Deliver Us From Evil

Dina James

How he hated rainy nights.

Water rejected the dead, and though he wasn’t technically “dead”, he was certainly soulless, and the deluge from the sky apparently made no distinction.

Beneath his long black coat his skin burned in protest as he trudged through the downpour. All right, it wasn’t a “downpour” or a “shower” . . . this was a storm. The meteorologist should be eviscerated for that deception. The harsh wind didn’t make the rain coming down in curtains and sheets any easier to navigate through.

A nightclub he knew that boasted a generous clientele boasted nothing tonight but an empty parking lot. The sign advertising “live nude girls” flickered valiantly in its struggle against the weather.

His hunger urged him on, in spite of the vacant parking lot. It was a driving, persistent need that he could never satisfy, no matter how often he fed.

Marcos crossed the street, and another, then turned the corner and walked on through the deserted city. He was about to resign himself to another hungry night when a light several blocks ahead of him caught his keen eyes.

He cursed the rain again. Water of any kind made it difficult to use his ethereal abilities, and flowing water made it even more so. Had it not been pouring, he could have simply thought about where he wanted to be and appeared there, safely veiled from the perception of any humans around. In this, however, he was forced to walk.

Like a human.

He rolled his eyes at the irony. He hadn’t been human for well over 400 years.

As he neared the light, he curled his lip in disdain. Even if the harsh glow of hot pink neon hadn’t stung his light-sensitive eyes, the tackiness of the sign alone would have blinded him: psychic open.

Marcos almost turned away. Ravenous or not, he was not about to set foot in such a place. He crossed himself out of old habit, then laughed and shook his head. What was he trying to do, ward off evil?

He was the evil one. The soulless one.

The psychic one.

Just as he was about to go back the way he’d come, something on the small barred window caught his eye. It was the symbol on the glass of the shop, mostly hidden behind one of the bars that covered the window.

A human wouldn’t have noticed it. Marcos stared at it, entranced, forgetting his insistent hunger momentarily as he tried to remember what it meant. He knew it meant something important, but he couldn’t quite recall what it was. A vague feeling of comfort – of safety – stirred within him. It was almost similar to the momentary sensation of peace that echoed through him after he’d fed, before the hunger returned, merciless and unrelenting, demanding more.

He remembered the word for the feeling. Relief.

Why would he be relieved by that symbol? What did it mean?

He found himself reaching for the glass door to the small shop. It, too, was barred. It would be, in this part of town. Even as he opened the door, Marcos heard gunshots and sirens piercing the night. They were far away, but his sensitive ears heard a great deal, even with the falling rain deafening him as it splattered against the pavement of the empty city streets.

The additional weight of the bars didn’t prevent him from jerking the door open effortlessly. Bells clanged loudly above his head and at his side as he entered. Marcos winced against the noise and glared at them in annoyance as the door shut behind him.

Ay, Madre de Dios.

Marcos was tempted to cross himself again out of sheer horror. His eyes widened as they took in the room.

Dark purple and red fabrics of every hue and texture seemed to drape every possible surface, from the walls and countertops to lamps and tables. Even the chairs, in which one presumably waited while the . . . “psychic” was busy with other clients, were adorned with bits of hemmed cloth over the arms and backs.

The room was also bedecked in stars, angels, various crystals and prisms, and drowning in the overwhelming scent of incense. The pungent odour of patchouli assaulted him, and Marcos wrinkled his nose. He crossed the room to the “burner” that held the offending, noxious sticks and glared down at it. A card on the table next to it read “Madam Marina – Psychic, Spiritualist and Astrologer”, along with a telephone number, the address of the shop, and a list of her offered services in purple ink.

What was it with purple?

A tinkling sound caused him to turn, and he stifled his laughter with effort. The woman that had emerged through the curtain of large brass discs stopped in the doorway and eyed him coolly, appraising him. He returned the favour.

She looked as tacky as the room did, and may as well have been one of the chairs, dressed as she was in a flowing tunic of purple and equally loose trousers of red. Scarves adorned her neck and hair, reminding one of a pirate wench or a Renaissance Faire worker gone mad.

