Every Which Way But Dead. Ким Харрисон

She almost said yes,” he goaded. “Not to you. To me.”

      I stiffened. That had been directed at me. I wasn’t in the room, but I might as well have been.

      There was another creak of wood. “Touch her blood and I’ll kill you, Kist. I swear it.”

      I looked around the kitchen for a way to escape but it was too late as Ivy halted in the archway, with a scuff of boots. She hesitated, looking unusually ruffled as she gauged my unease in an instant with her uncanny ability to read body language. It made keeping secrets around her chancy at best. Anger at Kist had pinched her brow, and the aggressive frustration didn’t bode well, even if it wasn’t aimed at me. Her pale skin glowed a faint pink as she tried to calm herself, bringing the faint whisper of scar tissue on her neck into stark relief. She had tried surgery to minimize Piscary’s physical sign of his claim on her, but it showed when she was upset. And she wouldn’t accept any of my complexion charms. I had yet to figure that one out.

      Seeing me unmoving by the sink, her brown eyes flicked from my steaming mug of coffee to the empty pot. I shrugged and flicked the switch to get it brewing. What could I say?

      Ivy pushed herself into motion, setting an empty mug on the counter. She smoothed her severely straight black hair, bringing herself back to at least looking calm and collected. “You’re upset,” she said, her anger at Kisten making her voice rough. “What’s up?”

      I pulled my backstage passes out and clipped them to the fridge with a tomato magnet. My thought went to Nick, then to rolling on the floor evading pixy snowballs. And mustn’t forget the joy of hearing her threaten Kisten over my blood that she wasn’t ever going to taste. Golly, so much to choose from. “Nothing,” I said softly.

      Long and sleek in her blue jeans and shirt, she crossed her arms and leaned against the counter beside the coffeemaker to wait for it to finish. Her thin lips pressed together and she breathed deeply. “You’ve been crying. What is it?”

      Surprise stopped me cold. She knew I had been crying? Damn. It had only been three tears. At the stoplight. And I had wiped them away before they even dribbled out. I glanced at the empty hallway, not wanting Kisten to know. “I’ll tell you later, okay?”

      Ivy followed my gaze to the archway. Puzzlement crinkled the skin about her brown eyes. Then understanding crashed over her; she knew I’d been dumped. She blinked, and I watched her, relieved when the first flicker of blood lust at my new, available status quickly died.

      Living vampires didn’t need blood to remain sane, as undead vampires did. They still craved it, though, choosing whom they took it from with care, usually following their sexual preferences on the happy chance that sex might be included in the mix. But the taking of blood could range in importance from confirming a deep platonic friendship to the shallowness of a one-night stand. Like most living vamps, Ivy said she didn’t equate blood with sex, but I did. The sensations a vampire could pull from me were too close to sexual ecstasy to think otherwise.

      After twice being slammed into the wall by ley line energy, Ivy got the message that though I was her friend, I would never, ever, say yes to her. It had been easier after she resumed practicing, too, with her slacking her needs somewhere else and coming home satiated, relaxed, and quietly self-loathing for having given in again.

      Over the summer she seemed to have turned her energies from trying to convince me that her biting me wasn’t sex to ensuring that no other vampire would hit on me. If she couldn’t have my blood, then no one could, and she had devoted herself in a disturbing, yet flattering, drive to keep other vampires from taking advantage of my demon scar and luring me into becoming their shadow. Living with her gave me protection from them—protection I wasn’t ashamed to accept—and in return I was her unconditional friend. And whereas that might seem one-sided, it wasn’t.

      Ivy was a high-maintenance friend, jealous of anyone who attracted my attention, though she hid it well. She barely tolerated Nick. Kisten, though, seemed exempt, which made me oh-so-warm and fuzzy inside. And as I took up my coffee, I found myself hoping she would go out tonight and satisfy that damned blood lust of hers so she wouldn’t be looking at me like a hungry panther the rest of the week.

      Feeling the tension shift from anger to speculation, I looked at the unfinished pot brewing, thinking only of escaping the room. “You want mine?” I said. “I haven’t drunk any.”

      My head turned at Kisten’s masculine chuckle. He had appeared without warning in the doorway. “I haven’t drunk any either,” he said suggestively. “I’d like some if you’re offering.”

      A flush of memory took me, of Kisten and me in that elevator: my fingers playing with the silky strands of his blond-dyed hair at the nape of his neck, the day-old stubble he cultivated to give his delicate features a rugged cast harsh against my skin, his lips both soft and aggressive as he tasted the salt on me, the feel of his hands at the small of my back pressing me into him. Damn.

      I pulled my eyes from him, forcing my hand down from my neck where I had been unconsciously touching my demon scar to feel it tingle, stimulated by the vamp pheromones he was unconsciously putting out. Double damn.

      Pleased with himself, he sat in Ivy’s chair, clearly guessing where my thoughts were. But looking ‘at his well-put-together body, it was hard to think of anything else.

      Kisten was a living vamp, too, his bloodline going back as far as Ivy’s. He had once been Piscary’s scion, and the glow of sharing blood with the undead vampire showed in him still. Though he often acted the playboy by dressing in biker leather and affecting a bad British accent, he used it to hide his business savvy. He was smart. And fast. And while not as powerful as an undead vampire, he was stronger than his compact build and slim waistline suggested.

      Today he was dressed conservatively in a silk shirt tucked into dark slacks, clearly trying to be the professional as he took on more of Piscary’s business interests now that the vampire languished in prison. The only hints to Kisten’s bad-boy side were the gunmetal gray chain he wore about his neck—twin to the pair Ivy wore about her ankle—and the two diamond studs he had in each ear. At least there were supposed to be two in each ear. Someone had torn one out to leave a nasty tear.

      Kisten lounged in Ivy’s chair with his immaculate shoes provocatively spread, leaning back as he took in the moods drifting about the room. I found my hand creeping up to my neck again, and I scowled. He was trying to bespell me, get in my head and shift my thoughts and decisions. It wouldn’t work. Only the undead could bespell the unwilling, and he couldn’t lean on Piscary’s strength any longer to give him the increased abilities of an undead vampire.

      Ivy pulled the brewed coffee out from under the funnel. “Leave Rachel alone,” she said, clearly the dominant of the two. “Nick just dumped her.”

      My breath caught and I stared at her, aghast. I hadn’t wanted him to know!

      “Well …” Kisten murmured, leaning forward to put his elbows on his knees. “He was no good for you anyway, love.”

      Bothered, I put the island counter between us. “It’s Rachel. Not love.”

      “Rachel,” he said softly, and my heart pounded at the compulsion he put in it. I glanced out the window to the snowy gray garden and the tombstones beyond. What the Turn was I doing standing in my kitchen with two hungry vamps when the sun was going down? Didn’t they have somewhere to go? People to bite, that weren’t me?

      “He didn’t dump me,” I said as I grabbed the fish food and fed Mr. Fish. I could see Kisten’s reflection watching me in the dark window. “He’s out of town for a few days. Gave me his key to check on everything and pick up his mail.”

      “Oh.” Kisten glanced sidelong at Ivy. “A long excursion?”

      Flustered, I set the fish food down and turned. “He said he was coming back,” I protested, my face tightening as I heard the ugly truth behind my words. Why would Nick say he’d be coming back unless it had occurred to him not to?

      As