The Last True Vampire (3 page)

Every vampire had been descended from a single creature. Like a grove of aspen trees were interconnected, the blood that created them tied them to one another. And there was just enough of that ancient blood flowing through every dhampir’s veins to connect them all to Michael. Fate could indeed be a cruel master at times.

In the two and a half centuries since the vampires had been all but exterminated, class divisions separated the dhampir covens, pitting them against one another. Some wanted Michael gone from the face of the earth while others waited eagerly for him to step up and fully claim his role as their leader. They craved the gift he could give them, the bite that would transform them from beings that lived between the human and vampire realms into the creatures they were meant to be.

Without being tethered, he was helpless to do anything for them.

Michael’s own raging thirst was paltry in comparison to that of the collective mass of dhampirs in the vicinity. Many of them were in the club now, watching, waiting to share in his strength. They saw a savior, while Michael saw himself as nothing more than a soulless creature destined to fall through time in a state of perpetual emptiness. Perhaps that was why he’d persisted in this state of near starvation for the past century. To punish himself for his inability to save his brethren now as well as when the Sortiari had begun their quest to exterminate the vampires centuries ago.

“Hi. Alex sent me. Mind if I join you?”

He looked up to find a woman gazing down at him and once again Michael was reminded why he paid Alex such a hefty salary. He opened his palm in greeting. “Please. Sit.”

She smiled seductively and her too-white, veneered teeth were the perfect horrid complement to her collagen-injected lips and unnaturally large breasts. Why would any woman want to defile the soft curves she came by naturally by replacing them with something unyielding and artificial? No matter. He didn’t want to fuck the human after all, just feed from her. And whereas her appearance did little for his lust, the scent of her blood set his throat ablaze.

Bide your time.
If he didn’t get a grip, he’d tear into the woman’s throat. “Can I buy you a drink?” It was the least he could do. After all, she was about to supply him with one. “Champagne?” Wasn’t that what humans wanted in these ridiculously overpriced clubs? He motioned to one of the waitresses who serviced the VIP room, appropriately outfitted with devil horns and a long red tail that seemed to grow from the back of her short black skirt. Michael reached into his pocket and produced a matte black credit card from his wallet and handed it to the waitress. “Bring us a bottle of Clos d’Ambonnay.”

The waitress smiled appreciatively and spun on a heel, no doubt anxious for the tip that would accompany a thirty-five-hundred-dollar bottle of champagne.

“Oh. My. Gawd!” the woman beside him squealed. She stuck out her hand, wrist bent as though he should kiss it. “I’ve always wanted to try that! I’m Jasmine, by the way.”

He looked down at her hand but didn’t move to take it.
Charming.
Michael’s patience was wearing thin, as was his control. With each second that passed, his thirst mounted. It didn’t help that the human was now stuck to him like a strip of duct tape, rubbing her ridiculous fake breasts against his arm in a way that he assumed was supposed to be arousing. She’d been chattering on for at least twenty minutes, about what Michael had no idea.
How the fuck long did it take to retrieve a bottle of champagne anyway?

She ran a palm up the inside of his thigh but stopped short of his cock when the waitress showed up with the champagne.
Finally. Thank the gods.
He signed the receipt, adding on a hefty tip for their server before he poured two glasses of the pale bubbling drink. His companion’s eyes rolled back into her head as she drank, a low moan that was more reminiscent of a wail issuing from her throat.

Humans like her were a prime example of how easy it could be to hunt in the city. It was also a sore reminder that he had no excuse—other than sadistic self-torture—for starving himself. As Jasmine drank and giggled and drank some more, the scent of her blood pushed Michael’s need past reason. Around him he sensed the anticipation of the dhampirs, and he almost reconsidered piercing the woman’s throat just to punish them for violating his privacy. For the briefest moment he welcomed the pain of madness and starvation. His instinct to feed was far stronger than his will to die, however. Michael nuzzled the woman’s throat and brushed his lips against her jugular, causing the dual set of fangs to throb in his gums.

“Oh yeah, baby,” the woman moaned as she tilted her head to expose her throat. “Put your mouth on me.”