He doesn’t look like a thug, Marina thought to herself as she looked over the man who had entered her shop. Clean, and well dressed and, though his dark hair was longer than usual, it wasn’t like the gang types wore theirs. He didn’t look like a punk. Besides, he was too old. Not that his age really made a difference, but the ones who made trouble for her weren’t usually his age. He looked a little older than she was – maybe thirty or thirty-five. He was certainly good-looking. Gorgeous black eyes. Dark, handsome features, with a day’s growth of beard roughening his upper lip and chin.

“Have you come in seeking answers, or just a moment out of the storm?” Marina asked.

Marcos stifled his laughter again. What kind of accent was she trying to fake? He’d rarely heard such an affectation – it sounded more like she was covering up an unwanted speech impediment than any kind of regional inflection. He supposed that she was aiming for something Old World. Romanian, or possibly Italian. Whatever her aim, she was missing her mark. Woefully.

“Neither,” he replied, his own rich, cultured voice seeming out of place in this tacky, fake environment. He pointed to the symbol painted on the window that had drawn his attention. “I . . . that symbol . . . ”

“Yes?”

“Why is it there?” Marcos asked, his own brow furrowing as he considered the symbol from the inside this time, unhindered by bars.

“What do you mean?” Marina asked, trying not to let her discomfort show. This guy was seriously starting to creep her out. “It is a guardian spirit – a protector. An avenging angel, if you will.”

Angels. He remembered something now. Not an avenging angel. A vengeful angel. Wroth and powerful, cursing him to endure limitless hunger until he –

Until? Until what?

He couldn’t remember.

Marcos turned to the woman again. By God, her clothes were garish. It was hard to look at her.

“Do you have a question you wish to address to your spirit guide?” she asked.

Marcos snorted rudely. “No. Nor is there any such thing. Spirits don’t guide, and angels do not watch protectively over each of us.”

“Well, that is what that ‘symbol’ you show so much interest in is meant to portray,” Marina replied. “If you have no questions, perhaps you should leave now. The rain seems to have lessened a bit.”

His eyes swept over her. Her nervousness had caused her blood to rise, colouring her cheeks, inciting his ravenousness further. Why was he hesitating?

A glint of silver hidden by the ridiculous folds of her top caught his eye. The pendant that flashed into view was the same symbol as that gracing the window.

Again, his hunger quieted at the sight of it.

“Unless of course you wish a reading. Your aura is very strong. Or perhaps tarot?” he heard her ask.

Marcos made a rude noise. Auras radiated from the soul, and he didn’t have one for her to read. He’d exchanged his soul for immortality, as all his kind had.

He was a vampire, cursed to maintain his own existence by feeding on the blood of those he sought to outlive. And then some, he thought wryly.

“I have no need of your . . . services, mujer.” Marcos laughed at himself for his choice of words. She was far from any kind of “lady”.

“Then it is certainly time for you to be on your way,” Marina said, annoyance serving to muster her courage. She stepped into him and took him by the forearm, attempting to twist it as she’d seen the bouncer do more than a few times at the club where she used to work.

Marcos looked down at her hands on his arm and raised an eyebrow. Did she think she could physically remove him? Harm him?

He almost laughed, but managed to keep it contained.

Marina let go of his arm – he wasn’t about to budge if he didn’t want to, it seemed. Strong for someone who didn’t look like he had a lot of muscle. Deceptive. She scowled at him.

“I will ask you once more to please leave,” she said, exasperated.

Marcos noticed her “accent” slipped slightly. Her cheeks were pink and her blue eyes flashed. She was upset with him.

For some reason, Marcos didn’t want to be the cause of this woman’s annoyance. He wanted to move her, certainly, and it shocked him to realize he wanted to goad her passion – albeit passion of a different sort.

Her tone made him study her carefully, his sensitive eyes seeing past the ridiculous layers of red and purple material to the woman wearing them. She wasn’t as tall as he – no surprise there. Few reached his six-foot four-inch height. The hair that had escaped the scarf she’d wrapped around her head was dark brown, or possibly black, and it didn’t go well with her soft blue eyes. A light mask of freckles dotted her nose and cheeks, but didn’t take away from her fair complexion as her dark hair did.

He smiled inwardly for noticing such details. He’d long since ceased paying attention to humans. They were food – a biological necessity for continued survival – nothing more, so . . . what did she or her upset matter? Why hadn’t he simply entered, taken her blood as well as her life, and been done with it? Why was he attempting to be a gentleman? He wasn’t even human, and she appeared to be a poor excuse for one. Still, oaths meant something to his kind, even if they didn’t mean a great deal to humans.

