The penultimate preview peek at Tender Bites, my new vampire anthology – one more after today, then Saturday, it’s out. Also, check back here on Saturday for details on a nifty new contest to go along with my first ever self-published e-book launch – it’s kind of like a wedding, something old, something new . . . .
As for this particular story, The Artist, I have a confession to make – I love’em all, but I think this one is the sexiest. It’s my take on the classic vampire seduction with a slightly harder edge. Want a taste?
San Francisco, 1997
Dante wandered lonely as a cloud down the foggy San Francisco street, a black and brooding wisp of storm cloud that obscured and revealed each moonbeam pool of streetlight as he passed. A subtle change had come over him lately, an ever-deepening malaise. The vampire who had made him so many centuries before had warned him this would eventually happen, but he hadn’t believed it. He had thought he would revel in his power for all eternity. But lately, he hadn’t so much reveled as endured. Nothing interested him; nothing excited him; even the taste of blood and the thrill of the kill had lost their spark.
A happy cackle of feminine laughter danced out of an open doorway to rush to his defense. Turning to the painted glass, he felt the cloud that surrounded him fading back into the fog . . .
The girl at the bar laughed again, one forearm resting lightly against her lover’s shoulder as he hovered by her stool. Her clothes were as black and primitive cool as the vampire’s weary mood – black mesh shirt, black lace bra, black jeans so tight his eyes could trace the slit of her sex behind the denim. But her black leather boots were nestled heel to terrifying heel on the bar at her elbow, leaving her little feet with their blue-polished nails bare to the scrutiny of the world. And her red hair was as striking and utterly natural as her laugh. A smile teased the corners of his mouth. She was a darling, a cheeky little lamb tricked out in the black duds of the contemporary she-wolf.
In other words, just the ticket.
She leaned over to catch her mortal lover’s whisper and caught sight of the vampire watching from the window. Her eyes widened as she made a droll face at him – waddya lookin’ at? the twist of her mouth demanded. But her eyes weren’t nearly so tough or so funny. When Dante continued to stare, unsmiling, unblinking, refusing to be moved, her eyes lost every defense.
“Francesca?” the man at her side asked, looking over his shoulder to see what had captured her attention so completely. The vampire faded back from the glass, disappearing from their sight. He watched the girl, Francesca’s expression cloud for a moment, vaguely confused and disappointed. Then she turned back to her mortal beloved. Francesca . . . don’t worry, he thought. I won’t keep you waiting for long.
An hour later, he watched from a darkened doorway across the street as the happy little couple had a happy little argument on the sidewalk in front of the bar as their friends stood a discreet three or four yards away pretending to study the stars they couldn’t see through the San Francisco fog. With a few well-chosen and deadly verbal assaults, Francesca and her lover negotiated a grudging peace as regards the rest of the evening, never dreaming a depressed and hungry vampire was hanging on every word. They finally decided that he would go on with their friends and see another band while she took the car home and got some apparently pressing work done – a reasonable and sublimely convenient compromise, the vampire thought. His smile would have made a strong man shudder had one been close enough to see it.
He closed his eyes and counted slowly, an ancient demon’s version of a mortal baby’s game. Ninety-seven . . . ninety-eight . . . ninety-nine . . . one hundred. He opened his eyes. The sidewalk across the street was now empty except for a kid in an apron sweeping up cigarette butts. Dante turned his face up to the moon’s caress and sniffed the air until he found her scent . . . crumbles of chocolate scattered amongst the crushed, wet petals of a rose . . .
He smiled again, fangs glittering in the dim, misty light. Ready or not, sweetheart . . . .