On The Run With A Vampire

11. Lucien

CHAPTER 11

LUCIEN

Ms. Hartley’s insistence that I no longer use my talents means, instead of waltzing into the morgue with all the confidence in the world, we’re relegated to clinging to the shadows and ducking into corridors whenever someone passes by.

What a sight the two of us—me, in a suit with a gaping hole in the back, and Ms. Hartley in her house slippers and loungewear—must be, slinking through the morgue corridors like absurdly dressed creatures of the night.

The irony of the situation is not lost on me.

Though I think this might just be the most effort I’ve extended towards anything in decades. Perhaps even a century. The funny thing is, I don’t loathe it. Not at all. In fact, I’m quite enjoying it. Every time a frazzled or tired-looking employee scurries down the corridor and Ms. Hartley and I are forced to melt into the shadows or pretend to be very interested in a nearby filing cabinet, a jolt of adrenaline shoots through me.

This is…fun.

And when was the last time I had fun?

I can’t quite temper the grin that takes over my face as a woman in scrubs emerges at the top of the corridor, her face buried in a manila folder. Usually, this is where I’d wave a hand in front of her face and command her to keep on walking without glancing up in our direction, but not today.

A closet appears on our left, and I glance down to catch Ms. Hartley’s eye. My grin falters slightly. Ms. Hartley is grim-faced, staring directly ahead, her lovely lips pursed into a grimace.

“Is—” I begin, but the woman up ahead sneezes suddenly and starts to look up from whatever it is in that folder that’s caught her attention.

That lovely dose of adrenaline hits me again as I reach for the closet handle, tug it open, and pull Ms. Hartley inside with me.

The closet’s primary use seems to be for storing stationery. There are shelves full of pens, staplers, and stacks of paper against all three walls, leaving very little space for Ms. Hartley and me. She’s pressed up against me, one hand inadvertently resting on my chest in an attempt to put some space between us.

It doesn’t do her much good.

We’re close enough that I can feel each slightly panicked breath fanning against the base of my neck with every deep exhale she lets out.

I frown as I stare down at her. Her features are still twisted into the same serious grimace as before, and her heart…

Thud.

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Thud.

Thud.

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ThudThudThud.

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“Your heartbeat,” I say. “It’s… It’s quite irregular.”

Ms. Hartley snorts. “You don’t say.”

“No.” I shake my head. “Your normal heartbeat is slow, but it still has a rhythm.” A beautiful symphony I’ve become quite attuned to. “But this… This is…” I trail off and focus again, letting the sound of her beating heart fill my senses. In the back of my mind, I feel a familiar pinprick of desire and bloodlust. Just from the way her heartbeat echoes in my mind, I know she’d taste magnificent.

I shake my head again, this time to clear my own increasingly debauched thoughts. “It’s very erratic currently. Are you alright?”

Ms. Hartley shifts uncomfortably against me, her hand still lightly resting on my chest. She looks up and her eyes meet mine briefly before darting away.

“I’m fine,” she murmurs, still determinedly looking anywhere but at me. Given the confines of our current predicament, it’s not an easy feat. “It just does that sometimes. Nothing to worry about. I’m fine.”

Her attempt at nonchalance is just that: an attempt. A failed one, might I add.

“You are not fine.” I study her closely, my concern mounting despite her pathetic attempt to brush it off. “I assume this has something to do with the arrhythmia you mentioned earlier?”

She nods stiffly, her jaw clenched.

“And what happens if this sudden irregularity continues?”

ThudThudThudThud.

Thud.

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Thud. Thud.

“I die,” she says simply, her voice nothing more than a strained whisper.

Alarm jolts through me like an electrical current. “Well, we can’t have that, can we?”

Despite everything, Ms. Hartley manages a small, wry smile. “Ideally not.”

“What do you need?”

She shakes her head. “I just need to ground myself. To relax.”

“Then do it.”

She shoots me another murderous glare. “It’s not that easy. I can’t just make my brain forget that I’ve been accused of murder and we’re about to break into a morgue to inspect a dead body?—”

“This was your idea, Ms. Hartley,” I remind her.

“I know,” she hisses. “I just— This is a lot, Lucien. Just give me—I can do this—” Her chest heaves with another round of panicked, frantic breaths. “I just need—I just need?—”

I lift a hand and she flinches away, jerking backward with enough force that her head rattles the shelf behind her.

My hand falters in the air. “I’m not going to strike you, Ms. Hartley.” That she would even think so is nothing short of insulting.

“I know. I know. I just—” She licks her lips and stares up at me through wide, desperate eyes. “I don’t want you to do that mind thing on me again.”

Ah.

