Johan is gay and has been interested in only one man for centuries, so why does this mortal woman pull at him so?
When a hooker on the stroll is kidnapped under his very nose, Johan's interest is piqued, so he follows. Joined by his lover, Petre, the two vampires find themselves in the midst of a mystery.
Once rescued, the lovely Miranda becomes a playmate for the two lusty men, but again, she vanishes.
Who is the luscious blonde woman, and who could possibly be so interested in a whore? And why do these mysterious someones want her dead?
Hidden in the shadows of the doorway, Johan stood silently, watching. The scene in the square in front of him reminded him of one of those fifties noir movies he tried very hard to miss. Tall, sultry blonde woman, spiked heels clattering on the rain slick pavement and her long legs looking at least twice as long as they had any right to be, sashaying back and forth along that one little stretch of sidewalk. Her little black skirt was short and when she walked, her pink panties played peek-a-boo.
Cars slowed, some stopped, but not as many as her looks suggested should linger. Her tits alone were worth a second, even a third look, if you were into tits—which Johan was when he wanted woman flesh. That didn’t happen often, but she caught his eye, made his cock twitch. The little white blouse she almost wore covered about a quarter of what it needed to. Her sleek, white belly gleamed in the streetlights, or headlights, when a car cruised by.
Maybe it was her lips that grabbed him. Plump and red, with a bee-stung look. That’s what they used to call those kind of lips, he recalled. Even from the distance, he could see that her eyes were pale blue and the lashes couldn’t be real. No one had lashes that thick. Her scent was thick, rich, filled with blood and the luxurious smell of a woman in heat. Perhaps it was that smell that attracted him.
Johan leaned back against the wall, sliding his full length leather coat back and exposed the growing bulge in the tight matching slacks. The only colour he’d worn that evening was the deep purple silk shirt. Petre loved it on him and had asked him to wear it.
Petre, his lover, his mate, how he adored the slender, golden man. Thinking about him brought a smile, and another stirring in his crotch. My, but he was horny.
Movement. A car—one of those low, expensive jobs with the tinted windows and too much horsepower—pulled up to the curb and stopped a few feet from his girl.
Nose in the air, she insolently flipped that luscious long hair over her shoulder and turned away. He thought he caught a frown wrinkle her brow, but he wasn’t sure. For a moment, she looked like she might walk away. But she must have thought better of it. Maybe rent was due or the fridge was empty—something made her turn herself around.
With a fake smile plastered on her face, she sidled on over to the passenger’s side door and bent forward.
Johan would have given anything to be standing behind her at that moment. Bad planning, he chastised himself.
A few words exchanged and the would-be client pulled away with a chirp of his tires. Johns, he thought. The guy must have thought he could have her for the price of a ride in his big fancy—car.
Chuckling, Johan listened for prey, and heard nothing. Quiet nights were tough on the grocery list.
He ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth, licked the sharp incisors.
From the alley across the street and to his left stumbled the wretched remains of a woman he’d seen over the years, once vital, but age and hard wear had taken their toll. Her sunken eyes peered vacantly up and down the empty street. Threadbare clothing hung off emaciated shoulders, thankfully covering her from chin to toe. Turning to her left, the ancient relic plodded away, seeking refuge in whatever empty barrow she could find.
Johan had seen her before on his nightly excursions, often feeding on the refuse of someone else’s trash. She’d live a while longer, her drug habit ensuring her own private pleasures. He couldn’t imagine himself hungry enough to harvest her.
A squeal of tires from his lady’s side of the street pulled his attention that way. Another car, less flashy, more nondescript, pulled to a stop beside her. Two men—one enormous and obese, soft looking, the other, a runt by comparison—leapt out of the back doors and were on her in a flash.
“No,” she snarled when the two men grabbed her, one to an arm. She kicked and jerked her arms, writhing in their grasp. “Le’ me go, you bastards!”
“Cool it, babe. You ain’t going anywhere but where we want,” growled one of the goons. Using one hand to hold her, he moved the other over the woman freely, and his grin was horrible to see.
Johan took a step into the street, contemplating a rescue. It’d been years since he’d bowed to that temptation. Before he made up his mind, the girl was tossed into the back seat and both men had joined her. Her shriek was the last thing he heard before the car sped away.
Too late, he raced for the vehicle.
Another car crept towards him. Behind the wheel crouched a balding middle-aged man who peered at the sidewalk, obviously looking for a play partner.
Johan couldn’t take the chance of changing, and walked after the car with its fascinating cargo. He’d find her, and he’d rescue her. Then he’d find out what had so captured his attention.
Entering the nearest alley, he glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one was watching him. Nothing and no one was within sight. Even balding Joe Average had passed by.
Crouching, he let his body relax for the length of time it would have taken his heart to go from one beat to the next, and then he leapt. On the rise, his fingertips lengthened, the nails toughened and curved into claws. Two floors up the side of the building the bricks were rough, ideal for clinging to in his other form. He morphed, but only partially. There seemed no need to transform fully into the bat.
He leapt again, his coat flapping in the light breeze, slapping at his long legs on the way up another floor. As if in some weird slow motion, he counted the bricks on the assent, then when he hung at the apex of his flight, he reached out and simply hooked his nails into the cement between them. His weight dragged on the nails, his fingers ached. His boot-clad toes found their own niches. He clung easily, peering around for some sign of the car. Nothing.
He clambered to the roof and scuttled along its edge. Rooftops and the sides of taller buildings were like a giant puzzle and stretched out too far in all directions. Lights from the distant structures diminished the true light of the stars, and he missed their glow.
The woman was there. He caught a hint of her scent on the wind. He turned and gazed to the west, towards the water. Yes, there. He flipped his coat back and gauged the leap, then sprang into the air.
His fingers touched, gripped, and he hauled himself up to the rusty tin roof. Quickly on his feet, he jogged to the far side of the warehouse. Yes, the car—he caught a glimpse of it a hundred yards away.
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