Chapter Three: Nicolette

Damien took a step back and I turned, spinning on one foot, my braid whipping my shoulder. If he took one step near her, I’d kill him; if she got out of that coffin and I didn’t catch up, though, more Hunters would rain down and I’d be fucked.

His footsteps pounded in the opposite direction as I ran for the grave. Guy had some brains, at least. Wood groaned and snapped; I halted at the foot of the grave to peer down.

The girl had light hair, lank over her shoulders and in her eyes. She cowered still in the coffin, back against the dirt of her grave that rose high above her head.

Vampires were more often than not on the batshit crazy end of the sanity scale when they first awake. By-product of having a demon in your brain, maybe, or perhaps it was spending ten years in stasis that did it. She wasn’t the first I’d dealt with the past few years and wouldn’t be the last.

At least she hadn’t had to crawl her way out of the grave.

I hopped into the hole, landing on the solid lower lid of the coffin, as she’d just torn up the top half, and dropped into a crouch. “Nicolette?”

Her gaze found mine and mouth opened in a wordless cry. Tears edged her terror stricken eyes and she curled inward, wrapping her bloody hands around her knees.

“Nicolette?” I hoped like hell she wasn’t francophone only as her name suggested, else I’d be screwed—I had like three French phrases in my arsenal and as one related to finding directions for the nearest shoe store and the other two for soliciting sex from random hot Parisian guys, I was out of luck if she couldn’t do English.

She looked up through her pale hair, expression more lucid than I was used to with new vamps. “Où suis-je? ”

Ah, hell. “Je ne parle pas Francais. English only. This is Canada after all, for fuck’s sake.”

“Annalise?”

Oh, that was not a conversation I was looking forward to having. “Couldn’t make it,” I said instead of explaining “I killed her horribly but it was totally self-defence.” I would hate to have to kill the newbie before we left the cemetery if she attacked me. “I’m Zara and I’ll help you.”

She simply gazed at me, lips trembling.

“Are you understanding anything I’m saying?”

No response. At least she hadn’t attacked me yet.

I eased up and grabbed the cooler from beside the grave. I had a few packs of blood on ice, all snagged from a dealer I knew. Stealing from the Red Cross was so 1990s; these days anyone who didn’t want to go out and hunt usually got it from the VBA—Vampire Blood Association. I had absolutely zero friends among the Montreal chapter, since their current chairman—Felix Laurent—had tried to kill my would-be boyfriend once upon a time, but a stack of cash and the promise that I wouldn’t seek retribution for said attempt on would-be boyfriend’s life gained me an emergency supply of blood with which to feed Mlle Levesque before she went crazy and tried to kill everyone.

I popped the white lid. “You’re probably hungry. It’s much more fun to eat small children—believe me—but things are a bit different these days. They issue Amber Alerts and it’s not as easy as just killing their parents and family afterward so no one misses them. This’ll have to do.” I slid out a bag thick with a litre of blood and punctured the edge with the point of a juice box straw. “Here.”

Nicolette shrank back, staring at the bag as if it might bite her.

“Um...not warm enough?” Jeez, not like I had a fucking microwave to cart to the cemetery. “Just feed and we’ll get you something better later. Promise. I’ll bring home take-out.”

But Nicolette was having none of it. She cowered and whimpered, practically trembling. I sat back on my heels. What the hell? I’d done my research ahead of time. Annalise Jean turned this girl ten years ago—nearly five years before she died herself. I saw Nicolette’s death records. I found the trail that led back to Annalise, paying off the funeral director so the new vamp wouldn’t be embalmed but just buried on her own and easily retrieved. This wasn’t some random girl in a grave—it was a goddamn vampire, and all the vamps I’d managed to recover so far tore open the bag, slathering blood all over themselves in the attempt to feed. It wasn’t pretty but it was natural in our wake cycle. What the hell was going on?

I pressed the straw to my lips and took a sip, trying not to make a face. That shit was just unnatural when it was cold. “Mmm,” I mumbled around the straw with exaggeration, and pulled it from my lips again to ease it in her direction. “See? Safe. Have a sip. You’ll feel better.”

She wouldn’t take it. Son of a bitch.