Slowly, so as not to startle her again, I reach out and run my forefinger gently along her jawline, tilting her chin up so that her eyes meet mine. The fear in them is palpable, and I feel a surprisingly strong pang of remorse for having caused it in the first place.

“I promise you,” I murmur. “I will never use my abilities on you again without your explicit consent. I want you to be certain that every moment you spend in my presence is your decision.”

Ms. Hartley’s breath hitches, and I expect her to jerk away from my touch. But she doesn’t. Instead, she nods and her eyes search mine. It’s been a long time since someone looked at me like that.

I don’t hate it.

A few seconds pass and then Ms. Hartley exhales slowly, her eyes flutter shut, and then, to my surprise, she relaxes into my touch.

If my heart were functional, I imagine it would skip a beat or two right now. Because the sight of Ms. Hartley before me, lips parted slightly, cheeks flushed, her head resting delicately against my hand, is enough to take anyone’s breath away.

If I weren’t staring directly at her, it’s possible I might mistake what I’m feeling right now for bloodlust. But this is more than just the desire to push her hair to the side, sink my fangs into the soft skin on her neck, and feast on the warm, pulsating blood flowing through her veins.

This is different.

My hand starts to move of its own volition. It slides back against her cheek until my fingers are brushing against her soft curls. I want to pull her in close. I want to feel more than just the faint whisper of her breath against my skin. I want to feel her.

Her lips. Her skin. Her warmth.

Everything.

The ferocity of the emotions currently crashing down over me is enough to pull me back to reality. I snatch my hand away from her face and jerk as far back as our cramped quarters will allow. Which, sadly, is not very far at all.

I can still feel her heart beating against my chest.

Thud.

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Thud.

Good. Back to normal. The surge of relief that hits me is so strong, I’m certain I must be going insane.

“Is something wrong?”

Rather belatedly, I realise that Ms. Hartley’s eyes are no longer closed and she’s staring at me, a hint of worry in her gaze.

“Of course,” I say brusquely, clearing my throat. “What could possibly be wrong?”

Other than the fact that I’ve apparently lost all grip on reality and am lusting over a human. A human ! A very nice human, mind you,—beautiful, headstrong, determined—but a human all the same.

Mother would have a stroke if she knew.

Ms. Hartley surveys me carefully, her eyes narrowing with obvious suspicion. I wonder what emotions are currently painted across my face right now. It’s been so long since I last felt anything even remotely similar to this, I’m not even sure how to go about masking what I’m currently feeling.

I opt for what I hope is a nonchalant smile. Ms. Hartley gives me a blank look, and I have to assume I failed on the nonchalant front.

“I can assure you, everything is fine. Now,” I incline my head towards the door. “If you’ve got your temperamental heart back under control…”

It’s a low blow but it serves its purpose perfectly.

Ms. Hartley scowls at me, any trace of concern for me wiped from her face in an instant. “I do.”

“Then let’s continue with the plan.”

She gives me a curt nod, and I extend my senses beyond our cramped little cupboard. I can hear several heartbeats in the building, but the only heartbeat on our floor currently belongs to Ms. Hartley.

And it is mesmerising .

I feel myself starting to get lost in the slow rhythm of it all, and I forcibly shake my head. Must concentrate. Will deal with the alarming attraction to my accomplice later.

Much, much later. Perhaps when there are a few hundred miles between us.

“Come along, Ms. Hartley,” I say as I push open the door and step out into the hall. The much-needed space between the two of us should cause relief, but I only find myself missing the warmth of her body pressed up against mine. “We’ve got a body to inspect.”

There are three bodies in the morgue.

Ms. Hartley visibly blanches when I pull the white sheet off the first body. It’s an elderly man with mottled skin and, as far as I can tell, no further injuries.

“Looks like he died peacefully,” I say as I replace the sheet and move on to the next body.

“You think so?” Ms. Hartley’s voice is barely above a whisper. She’s still staring at the now-covered body.

Against my better judgement, I reach for Ms. Hartley’s hand and give it a squeeze. “I’ve seen enough corpses in my time to know when there are nefarious forces at play.”

She swallows. “Right. OK. Next one?”

Lying on the next table is a woman, but it’s not the woman we’re looking for. I remember the image of Ms. Cathy Corrigan from the news bulletin, and the woman in front of us is definitely not her.

“They both look so peaceful,” Ms. Hartley whispers as I pull the sheet back over the victim’s face. “Like they could just be sleeping.”

She starts to move towards the third and final gurney, but I pull her back and hold her in place.

“What?” she says, frowning at me over her shoulder.

“I just want you to brace yourself.” I nod towards the last gurney. “That is most likely going to be our alleged victim, and I doubt she’ll be resting as peacefully as the other two.”