Marcos lowered his eyes, and bowed his head, then turned and left the shop without another word. The bells on the door announced his departure with a bang as he vanished into the night.

Marina raised her eyebrows, stunned. She went to the door and pushed it open slowly, poking her head out and looking down one side of the street and then the other to see where he’d gone. There was no sign of him.

Shaking her head, she went back into the shop and pulled the door shut. She locked it and pulled the chain on her lit sign, turning it off. There wasn’t a need to be open any longer; not with this weather. Other than . . . Strange Weirdo Man, no one had even passed by her window since the rain had started earlier that afternoon.

Besides, she didn’t have any more appointments – not that she’d had any today, anyway – and it was almost closing time. Sighing, Marina pulled the curtains across the storefront windows and door.

Her brow knitted in confusion and she knelt down. She pressed her fingertips to the carpet where he’d stood, surprised to find that it wasn’t at all wet. There wasn’t any water trailing from the doorway, either.

And, she realized as she stood, his hair hadn’t been wet. He’d been completely dry, though she’d heard him come in from the rain, and watched him . . . watched him disappear back into it.

Marina shivered, then laughed at herself for being freaked out. It was cold in here, and rainy and spooky outside in the darkness. Suddenly the candles in the room seemed a lot more comforting.

Ah, Mar, you’re letting all this psychic stuff get to you, she chastised herself. You know none of it is real.

Her stomach growled, reminding her of the hour. She reminded it that she had no money for takeout and, since she was sleeping in the shop on the futon in the “waiting area”, no kitchen either. She’d been evicted from her apartment a month ago, and was just barely making the rent and utilities on this place.

At least she still had another month on her gym membership, which was most useful now for the showers. Oh, God, a shower. A hot bath. Such ordinary things now seemed like such luxury to her. She didn’t know what she was going to do in another month when her membership ran out. She didn’t have any way to pay for another year’s membership. Hell, in her present situation, she couldn’t even afford another month’s membership.

Maybe she should think more about taking Benny up on his offer of a few shifts a week at the club. Ever since Heidi had left, he was stuck with only Lisa and Amber. People still asked if she was going to come back. Benny always shrugged and smiled, saying, “You never know.”

Marina’s stomach growled again, unsympathetic about money or memberships.

Returning to the back, she took off the scarf around her head and shook out her hair with a deep sigh. Her stomach growled even louder, insisting on being acknowledged. She glared down at her middle and gave it a light smack of rebuke as she changed her clothes; her uncomfortable feeling eased as she performed the mundane activity. She grabbed her pillow and blanket and headed out to the futon.

It was early – dark, but early – and she had nowhere to go, no money to spend, no television to watch, and no one to visit. Bed was about the only option left to her, since there was no dinner to get tonight. Her stomach’s protests aside, it wasn’t like she hadn’t gone to bed without dinner a night or two before. A few missed meals wouldn’t hurt her.

Maybe I should take Benny up on those shifts, she thought again as she went back out to the futon and lay down. At least then she would have had something to order dinner with. Chinese sounded wonderful.

But Marina was trying to regain a modicum of her pride. She didn’t want Benny’s kind of money. Needed, yes. Wanted, no.

There were a lot of things she didn’t want. She didn’t want to go back to waitressing in the evenings and making up fortunes during the day, or vice versa. She didn’t want to go back to stripping at night. It was embarrassing to have a client come in for a fortune when just the night before you’d either served him a steak or he’d seen you practically naked.

I wonder what Weirdo would look like practically naked, she thought, surprising herself.

She rolled her eyes and shrugged it off. Why were all the crazy ones drop-dead gorgeous?

* * *

Marcos’ thoughts ran along the same line, but not in so much detail.

He’d wanted her. Hungered for her. Had all but felt her heart beating beneath the pale skin of her throat as his mouth closed over it.

Had he been one second more in turning away and leaving her presence, he would have felt it somewhere other than only in his wishful thoughts.

Why then? Why hadn’t he just done it? Why had he spoken to her like he was a man? He hadn’t shown that much restraint . . . hadn’t had that much control over his overwhelming hunger in . . . Marcos couldn’t remember the last time he’d been the master of his need and not the other way around.

