with a man that tall was any glance up at his face was obvious; she couldn't steal a look.

She stared into the familiar storefronts that lined Broadway instead, watched the passing cars, fiddled her hands in her pockets and cast her gaze everywhere but at the one thing she wanted to study.

Narrow shadows lurked between the buildings, tiny slices of darkness that the bright streetlights couldn't penetrate, and she felt her apprehension returning. Even someone of Ethan's size might not protect her from what she'd seen the previous night.

Her guardian angel had been big, too, but she thought Ethan must be bigger…though it was difficult to tell. Her protector had held her above the ground, but it could have been one inch or ten.

And she'd probably be similarly speechless if her guardian angel showed up, though out of awe rather than attraction. What would she say to such a being?
Thanks, nice shot
?

Would she even want him to show up? She'd almost convinced herself that it had been her paranoia and imagination; his appearance would just be a confirmation that he
had
been real…and so were vampires.

Nervously, she glanced away from the shadows, and squinted against the headlights of an oncoming car. Their glare recalled her to another kind of fear: the gut-wrenching instant of certainty that her voice would fail her when the curtain rose and the shine of the spotlight in her eyes rendered the audience dark and faceless. But that was a fear that never penetrated; her confidence in her ability was too strong to let it take root, the knowledge that the music was hers. And the terror always fell away with the first note, until the world narrowed down to the composition and the lyrics.

But she had no confidence in this, no knowledge. No certainty that what she'd seen was real, let alone something she could master. And it settled deep in her, until the night hid a creature with fangs, and even the long slide of Ethan's shadow on the sidewalk concealed a horror that was waiting to grab her and—

“You suddenly take up religion?”

The question seemed to jump out of that darkness, unexpected and low, and Charlie barely stifled her scream. Her heart pounded. She stopped walking and looked up at Ethan, found him watching her with his brows drawn.

“Religion?” she echoed.

He raised his hand to his throat, and she automatically mirrored the action. Her palm met cool metal, and she gripped the cross tight, the edges digging into her fingers.

Her fear drained away. She'd protected herself; she wasn't completely helpless. “I'm not taking up anything,” she said with a lift of her shoulder and a brief smile. “It's to scare away the vampires.”

The scar paled when his mouth thinned, but the taut line quickly melted away with humor. “I don't reckon a bit of jewelry would frighten them, Charlie.”

It was ridiculous how easily his voice heated her from the inside, and she was suddenly all too aware of the kiss of crisp air over her belly and breasts. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and surreptitiously checked out his reflection in the darkened window of the antique store behind him.

Very, very nice.

“Garlic, then?” This time, she could look at him without worrying her interest would be—pathetically—obvious. People looked at each other when they talked. Of course, she usually didn't have to tilt her head quite as far to see someone, but the line of his jaw and the crease that formed at the corner of his mouth when he smiled made the effort worth it. “Silver? A wooden stake?”

“Now, Miss Charlie, you ought to know that the best way to slay a vampire is by removing his head or slicing his heart in two,” he said. “It's mighty difficult to do either with a stake. Messy, too.”

“Killed a lot of them, have you?” She stole another glance at the window. Lord, but she'd have liked a bite of that. Though his trousers sat low on his waist and didn't have any distinctive tailoring, the strength of his body defined his shape better than the finest clothes could have.

And she obviously hadn't been with anyone in far too long, if a man's ass could get her this excited.

Maybe it was the suspenders. They'd thrown her off-kilter.

“I've slain some,” he said, and slipped out of his jacket with a roll of his shoulders. The collar of his burgundy shirt curled at the edges, soft and worn, and the top button was unfastened. Everything about him spoke of ease and comfort—even the way he'd tucked his hand into his pants pocket and slung his jacket over his wrist made the corduroy drape over his hip like a long lazy cat.

It wasn't a pose that screamed vampire slayer, but nevertheless, the sheer confidence he exuded was reassuring.

“Most of the legends are wrong, Miss Charlie.”

She met his gaze again, but couldn't read his expression. “Which legends?”

“They have reflections, for one,” Ethan said with a long, uneven smile. “As sure as I do.”

Her embarrassed laugh was slammed by fear, smashed into the shape of words. “Some of them don't,” she said, and gave in to the sudden urge to glance over her shoulder, to make sure nothing was sneaking up behind her, invisible in the window's reflection, and Ethan unaware he was supposed to be looking out for creatures like that.

“You sound awful certain,” he said slowly.

The street was empty.