I set the blood bag down and stood up to rifle through the cooler. Somewhere in there I’d shoved—there it was. French-English dictionary, just in case. I dropped back in the grave, sat cross-legged on the lower half of the coffin, pulled a penlight from my belt, and flipped the book open.

Here we go. “Uh, manger.” I snatched up the bag again and held it toward her, gaze still locked on the book. “Tu manges...uh... le blood.” Another glance at her but nope, didn’t seem to be helping. Stupid Pepé Le Pew and the lack of usable French I picked up watching cartoons. Creepy rapist bastard.

If she wasn’t going to eat right away, I had to get her home immediately. Damien might be back with some friends and I wasn’t in the mood to play Seductress Distraction. I tossed the book and the blood back in the cooler, dropped the lid, and reached to help her up. When she curled more tightly into herself, sobbing in the corner, I gave up all pretences of being nice and firmly hauled her to her feet. I had a grave to re-cover and a new vampire to drive across province lines to my apartment before daylight.

Doing nice things for others never seemed to work out for me.

Nicolette Levesque cowered in the back of my Porsche for the entire drive. That she hadn’t run off while I shovelled dirt back onto her grave had me relieved and that she hadn’t tried to claw my eyes out yet from insanity seemed fucking miraculous.

I had a spacious apartment—in an old factory converted into a loft, which was my favourite kind—with an underground garage, and I wheeled the car in with a half hour left ’til dawn. I’d left the cooler of blood with Nicolette but she didn’t touch it. Damn problem child.

I coaxed her out of the back and inspected the seat. Flecks of blood, chunks of dirt...wonderful—I’d need the interior cleaned. My fingers folded around her rail thin forearm and hauled her after me, the cooler in my other hand and bumping my leg as I walked. I needed sleep. And a shower. And to feed. And what order I’d do it all in was still up in the air, especially with a new addition to take care of.

She huddled in the corner of the big, rattling industrial elevator on the way up, hair hanging thick and greasy over her eyes. Her black dress was hideous, like someone had dug up a dead old lady, took her frock, donated it to the Sally Ann, and then some idiot bought it and stuffed this poor blonde thirty-something into it to be buried; the skirt hung to her knees with too many yards of fabric hanging from her narrow hips, the sleeves were long, the neck was high. She tottered on plain black pumps and was at least my height if not an inch taller. Man, it would suck coming out of your grave dressed like that. Or being buried like that. I wondered if they had an open casket.

The elevator came to a halt; I grabbed Nicolette again and dragged her inside.

Home sweet home—hardwood floors, red brick walls, original support beams. There was drywall here and there to block off a separate bedroom and bathroom under the stairs, and to section off my bedroom up in the loft, but just about everything else was original to the very old building.

“This is where I live,” I said as is I flipped the light on. “This is also where you now live.” I pointed to the huge windows across from us on the north wall. Custom thick blinds were fitted in place, and while they looked stylish, the slats were made of steel. I no longer took chances with people breaking my windows during daylight. “Those stay closed or we’ll both fry.” To be safe, I’d hide out in my room until sunset just case she went crazy and opened them.

The frail girl had to be starving but I’d given up on trying to force her to eat; instead I left the cooler by the front door, took her by the shoulders, and marched her toward the room under the stairs. I’d done nothing with it: walls were white, the bed was a queen size with crisp white sheets, and a white shelf sat empty in the corner. A bag with yoga pants and tank tops in three different sizes sat on the end of the bed, all with their tags on them—I hadn’t been sure what would fit her, but surely she’d find something.

I left her standing by the bed, leaned around the corner, and flicked the bathroom light on to reveal a room as starkly white as the bedroom. It wasn’t glamorous either—tub, sink, toilet, and not even a proper vanity—but it was a hell of a lot better than a coffin.

Funny how many times I got to say that over the years.

“Okay, there’s shampoo and soap and a brush and stuff. No razors yet—you can shave your legs when I’m sure you’re not going to try to cut me or you and get blood all over my floor. Clothes are in the bag on the bed. Get cleaned, get changed, and then we’ll talk about food again.” She possibly didn’t have a fucking clue what I’d said but pointing at the bathroom and then at the Old Navy bag should’ve made it clear, and I wasn’t about to start stripping her down to stick her in the tub myself.