A stray cat ran across the sidewalk in front of him, dashing across the empty street and disappearing into the alley on the other side, trying to find a dry place out of the rain.

Buena suerte, gato, Marcos thought with a wry smile. The little black cat would need all the luck it could get in this storm. It was a good thing he didn’t feed on animals the way some of his kind did, or there wouldn’t be enough luck in the world to help that feline.

He smiled again at the superstition that came to mind. A black cat crossing one’s path was thought to be an omen of ill luck in many cultures, but Marcos didn’t think it would hurt him. His luck had run out generations ago.

Perhaps now, though, it was changing a bit.

The girl. The human. There was something about her he didn’t understand, and some strange part of him wanted to. What did it mean?

Marcos looked down at the business card he’d pocketed. Fat raindrops set to work disintegrating the cheap paper almost immediately. He cleared them away with his thumb, contemplating her name. Her true name. The one he’d heard in her thoughts, not the false one touting the services of the fortune-teller.

Marcos snorted. Fortune.

Did fortune ever favour the damned?

* * *

Fortune favoured Marina.

Well, fortune and the tips she’d made at the club this last week.

Benny had made her too good an offer, and people were still paying for that kind of entertainment.

She smiled at the thought – and the inadvertent pun – as she thanked her last reading of the day. Marina followed behind the young woman stepping into the dark to meet the friends awaiting her outside, intending to lock up.

A strong hand reached for the door and held it open for the departing woman. Blushing without knowing why, the woman stammered her thanks and appreciated the tall man out of the corner of her eye as she left.

Marcos offered her a silent nod before looking up at Marina, who stood in the doorway, stunned.

“Will la señorita permit me entry?” he asked hesitantly. Not that he needed an invitation. He didn’t know why he felt the need to ask for one this time. He hadn’t needed one before – she had a public premises and a welcome sign encouraging entry to any who wished it. Perhaps he was attempting to make up for his rudeness during their last encounter.

That had been three weeks ago, and he hadn’t been able to get her out of his mind since. No, not her, his behaviour. He hadn’t been able to get the way he’d acted out of his mind. Not her.

Marina just looked at him, confused, but nodded slowly. She had to be out of her mind to let him back in when he’d been such a jerk last time, but he looked so . . . hopeful. Like he was afraid she’d say “no”, or tell him to get lost. She probably should, but he seemed apologetic. She could at least give him a chance to talk before kicking him to the sidewalk. She’d done as much for ex-boyfriends who hadn’t deserved time to say three words to her. This guy was at least trying to be nice. Or so it seemed.

“Gracias,” he murmured as she stepped aside and let him in.

Marcos stepped inside, just far enough to have a look around. The room appeared just as tacky as it had the last time, for the most part, and still smelled of that rancid incense.

She lived here, he realized, catching a scent beneath the incense that no human would have been able to detect. The scent of life. Of home and belonging and independence.

His eyes went to the beaded pillows on the futon, and he moved silently, drawn to the weight of the fragrance. She slept there. He could all but see it in his mind.

“I was just about to lock up,” she said in that atrocious phony accent of hers. “Something you need? It’s not raining today.”

Marina knew she was rambling, and hoped her accent didn’t give away that she was scared out of her mind. He was back. What was he doing back here? She had convinced herself that he hadn’t been real, that he wouldn’t be back, and here he was, standing in front of her. She’d dreamed about him in some way every night since he’d come into her shop, and now that he was here, she didn’t know what to do, or say. God, he was gorgeous.

“I . . . I am uncertain . . . ” Marcos offered lamely. She already thought him a madman, and perhaps she was right. Thinking back on their first encounter, he had seemed quite out of his mind. But then, his hunger had been nearly overwhelming, and it was the fact that she remained unharmed in spite of his need that mystified him.

He gestured at the low table he’d stood next to the last time he’d been there. There was a large glass jar there now, filled with coloured stones. Wedged between them were several sticks of patchouli incense, burning slowly.

“You’ve moved things around. There was a different holder for your incense here last time.”

Marina nodded slowly, making sure to study him more closely this time. He was wearing the same clothes as he had been the night he’d come in, but then, so was she. It wasn’t raining, but he still had on his long black coat. She noted his hair as well – shiny black, curling gently at his shoulders near his collar. He was paler than she remembered, but his features gave away his Latin heritage. He was even more gorgeous in front of her than in her dreams.