Gladly.
Michael sealed his lips over her throat, sucking gently to coax the vein closer to the surface. Her skin tasted of cheap perfume and she reeked of acrid, chemical-laced smoke. At the moment his fangs punctured her flesh, she melted into his embrace, her high, mewling moan inaudible to anyone but him over the pounding bass of the DJ’s music. Her head lolled back on her shoulder and Michael gripped the back of her head to support her. Blood, warm and tinged with something foreign—a narcotic of some kind—passed over his tongue. Human drugs had no effect on him. Michael’s eyes drifted shut as he joined his prey in the bliss of feeding.

With each swallow he was infused with strength; her scent, her taste, the feel of her in his embrace, enhanced as his senses sharpened. His heart began to beat once again, his metabolism awakening as living blood coursed in his veins. The air around him became charged with a static tension, like the approach of a violent storm, and he felt the utter relief of the dhampirs who shared in what he’d taken from this woman.

With a sudden, shattering impact a scent the likes of which had no equal invaded Michael’s senses and he pulled so violently from the human’s throat that he nearly tore her flesh. His brain roared with an instinct too strong to resist, but if he didn’t close the punctures in the woman’s neck she’d bleed out in a matter of seconds. She slumped against his body and Michael quickly scored his tongue, lapping at her throat and healing the bite. He laid her down in the booth without another thought to her welfare as he was inexplicably drawn to the scent of blood that called to him in a way that he’d never felt before in all of his centuries upon the earth.

Want. Need. Hunger. Desire.
Lust.

Raw, untamed emotion exploded inside of him, something so deep and primal that he was helpless to fight it. The empty void that had opened up inside of him upon his turning filled to bursting and Michael rubbed at his chest as though the change were a physical thing. His mind raced as he tried to make sense of what he felt, the sensation so foreign and shocking. It had been so long since he’d last fed, perhaps his dormant body simply wasn’t used to being rejuvenated. Or maybe it was the sheer fierceness of the anticipation of the dhampirs that sent him into a frenzy. His muscles bunched and flexed with every step, as though they’d gone decades without use. The soulless void evaporated, and in the center of his being something secured itself to him as though with a length of unbreakable chain. The past two hundred years of solitude melted away in this moment, his quest for the exotic scent that drove him past reason, and for the first time since the slayer had entombed him all of those years ago Michael experienced the vitality of the warrior he once was. The powerful vampire. The hunter in search of prey.

But beyond that, he felt
alive.
Truly alive, as he had been before he’d been made into a vampire. Before he’d made the decision to trade his soul for an existence as one of the untethered. If he didn’t find the source of that delicious scent, the sweet blood that entranced him like a siren’s song, he’d go mad.

Through the hordes of humans he swathed a path with one long arm, brushing them aside as though they were nothing more than blades of grass and his arm a broadsword. The dhampirs watched with curious yet fearful expressions, their irises reflecting silver in the low light, giving him a wide berth as they bowed their heads, afraid to meet his feral gaze. He had finally come alive this night, and though his heart beat anew, it wasn’t the whore’s blood that had brought him from his soulless stupor. No, as Michael’s eyes lit on a female not twenty feet away he knew without a doubt that it was her blood that called to him and her scent that had awakened him.

This female had tethered his soul and returned it to him.

As though she sensed him, too, her eyes met his. She looked nothing like the overdone, overused, and utterly underwhelming human females who seemed to frequent these sorts of clubs. Rather, she stood out among them. A breath of fresh air in a stale environment.

Her lips curled into a flirtatious smile. A sly, seductive expression that caused his cock to grow hard and the blood coursing through his veins to warm. She turned from him, winding a path through the VIP lounge toward the less populated area at the back of the club. Didn’t she realize that running only made him want to give chase? Or was that what she wanted, to be captured in a shadowy corner where no one would hear her moans of pleasure as he took her vein?

Michael’s step faltered. Of course, she couldn’t possibly know what he wanted from her, how her scent drove him to the frenzy that made his earlier thirst a mere annoyance in comparison. If she thought to find an exit in this part of the club she was about to be disappointed. In a matter of moments she’d be trapped, and a thrill of excitement coursed through Michael’s veins at the prospect.