It takes a moment for what I’m saying to sink in, but then Ms. Hartley’s eyes widen and she swallows again. “Oh. Right.”

Her fingers squeeze mine tightly, though I’m not entirely convinced she’s aware. She’s still staring, wide-eyed, at the sheet-clad corpse.

“You don’t need to be here for this,” I say. “Wait outside, and I’ll report back.”

For a brief moment, it seems like she’s going to agree, but then she takes a deep breath, squares her shoulders, and shakes her head. “No. I need to be here for this. Cathy—that was her name, right? She deserved better than this—” Ms. Hartley gestures to the grim, sterile room we’re standing in. “She deserves to have someone out there fighting for her.”

“That someone doesn’t need to be you,” I say softly.

“It doesn’t,” Ms. Hartley concedes. “But you wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for me, would you?”

I don’t answer, but we both know the truth. If Ms. Hartley weren’t unfortunately mixed up in all this—my fault, I know—I would’ve already been halfway to Blaine’s estate by now.

She gives me a lopsided smile. “That’s what I thought. I’m here now, and I’m going to see this through. This isn’t just about me trying to get my life back. It’s for Cathy. For all the victims. So just—” She takes another deep breath. “Just do it. Pull the sheet off.”

“Are you?—”

“Do it, Lucien.”

There’s something steely in her voice that tells me she won’t ask a third time. I step in front of her, wrap my fingers around the edge of the sheet, and then pull.

Ms. Hartley’s mouth falls open in a soundless gasp.

Cathy Corrigan lies before us on the gurney. Her hair is matted with shrubbery, sticks, and soil; her lip is split in multiple places, and there are dark purple and green bruises starting on her cheekbone and trailing all the way down her body.

We both inch closer to the gurney.

“Fucking hell,” Ms. Hartley says, her voice cracking on the word “hell.” “Who—Why?”

I find myself thinking the exact same question. It might seem hypocritical for a creature who survives by taking the lives of others to be affected by a corpse, but this is just wrong. It’s clear whoever did this to Ms. Corrigan showed no regard for the life they were about to take.

“Did a vampire do this?” Ms. Hartley asks.

“I’m not sure.”

There are two fang-sized pinpricks on Ms. Corrigan’s neck, but there’s something off about them.

“See there,” I point to the two small holes. “Those could be evidence of a vampire’s bite, but they’re in the wrong place.”

Ms. Hartley wrinkles her nose as she peers a little closer. “They look like they’re in the right place to me.”

I shake my head. “There’s a certain spot you need to hit in order to feed.” I reach out and lightly tap the spot on Ms. Hartley’s neck. It’s warm. Inviting.

No , Lucien. Focus on the task at hand, and not Ms. Hartley’s lovely neck. I drop my hand.

“That is where a vampire would bite you if they were feeding from you. The marks on the body are a good three centimetres south of where they need to be.”

Ms. Hartley doesn’t look convinced. “Is it really that important? Surely if you suck hard enough, you’ll get what you need?”

“In theory, yes. But it makes the job a lot harder. And we also have to account for the bruising.”

“Is that not normal?”

“Not at all,” I say grimly. “I mean this in the kindest way possible, but you humans are incredibly weak. There’s not a vampire out there who would need to do this much damage to subdue a human. Remember, Ms. Hartley. We vampires kill to survive. This isn’t survival. There’s still at least three litres of blood in her. Whoever did this wasn’t feeding.”

The implication of that is incredibly unsettling.

“Yeah?” Disgust colours her voice. “So maybe they didn’t need to do it. Maybe they wanted to hurt her.”

And the implication of that is even worse.

Ms. Hartley exhales an obviously frustrated breath. “So you’re saying it wasn’t a vampire?”

“I—I’m not confident either way.”

“What about a werewolf?” Ms. Hartley suggests. “Or something else supernatural? A ghost? A zombie? I’d be willing to consider Santa Claus at this point.”

“Werewolf victims tend to be, shall we say, unrecognisable. Ghosts can’t leave corporeal injuries. You’ll know a zombie bite when you see one. And I believe Santa is tied up at the North Pole at this time of the year.”

Ms. Hartley blinks at me. Once. Twice. “Santa is real?”

I lift a brow. “Should I be concerned that that is your biggest takeaway here?”

She gives me a wry smile. “Right. So you don’t think our murderer is someone supernatural?”

“I don’t know.” I glance back down at the body. The bruises. The split lip. The residue in her hair that suggests she was carelessly discarded someplace dark and dirty. Anger pricks at my senses. “But I can tell you this with the utmost certainty, Ms. Hartley. We’re going to find out.”