Lust for Life (4 page)

“Hi.” I meet his mahogany eyes, then out of habit look down. I’m not as easily mesmerized
as I was when I was human, but older gorgeous vampires still turn my brain to goop.
“Welcome to WVMP.”

My gaze falls on his bare feet, sticking out from under the frayed cuffs of his blue
jeans. Vampires are fairly insensitive to cold weather, but still, for November, that’s
hard-core.

Lori lets out a soft giggle, falling under the new vamp’s spell. “Yeah, welcome to . . .
here.”

“Thank you,” he says in a voice like velvet. “I’m looking forward—”

Something crashes behind me. I spin to see Franklin standing over what’s left of his
mug. Creamer-laden coffee has splattered against the front of my desk.

Franklin’s not mourning the mug. He’s staring at Adrian, slack-jawed. Slack, period,
like he overdosed on muscle relaxants.

I look back at the hippie vamp, who seems just as captivated. I’ve never seen anyone
look at Franklin that way, not even his late boyfriend.

“Hi,” they say in unison. Then they laugh the same laugh, the same length and pitch.
Weird.

David clears his throat. “Um . . . Adrian, this is Franklin, our sales and marketing
director. Franklin, this is—”

“Adrian.” Franklin puts his hand out, fingers stretching like he’s fallen off a cliff
and reaching for that saving grip.

Adrian takes Franklin’s hand between both of his own. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Yes,” Franklin breathes, and it sounds like he’s agreeing to a lot more than this
being a pleasurable meeting.

I look at David and Lori, whose foreheads are as scrunched-up as mine feels.

Adrian speaks again, his voice resonating against the walls. “Thanks, I’d love some
coffee.”

“Good.” Franklin drops his hand and stares some more, then realizes Adrian just made
a joke. “Oh! You mean this.” He surveys the damage around his feet. “Shit.”

Since Franklin doesn’t seem capable, I collect the four largest pieces of the mug.
FUCK
and
OFF
are in separate pieces. I shove them together and try to make an anagram.

Huh. There’s no anagram for
FUCK OFF
.

“So!” Lori says brightly. “David tells me you’ve been working in Albuquerque. What’s
it like there?”

“It’s beautiful.” He’s still looking at Franklin.

Vampire stares always have at least a spark of predatory threat. It’s what lots of
humans get off on: that danger mixed with seduction. They think they can tame us (they
can’t).

But Adrian’s stare contains only pure, helpless fascination. With Franklin, of all
things.

David babbles, since no one else will. “Adrian was turned when he was twenty-seven,
like the rest of our DJs, but of course that wasn’t a consideration in hiring him,
heh.” The public loves the fact that our DJs have a connection to the so-called Club
of 27, the group of legendary musicians who died at that age. “He’s looking forward
to moving in downstairs, but I told him we needed to get Jim’s stuff out first. We’ve
been putting that off for too long.” David inhales like he’s going to
add another sentence, then seems to lose interest in his own half of the conversation.
I offer him a polite “Okay.”

I’ve seen some pretty amazing things. I’ve watched people die and come back to life.
I’ve seen the Great Beyond and felt the comfort of a higher being that loves all creatures,
alive, dead, and undead. I’ve seen a zombie cheerleading pyramid.

None of it has freaked me out as much as the sight of someone falling in love with
Franklin. Except maybe the sight of my vampire-hating, hippie-ripping coworker falling
in love with Adrian.

I shoo them toward the stairs. “I just made some fresh coffee in the lounge. You two
should get some while it’s hot.”

Lori snickers. Replaying my own words, I try not to echo her.

Shane comes out of David’s office as Adrian and Franklin disappear into the lounge
together. He holds up his phone and beams like a little boy who just caught his first
fish.

“Hey, I just twittered about the new DJ.”

“Great!” I move to his side and give him a quick kiss, avoiding Lori’s eyes so we
won’t laugh at the fact that it took Shane three full minutes to compose a tweet.
Considering most vampires his age see cell phones primarily as devices to call people
with, and not as handheld computers/entertainment sources/life managers, Shane’s pretty
advanced.

David looks between Lori and us, then back at her. “Ready to tell them now?”

“Yes!” She twists her hands together. “We have big news. It’s good and bad.”

“Give us the bad news first,” Shane says.