“It is put away, in the back,” she replied.

Marcos nodded and didn’t say anything more. He merely looked at her, studying her, taking in every detail of her, though he knew them already, having played her image in his mind every day, every hour, since their first encounter.

Realizing what he was doing, he turned his attention to the objects in the room.

“Why did you do that?” he asked, not knowing where the words came from. Why was he asking? What did he care?

Because, he realized, he was enjoying speaking to someone for the first time in he-couldn’t-remember-when. Actually speaking to someone – having a conversation with another being.

Someone . . . human. Someone who reminded him of who he had been. What he had been. What he’d once had, and –

And what he had lost.

No, not lost. Traded. Sold. Bartered. Willingly given away, truth be told.

Marina considered him for a long moment. His tone, his words. He was being way more polite than he had been a few weeks ago. Still, he didn’t look like a psycho, and she didn’t get the “creep” vibe from him, and she knew creeps. She dealt with plenty of creeps. Even dated more than a few. This guy didn’t seem at all creepy. Strange, sure, but not creepy.

“I often change the décor to reflect the seasons, and spring is a season of growth and change,” she replied. “As I said, I was about to lock up, so if you wouldn’t mind.”

She gestured meaningfully towards the door.

“I thought . . . perhaps . . . you might assist me in . . . finding some answers to questions I have,” Marcos found himself saying. “That is, if you are willing. I realize that our last encounter wasn’t the most pleasant.”

Marina smiled. At least he recognized he’d been kind of a jerk. Was he trying to apologize? She had time before her shift at the club for one last client. It might as well be Weirdo.

“I am willing. However, I do need to lock up,” she replied. “You don’t mind being locked in, do you? I promise, I won’t make you stay the night.”

Marcos laughed and shook his head. “I’m accustomed to staying up nights.”

“Have a seat in the back, through there,” Marina said, gesturing towards the metallic curtain separating the waiting area from the reading room. “I’ll be with you in a moment.”

He nodded and started towards the curtain as she went to the door, keys in hand. She pulled it shut and locked it, then turned off her sign and drew the curtains across the door and windows.

Then she realized what she’d just done. She’d just locked herself in with Weirdo. Maybe she should unlock the door . . . just in case.

The door moved as if in answer to that, and Marina heard a female voice curse before footsteps carried it away. No, it was a good idea to be closed. Besides, she had to get to her shift at the club soon, and didn’t have time for another client after Weirdo tonight. The ad in the paper she’d spent her last dime on a few weeks ago seemed to be working. Business was slow, but at least it was business, which was more than a lot of the other shops on this block had these days.

She moved slowly towards the curtain that Weirdo had gone through. She glanced through the strings of metallic discs to see him studying the incense burner she’d had in the waiting area before, his long, graceful fingers caressing the carved wooden base reverently. It reminded him of something, but he couldn’t quite remember what.

“You are musical,” she said after a moment, mostly for lack of anything better to say.

“What makes you say that?” Marcos asked without looking at her.

“Your hands, the way you move and touch things,” she replied with a shrug.

“It is not so,” he said, his black eyes meeting hers intensely. “I have no talent for music of any kind, Madam Marina.”

“You know my name,” she said lightly. “Perhaps you would honour me with yours? I will need it in order to give you a satisfactory reading.”

“You claim to be a psychic,” he countered. “Don’t you know it outright?”

Marina scowled at him. “‘Psychic’ does not equal ‘mind-reader’. No one can read minds.”

“Nor does ‘gypsy’ equal ‘psychic’,” Marcos said flatly. “Look at this place. Look at yourself. Even your name sounds like you chose it from a pizza menu.”

“And here I thought you said you wished me to assist you in answering questions you have,” Marina retorted, glaring at him. “I can see that you still need to figure out what questions those are. Now, if you are finished insulting me and my profession, I’ll see you out. As you’ve said yourself, you have no need of my services.”

“You were intending to service me?” Marcos replied, raising an eyebrow at her choice of words.

Marina realized what she’d said and how it could be interpreted and blushed. “My professional services,” she clarified.

“Out of my shop. Come. The door is this way.”

She moved away from the curtain and gestured behind her, beckoning him to follow. When he didn’t, she returned to the doorway and pushed aside the curtain. The discs tinkled merrily, in complete opposition to her mood.