I backed from the room, shut the door, and stood by the stairs for a moment, head spinning. A thrum had started up at the back of my skull and popping a few aspirin wasn’t an option as a vampire. Once again, I rearranged the sleep-shower-feed thing in my mind, shuffling until I found my preferred order. I was hungry, but the only option was the gross blood I got for Nicolette—ewwww—or ordering take-out, and most delivery boys didn’t work at 6:30 in the morning.

Water rushed through the pipes, blaring in the room behind me; Nicolette must’ve gotten her ass moving at last. I turned the corner and stomped up the metal stairs to my room, feet heavy and back aching. For starters, I’d wash my face, change, and then go down and see how the newbie was handling everything. Then I’d see about sleep. Feeding would wait until the evening.

My phone buzzed in my pocket just as I reached my door; I stepped into my bedroom as I held my cell to my ear. “What?”

“Jeez, you’re crabby this morning.”

“Because you are calling, and it’s morning, Toby.” Christ, I need a fucking secretary for this shit. “What do you want?”

“You were in Quebec?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I bent down to unlace my boots, and kicked them off by my tall, blocky dresser. A glance behind me revealed clumps of mud on the floor—motherfucker. I’d be plagued by nightmares about having to clean.

“Don’t fuck around with me, Zar.” Toby growled. A real growl, too—the werewolfy kind that’s supposed to strike fear in the hearts of others.

I yawned. “Zar? Are we suddenly best buddies, Tobe? Quit fucking calling me or I’ll drop by and rip your head off.”

I hung up and cast the phone on the dresser. Best way to stall. I’d used him to track down info from a vampire family he sometimes worked for, gone into their territory, and retrieved a vampire who would’ve likely be claimed by them—he’d be in deep shit if they figured it out. Of course, if Nicolette decided to join her dead maker’s family when she was coherent and on her feet, I was fine with that; in the meantime, they hadn’t lifted a fucking finger to find and help her, so they could wait.

Double crossing prick that he was, Toby would rat me out if I told him I was harbouring Annalise Jean’s vampire. For now, I’d ignore him.

My muscles ached from all the grave digging and the headache probably wouldn’t let up. I slumped onto the end of my bed, propped my elbows on my knees, and let my head fall onto my hands.

“I have no fucking idea what I’m doing.”

No one answered, of course. No one ever would. But I talked because it kept me busy, because it helped me process. Because it let me pretend. My voice was soft, tired, and wouldn’t carry out of the room, let alone to the shower downstairs, so I didn’t worry about Nicolette hearing even with her newly minted vampire ears.

“This is the sixth one I’ve found. You’d think I’d get into the routine, but all of them are different. Sometimes they’re awake. Sometimes asleep. Two were absolutely mad—one walked into the sun and I had to stake him when I found him that night, the other took off and started killing people. I heard Hunters got him before I could.”

I rubbed at my temples and closed my eyes, willing that moment to come for just an instant—the tenth of a second where some part of me believed the bed was about to sink down under his weight, the air around me would crackle with his presence, his voice would sound with gentle mocking because I suddenly cared about helping someone other than myself.

But there was silence. And my heart hurt.

“I just want to get it right. So there are no surprises when... So I can handle anything that comes up. Because...” Because I’m fucking terrified. So terrified, my heart kicked up into my throat and dread twisted up my gut bad enough I thought I’d pass out.

I sighed. Zara Lain, badass vampire assassin, terrified and talking to a dead man. Pathetic.

My brain zoned out as I sat there, head in my hands, body exhausted and needing to rest but holding still because moving would require more effort than I wanted to put in. Time passed and it was the listening silence, the shiver of awareness in the air that sparked me back to reality.

I glanced up to see Nicolette in my bedroom doorway.

Her hair was wet and combed back and she wore black yoga pants and a grey tank top—both were loose but seemed to fit. Blue eyes fixed on me, watching, and though I looked, I couldn’t see any crazy in their depths. She was far more lucid than any of the newbies I’d rescued thus far.

“Zara,” she said.

“Yep.”

“I...need you to tell me about Annalise.”

Ah, fuck.

© 2011 Skyla Dawn Cameron