“It’s the same news, with good and bad aspects.” Lori spreads her fingers over her
tiny belly. “I’m pregnant.”

My life flashes before my eyes, but her smile short-circuits my panic. “I’m so happy
for you!” I exclaim as I hug her.

She hesitates, then hugs me back. “You are?”

“Of course.” I let go of her and look at David, who’s getting a hearty handshake from
Shane. “You wanted this, right? I mean, you guys just got married six months ago,
but he’s not getting any younger.”

“Hey, I’m only thirty-five,” he says.

“And when your kid graduates from college, you’ll be almost sixty.” I whisper the
last word.

“We were trying, but I can’t believe it happened so fast.” Lori grabs my arm. “And
no one else can know until we get past the three-month mark in case . . .”

“In case what?”

She gives me a blank look. “In case I lose it. Between eight and sixteen percent of
pregnancies miscarry in the first trimester.”

“I had no idea.” As an only child and out of touch with most family members, I’m ignorant
of all things baby.

She turns to Shane. “Do I smell different? Will the older vampires be able to tell?”

He leans close to her shoulder and takes a deep whiff. “Maybe. Their noses are more
sensitive than mine. But they’re so wrapped up in their little worlds, they won’t
care.”

“Good.” She turns back to me. “Anyway, the bad part.”

My mood dims. I’ve dreaded this since Lori and David got engaged—that divide between
those with kids and those without. Eventually she’ll make fellow childbearing friends,
and she’ll have more in common with them than with me. But at least we’ll always have
that donor-vampire bond.

“I can’t be your donor anymore.”

My eyelid twitches. “Oh.” I hurry to add, “I understand. You need to keep up your
strength while you’re pregnant.”

“And then I’ll be nursing.”

“Not to mention sleep deprived.” I force my tone to stay light. “Don’t worry, I know
it’s just temporary. We’ll get back on track once your kid’s eating solid food.”

Lori hesitates. “Unless I’m pregnant again.”

Now I get why Lori is so nervous. She’s breaking up with me.

“So how far along are you?” Shane asks, easing the tension—on the outside, at least.
This is a standard question I should’ve thought of.

“Seven weeks, they say.”

Desperate to sound clueful (the opposite of clueless?), I add, “Twenty-nine more weeks
to go!”

Lori fidgets with her gold heart pendant. “Actually, more like thirty-three. Pregnancy
lasts forty weeks.”

So much for having a clue. I dread the barrage of pregnancy facts for the next eight
months, and then a barrage of baby facts for the next, um, however long babies are
considered babies, and then a barrage of toddler facts for—okay, I give up. I don’t
even technically know what a toddler is.

David takes a deep breath. “This is going to sound crazy, and feel free to say no,
but . . . we’d like you two to be the godparents.”

The room falls silent.

My brain fixates on the “god” part of the word while my mouth searches for a tactful
response.

“Wha?” I finally utter.

Shane slips his hands into his back jeans pockets, a sign of discomfort. “Are you
sure? I mean, we’re, you know, unholy.”

“Don’t worry,” Lori assures us. “It’s just a ceremonial thing to make our parents
happy. David’s family is Episcopalian and mine is Lutheran. They were scandalized
when we had a Unitarian wedding, so we figured baptizing their grandkid would soothe
them.”

“Baptizing. With holy water.” I cradle my right arm, remembering the agony as it plunged
into a basin of the substance. It took only moments to cure myself with my mind, but
nothing will erase the memory of melted flesh.

“You guys won’t have to stand near the baptismal font,” David says. “You’ll be off
to the side.”

“This is an amazing honor.” Shane shakes David’s hand again. “Thank you for asking
us.”

“Does this mean you’re saying no?”

“It means we need to think about it.”

I want to hug Shane so bad right now. Instead I just send him a grateful smile.

“What’s to think about?” Lori rubs her abdomen, which is still perfectly flat.

“I think Shane would be a great godfather.” I swallow hard. “But how can I be a godmother
when I don’t even believe in God? Not a Bible God, anyway.”

“You’re a good person,” she says, “and that’s all that matters.”

“I’m pretty sure your churches would disagree.”

“It’s a big responsibility,” Shane says. “We’re supposed to be the kid’s religious
role models.”

Lori sighs. “Come on, don’t take it so seriously. It’s a symbolic thing, a sign of
our friendship.”