He still stood there, smiling.

“You are coming, yes?” she asked. “Your legs work? Or must I call the police?”

Marcos snorted again. “And they will take, what? Forty minutes to answer your call about a man upsetting you? I could do much more than upset you in that time, if I so chose.”

Marina narrowed her eyes at his thinly veiled threat. “Out, now.”

She pointed firmly at the door.

“You’re quite fetching when you’re angry,” he replied, studying her. “Your cheeks turn the most brilliant shade of pink. It’s a nice thing to see.”

“So you insult me just to see that?” she demanded, rolling her eyes. “I won’t be your entertainment. Out.”

“But you have been ‘entertainment’,” Marcos replied, not moving. He cocked his head and met her eyes meaningfully.

Marina crossed her arms over her chest. She didn’t remember seeing him at the club, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t a regular. She’d only started working at Benny’s place again last week, and had yet to even receive her first pay cheque. If he was a regular there, he was a new one.

“And you frequent places of ‘entertainment’?” she asked acidly.

Marcos laughed and shook his head.

“Hardly,” he replied. “But is that not what you do? Entertain people? Your card states what you do is ‘for entertainment purposes only’ . . . ”

Marcos trailed off, letting his words hang meaningfully between them. He shrugged. Her anger would warm her blood beautifully. Perhaps he should make it a habit to anger all his prey. Fear always left a bitter aftertaste. Anger, on the other hand – now that was a sweet emotion. Hot and spicy, just the way he preferred his food.

“Even the title before your ‘name’,” he continued, enjoying the tension filling the room, “implies you oversee a brothel.”

How he’d closed the distance between them without her noticing Marina couldn’t fathom. One moment he was studying a lotus flower candleholder, and the next he was holding the metallic curtain back, his hand resting lazily against the door frame as he leaned into it and smiled down at her.

“Some can read minds,” he murmured.

Why wasn’t his closeness making her uncomfortable? Why couldn’t she look anywhere but his eyes?

“No, they can’t,” she heard herself reply. “There isn’t a soul who can.”

Marcos chuckled softly and leaned in close, brushing aside the wisp of hair at her ear that had escaped the scarf tied around.

“Perhaps then that talent lies only with the soulless,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper. “For I can hear your thoughts as clearly as if they were my own, and you are not afraid, are you, Mary?”

Marina swallowed hard. She was afraid, but not . . . not frightened. Not of him. She’d had men want something she wasn’t willing to give before. Getting scared didn’t help the situation.

“How . . . How did you—”

“—know your real name?” he finished her question for her. “As I said, there are some who can read minds.”

He didn’t wait for her to reply as his mouth found the pulse at her throat.

She gasped as his fangs pierced the delicate flesh of her neck. Her eyes slid shut as her arms wound around his neck, clinging to him before they went lax again.

His arms went around her waist effortlessly. He supported the weight of humans nightly – sometimes more than once – and could easily carry her weight. Not that there was all that much to support. Beneath her voluminous layers, there was an average-sized woman. A little thinner than he liked – the women from his home country had more meat on their bones than these would-be skeletons in this one – but her thinness seemed to be due more to hunger than any desire to keep her weight down.

Hunger?

Marcos rarely, if ever, read the information conveyed in his prey’s blood. Oh, there was a great deal of knowledge carried in the lifeblood of any creature – it would drive one mad if they allowed it to surface. If they attempted to fathom it all. It had been one of his first, early, and most difficult lessons when he’d initially become a lost soul.

Vampire.

Might as well call it what it was. Vampiro, his people – former people – called those like him. Every language had a word for what he was, and they all meant the same thing. Blood-drinker.

He was no fledgling now. He could allow himself to absorb the knowledge in her blood without risking madness, and so he did.

Much more personal than simply reading – or rather hearing – her thoughts, this allowed him to feel her emotions as she felt them. Experience her worries as she experienced them. Essentially it allowed him to be her for a moment – live her life – know who she was, who she felt herself to be.

To share her soul.

It was exquisite, yet painful. He’d been soulless for so long that even a brief encounter with the living force of another such as this was intoxicating.

Some, he knew, lived for this moment. Some of his kind did this with each and every kill.

Marcos found that perverted. You didn’t get to know a cow before you ate it. Humans were food. There was no need to know their names, or their loves, their losses, their triumphs.