Of course it was. What had she come to, that she was scaring herself, imagining real vampires who weren't there?

There or not, paranoid or not—she didn't want to wait around until one showed up.

“I'm going to be late,” she said, and walked out from under his sharpening stare.

He caught up with her an instant later, matched the rhythm of her steps. For a few seconds, there was only the beat of their feet in sync, the thudding of her heart in her ears. He must have been shortening his stride, but she wouldn't have known it to look at him; it was as long and easy as his drawl.

Finally, he said, “So I reckon there's a story behind that certainty? I'd sure like to hear it, Miss Charlie.”

And that was perhaps the most direct request she'd ever heard Ethan make. She tucked her chin down, pushed her hands into her pockets. It would only sound ridiculous. Stupid.

Which made it safe to tell.

She kicked a piece of gravel on the sidewalk, watched it rattle away before she said, “Well, about two months ago, I was working at the bar when a hush falls over the people in the restaurant.” It hadn't been silent; Cole's was never silent, but she had heard the quiet even over the music. “So I look up, and there's a guy walking into the lounge. And he's so incredible to look at that it's like I've been kicked in the chest. Or just narrowly missed being hit by a car.”

Ethan made a choking sound. His mouth was tight, but she thought he was holding back laughter. That was good—just Charlie, making up another story.

The muscles knotted low in her back relaxed, and she fell into her tall-tale mode, the effortless rhythm of it. “It takes me a few seconds to realize that he's got a chick with him. And even if I hadn't seen their rings, it would have been obvious that they're
together
together—but they don't get a table.”

“You looked for his ring?” Ethan paused at the edge of the curb, the traffic light washing the scar on his lip with pale green.

Charlie would have expected a crooked nose to go along with that scar, but the lines of his face were strong and firm. And, like the rest of him, straight and long—not thin or wide, but just medium. Despite his height, there was nothing lanky about him, no awkward angles. He was in perfect proportion, even if all of the portions were oversized.

“Well, yeah.” Was
all
of him oversized? She closed her eyes so she wouldn't cast a measuring glance that way as she hit the crosswalk button. Then pressed it a few more times, though she knew it wouldn't make it go any faster. “A guy looks like that, you check for one.”

“And if he doesn't have one?”

“You look hard, then run away as fast as possible.” Even though Charlie was certain Ethan wasn't attached, she'd double-checked for his. And she hadn't run, but she'd known for a long time she wasn't the highest note in the register.

She stuffed her hands back into her pockets when the crosswalk signal finally changed. “Anyway, most couples come into the lounge, they get a table of their own—but these two belly up to the bar and start talking to me. And he's got this lovely British accent.” She shook her head, still disbelieving her reaction. “It actually takes me a couple of minutes to say anything that doesn't sound idiotic, because he's so…so…”

“Almighty beautiful that your sense tucks its tail between its legs, but it's your tongue that runs away,” Ethan drawled, his smile the widest she'd yet seen, and she grinned in response.

“Yes. He's too pretty
not
to look at. But I'm trying not to stare, because I'm sure his wife gets enough of that. Luckily, that kicked-in-the-chest feeling went away after a few minutes, and she doesn't seem to be offended. If anything, she seems to be laughing at him for it. It's difficult to be certain, though, because every time she smiles or laughs she does this.” Charlie lifted her hand to cover her mouth.

“Like a vampire hiding her fangs,” Ethan said.

There wasn't much teasing in his voice now, but Charlie tried to drum up a smile—this was supposed to be a joke. “Yeah. At the time I was thinking she might be shy, but she hadn't seemed the shy type. So I thought maybe she used to have braces or funky teeth and hadn't broken the habit of covering them.”

She fingered the cross again. It had taken her a long time to get over the instinctive need to hide her scar when someone's gaze rested too long on her neck. Now she was more likely to call attention to it, make them aware of what they were doing.

Except with Ethan she hadn't—and she thought now that she'd deliberately covered the scar with the necklace. Hiding it—or just not wanting to know if he was the type to stare?

She glanced up at him, realized he was waiting for her to continue, and picked up where she'd left off. “And before I know it, I've told them about my parents' divorce, my dad's leukemia, my mom's latest marriage to the composer in Paris, and about Jane and Dylan.” Her voice wouldn't convey her bemusement, so she added, “It usually doesn't go that way. Typically, it's all about the customer, but I had no control over that conversation. He did. But they were fun to talk to, so I didn't even think about how weird that was until afterward. After the other thing.”