“A symbolic thing?” Shane asks. Uh-oh, he’s getting his Catholic on. “Like Holy Communion
is just a symbolic thing?”

“Hey!” I grab my coat from my chair, before the office turns into Little Belfast.
“I know where we could finish this discussion—or, better yet, have an entirely new
one. Our favorite Smoking Pig substitute: O’Leary’s Pub!”

“I can’t drink,” Lori says forlornly.

“And I can’t eat, so we’re even.” I pick up the bridal binder and wave it hypnotically.
“We can talk about favors, or hotel goody bags for out-of-town guests.”

Her mouth tugs into a smile. “Do you promise to sit still for my entire lesson on
seating charts?”

I knew she couldn’t resist the lure of wedding planning. It’s like a drug to her.

The four of us head off for the pub, me riding with Lori and David with Shane. Maybe
on the way the guys will finish the theological argument—or, more likely, start a
new one about football.

But tonight Lori and I steer clear of prickly topics like birth and death and the
ways our friendship is evolving. If I meet her halfway—or further—on things like my
wedding that make her happy, maybe we’ll be okay.

4

The Boxer

Just as I suspected, they’re making Shane a killer.

I sit on the bleachers of the Control headquarters gymnasium with Captain Elijah Fox,
who’s overseeing Shane’s combat training. My own muscles, despite their vampire strength,
are still a bit shaky from the session Elijah and I just finished. It’s worth the
pain and humiliation, though, to help me feel safe and strong.

In front of us, Shane is practicing swordsmanship with Agent Tony Rosso, a small,
wiry vampire Enforcement agent I recognize from Indoc. Agent Rosso can chop the legs
off a spider on a wall at twenty paces, using eight separate knives. I’d hire him
as a bodyguard if I could afford it—and if Shane wouldn’t be insulted.

Rosso’s long, dark hair sails around his head as he demonstrates the debilitation
blow on a practice dummy. A vampire can recover from any weapon-delivered wound except
decapitation or a wooden stake through the heart. So whenever possible, bilateral
fibular dismemberment (chopping off the legs) is the best
way to defend against a vampire we want to take into custody. The limbs will grow
back eventually—months or years for a younger vampire, weeks or even days for an ancient
one—but in the meantime, they can’t chase us or run away.

When it’s his turn, Shane doesn’t hesitate. In one fluid motion, he steps forward,
crouches, and swings the katana sword down and across. The legs of the practice dummy
thump on the floor, neatly severed. I feel like applauding, even as my stomach curdles
at the sound and sight.

Beside me, Elijah sits forward, elbows on his knees, watching Shane’s every move.
He scribbles notes in a shorthand I can’t decipher, then taps the end of the pen against
his broad, dark chin, deep in thought.

“How’s Shane’s doing?” I ask him.

“Boy’s got potential, if he can stop thinking with his fists. I keep reminding him
he’s got other body parts he can hurt with. And he hunkers down too much when we go
hand to hand. He’ll get more force behind his blows once he learns to let it rip.
But his defense is solid. He blocks like a brick wall.”

I lean forward, mirroring Elijah’s pose and resting my chin on my folded fists. Violence
has never been Shane’s way—at least, not in the time I’ve known him. But the night
I became a vampire—and Jim revved up his fixation with me—Shane resolved to keep me
protected by any means necessary.

“You think he’s cut out for Enforcement?” I ask Elijah.

He jots another note. “I think Agent McAllister is cut out for whatever he sets his
mind to.”

“But if you were making the personnel assignments, and Shane’s preference didn’t mean
jack, which division would you put him in?”

Elijah doesn’t answer right away. Instead he watches as Shane loads a holy-water pistol.
Hands covered with latex gloves, he tips the bottle into the funnel leading into the
chamber of the long black plastic pistol. Then he crosses himself, which is not official
procedure.

“Immanence Corps,” Elijah says finally. “I’d put him in IC.”

“So he could be my partner?”

“So he could channel the divine in him.”

I’ve never heard Elijah talk like this. “Divine what?”

Captain Fox moves his hand in a circle. “Essence, nature, whatever. He’s got it. We
all do, but some people are more connected to it.”

The term “immanence” has many meanings, but in the Control it refers to the divine
presence on earth. It also means “inherent.” Since the Control considers magic a form
of divinity, the IC is populated with those supposedly born with paranormal abilities.