*   *   *

Claire found herself facing a black wall with
Diablo
painted in giant red script above her. She put her back to it, palms bracing her as though she’d made a fatal error.
Oops!
she had nowhere left to go. Rule of the hustle number four: Let the mark think he’s running the show.

He was high as a freaking kite; of that she was positive. Too bad, too. He was much too hot to waste his looks—and probably his wealth—on the life of a burnout. Claire took a moment to observe him as he stalked toward her. Any woman would be tempted to fall to her knees and thank the lord for his creation when she got a look at the one-two punch this guy was bringing. Tall and sculpted without looking like one of those muscle-beach meatheads. She was willing to bet he pretended to be some sort of fitness junkie when he wasn’t high. She saw it sometimes in addicts. They looked fit and portrayed a healthy lifestyle to cover up for their illegal extracurricular activities. He probably worked in the film industry. Not on-screen talent, but she figured he was a lawyer or producer. Maybe a moneyman. Or, more likely, private security. An aura of importance surrounded him as if he knew he was the shit and everyone else should, too.

Full, dark hair brushed his brow in a casual style that was meant to look like he’d hopped out of bed and into his clothes. A straight nose, sharp cheekbones, and the most amazing dimple in his chin only lent to his aura of strength. And his eyes … holy shit, were they beautiful. A bright turquoise blue that reminded her of a picture she’d seen of the waters off the coast of Cozumel. She felt an instant connection with him. Something deep and obsessive that stole her breath. She’d never felt such an intense spark of interest before. Shame, too, since she was about to rob the poor sucker blind.

Good looks or not, she wasn’t here to flirt. Besides, she didn’t waste her time on addicts and users. He was mere feet from her now, each step he took a predatory swagger that sent a thrill through her body. Claire’s breath returned, quickening in her chest as she sized him up: much bigger up close. For a moment she had the feeling that she might be in way over her head with this one, but then her gaze landed on the gorgeous Patek watch on his left wrist. With the right fence that watch could cover six months or more’s worth of rent. Not to mention cupboards full of groceries. She’d hit pay dirt with this guy.
Ka-ching!

Claire fixed a flirtatious smile on her face, which, considering the guy was a superhottie, wasn’t too tough. He closed the remaining feet between them in a couple of long strides and braced himself against the wall with one strong arm, leaning down as he buried his face in her hair. Was he
smelling
her? Okay, that was sort of weird.

“What are you?”

His voice was a low, hungry rumble in her ear that caused chills to break out over her flesh. Dude was trippin’ balls, no doubt about it, but oh man, he could use that voice on her any time he wanted. “What do you want me to be?” The suggestive banter was meant to invite physical contact. He was so out of his mind, it wouldn’t be tough to lift his wallet or that amazing watch once the heavy petting began. Claire’s gaze landed on his full lips and she almost sighed. If she had to, she could sacrifice a kiss or two,
if
it meant ensuring his distraction.

“Don’t play with me. I’m not in the mood for games. You’re not simply a human female.”

Simply a human?
She’d underestimated just how far gone this guy was. “Now, why would I play games with you?” She looked up to meet his gaze. Those turquoise eyes—the dark pupils blown—burned with something she couldn’t identify, the intensity of his expression bordering on pain. She reached up and threaded her fingers through the silky soft strands of his hair. Claire almost felt bad for the guy. He was so out of it, he was practically begging to be ripped off. “If you’re not interested, I’m pretty sure there’s someone waiting for you back at your table.”

A thought occurred that he might be a pimp for top-of-the-line call girls. The woman slumped over in his booth sure looked like one. And how awesome was he for just leaving her passed out and alone like that?
Creep.
He was drop-dead gorgeous, but that was the thing about sin: It was always seductive.

“What’s your name?” Good lord. Wasn’t anyone interested in an anonymous hookup? She was running out of creative responses.

“Amy,” she answered. “Yours?”

“Michael.”