involved over being treated like a gutter whore.
He’d seen it a thousand times. They came to Texas for something better, and perhaps they found it—but the milk of human unkindness was as bitter in Austin as it was in Mexico.
Maria was nineteen, and her Spanish was lightning fast. She spoke of her friends still out on the dance floor, and of the guy who’d stuck his tongue in her ear an hour ago, and of the merits of Patrón over Cuervo. She was nervous. A handsome man in black had slid in behind her on the dance floor, his hands wrapping around her hips and drawing her back against him, and her will went completely slack. Her friends had elbowed each other, and he knew what they were thinking: rich white man .
The human mind was astonishingly easy to manipulate. They were almost always open to gentle suggestion, and few knew how to shield. It was that manipulation, ironically, that enabled his kind to feed without hurting anyone . . . when they bothered to do so.
He drew Maria to the corner and pressed against her, feeling her small hands and long fingernails clench his upper arms. She had no intention of saying no , but still, he turned so that if she wanted she could still get away, even as he took firmer hold of her mind and tilted her chin back.
The smell of her skin—perfume, yes, but beneath that soap and sweat and the intoxicating scent of the feminine and mortality—brought his hunger out full force. His teeth scratched lightly over her neck, and he lowered his head and struck.
Her body tightened, but his hold over her was too strong to allow her to panic. She moaned and ground her hips into his. He ran power through her, heightening her arousal until she moaned again; desire and pleasure strengthened the blood, and flavored it with an undertone of sex and chocolate, thick and hot. She also had the faint taste of frankincense—a good Catholic girl.
He drank until he felt the itch in his jaw fade, and until her heartbeat fell into rhythm with his. Beyond that point, taking more could injure her. This was all he needed, and would affect her about as much as donating at the blood and tissue center.
He lifted his mouth from her skin and licked the two tiny holes. They would be gone by midmorning.
Maria sagged back against the wall, and he held her up for a moment, carefully planting suggestions in her mind: She’d met a man, they’d danced and had a few drinks, and then she’d gone home. She could fill in the details with her own imagination. She was to get in the cab that would be waiting outside and return to her apartment, eat something, and then sleep.
He watched her walk back down the stairs in her stiletto heels, wondering for the thousandth time why women in this century hadn’t jettisoned such patriarchal masochism. Once he saw her walk out of the club, where his guards would steer her into the Yellow Cab and pay the driver, he took the stairs and left himself.
The night was hot and humid from the recent rain, but for his kind it was just warm enough. The only real reason he wore his coat this time of year was to conceal his weapons from the teeming mortal crowd of Sixth Street.
He lifted his wrist and said into the com, “Star-three.”
A chiming noise told him he’d connected. “Yes, Sire?”
“Report.”
“As you requested, I came to check on your guest. I’m there now.”
He blinked. “Still?”
“Yes. We’re . . . having a conversation about . . . things.”
Oh. That conversation. “How’s she taking it?”
“Unclear at this point. I’ll keep you apprised.”
“Star-one, out.”
He smiled faintly at the thought of how Miranda had reacted to finding out exactly what she’d blundered into.
He was about to call the car to take him back to the Haven, when a second chime, higher-pitched, issued from the com.
“Yes?” he asked.
“Sire . . . Elite Twenty-seven here reporting from Patrol Three. We have a situation and request your intervention.”
Her voice was
He’d seen it a thousand times. They came to Texas for something better, and perhaps they found it—but the milk of human unkindness was as bitter in Austin as it was in Mexico.
Maria was nineteen, and her Spanish was lightning fast. She spoke of her friends still out on the dance floor, and of the guy who’d stuck his tongue in her ear an hour ago, and of the merits of Patrón over Cuervo. She was nervous. A handsome man in black had slid in behind her on the dance floor, his hands wrapping around her hips and drawing her back against him, and her will went completely slack. Her friends had elbowed each other, and he knew what they were thinking: rich white man .
The human mind was astonishingly easy to manipulate. They were almost always open to gentle suggestion, and few knew how to shield. It was that manipulation, ironically, that enabled his kind to feed without hurting anyone . . . when they bothered to do so.
He drew Maria to the corner and pressed against her, feeling her small hands and long fingernails clench his upper arms. She had no intention of saying no , but still, he turned so that if she wanted she could still get away, even as he took firmer hold of her mind and tilted her chin back.
The smell of her skin—perfume, yes, but beneath that soap and sweat and the intoxicating scent of the feminine and mortality—brought his hunger out full force. His teeth scratched lightly over her neck, and he lowered his head and struck.
Her body tightened, but his hold over her was too strong to allow her to panic. She moaned and ground her hips into his. He ran power through her, heightening her arousal until she moaned again; desire and pleasure strengthened the blood, and flavored it with an undertone of sex and chocolate, thick and hot. She also had the faint taste of frankincense—a good Catholic girl.
He drank until he felt the itch in his jaw fade, and until her heartbeat fell into rhythm with his. Beyond that point, taking more could injure her. This was all he needed, and would affect her about as much as donating at the blood and tissue center.
He lifted his mouth from her skin and licked the two tiny holes. They would be gone by midmorning.
Maria sagged back against the wall, and he held her up for a moment, carefully planting suggestions in her mind: She’d met a man, they’d danced and had a few drinks, and then she’d gone home. She could fill in the details with her own imagination. She was to get in the cab that would be waiting outside and return to her apartment, eat something, and then sleep.
He watched her walk back down the stairs in her stiletto heels, wondering for the thousandth time why women in this century hadn’t jettisoned such patriarchal masochism. Once he saw her walk out of the club, where his guards would steer her into the Yellow Cab and pay the driver, he took the stairs and left himself.
The night was hot and humid from the recent rain, but for his kind it was just warm enough. The only real reason he wore his coat this time of year was to conceal his weapons from the teeming mortal crowd of Sixth Street.
He lifted his wrist and said into the com, “Star-three.”
A chiming noise told him he’d connected. “Yes, Sire?”
“Report.”
“As you requested, I came to check on your guest. I’m there now.”
He blinked. “Still?”
“Yes. We’re . . . having a conversation about . . . things.”
Oh. That conversation. “How’s she taking it?”
“Unclear at this point. I’ll keep you apprised.”
“Star-one, out.”
He smiled faintly at the thought of how Miranda had reacted to finding out exactly what she’d blundered into.
He was about to call the car to take him back to the Haven, when a second chime, higher-pitched, issued from the com.
“Yes?” he asked.
“Sire . . . Elite Twenty-seven here reporting from Patrol Three. We have a situation and request your intervention.”
Her voice was
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