For some, it was the knowledge they took and carried with them that made their existence bearable. Marcos found that parasitical and vicarious. It was barely a step above common thievery. Rifling through the life of another and taking that which wasn’t yours.

So then . . . why was he doing it now?

Her blood.

Dios, it reminded him of something he’d blissfully forgotten.

Hunger left a taint in the blood. Suffering and strife and worry and upset – they all left a mark, not only upon the body. They marked the soul as well.

Unwilling to take her life, Marcos lifted his mouth from her throat with a groan of effort. Looking down at her in his arms, Marcos felt something he hadn’t in centuries.

Shame.

Sick with guilt, Marcos gestured at the futon in the opposite room. It folded itself out neatly and he carried Marina’s – Mary’s – limp form to it and laid her down.

He touched the wound on her neck reverently. Already it had sealed itself so that she bled no more. He straightened and looked down at her, studying her for a long moment. His eyes were again drawn to the pendant that lay defiantly against her breast. The six-winged seraph seemed to glare up at him, offended.

Perhaps she was an angel herself, lying there so peacefully.

No. She had blood – human blood – so he knew she wasn’t any kind of ethereal in human form. Besides, angels, when they deigned to take human form, were vain creatures. It was their nature to be beautiful, even in the most wretched of forms. They couldn’t hide their beauty any more than he could claim to have a soul.

Though she was indeed beautiful, she was no angel. Nor demon.

Simply a human. But . . . there was something.

He knew who she was . . . but who was she?

Whoever she was, she was not for him.

Marcos shook his head, took a step back and vanished.

* * *

Marina woke up with her head pounding. Holy crap, what a nightmare. She sat up and looked around, blinking furiously in the dark.

Dark didn’t mean much. Her curtains kept the light low in here anyway. The candles had all been extinguished, and she was lying in bed. Huh.

She didn’t remember going to bed. She didn’t remember . . . much of anything at all. Seeing her last client out. Locking the door. Dreaming about Weirdo again.

Her stomach growled, impressing its existence upon her. Wow, was she thirsty. Like, mega-uber-thirsty. Like she hadn’t had a drink in days.

She struggled to her feet. Why was it so hard to move? She hadn’t worked out that hard at the gym, and hadn’t done any unusual moves on the stage at the club last night. Oh, hell! The club! Her shift!

Every muscle in her body protested, and when she finally got to her feet, the room seemed to spin, and she sat down hard again.

Whoa. Oh, please don’t let her be coming down with anything. She couldn’t afford to be sick now. Literally. She couldn’t afford to take time off for any reason. Not if she was going to have a place to shower next month. Food would be nice, too.

Marina waited for a few minutes and, when the room stopped moving, slowly got to her feet.

They stayed under her, and she breathed a sigh of relief. She took another step. The room remained where it was. Gingerly she made it to the small bathroom in the back and snapped on the light.

Her eyes widened in horror at how pale her reflection in the mirror looked. She was white as a sheet. Except for . . .

She turned her head slightly. There, in the harsh light of the bathroom’s bare bulb, glared a dark purple and yellow bruise along her neck. She touched it softly, then prodded it a little harder.

No pain.

Whatever she’d done, it hadn’t hurt. Yet. Or maybe it had, and she just didn’t remember. Still, something that left that kind of mark was something she’d remember. Enough guys had tried to strangle her –

Guys.

Guy.

Weirdo.

She remembered now. He’d come in . . . when? Last night? What day was it? How long had she been lying there?

What had he done to her?

Marina ripped off her clothes and searched everywhere she could see for a pinprick or other bruise. Had he drugged her? Robbed her?

She didn’t want to think about what else he might have done to her, but she didn’t feel like . . . he’d done anything else. Her clothes were all intact, and everything else seemed fine.

Restoring order to her attire, the dripping faucet reminded her that she was desperately thirsty, and she gulped handfuls of water straight from the tap. She dried her mouth on the sleeve of her shirt and made her way to the cash register.

She turned on the rarely used overhead light in the room – fluorescent and harsh, it illuminated the small space with an annoying buzzing accompaniment.

Everything seemed in order. Nothing was disturbed or missing. She pushed the “no sale” button on the register. Everything was there. The money she’d made over the last few weeks was all there. Every penny. She closed the cash drawer and went into the other room.

There, too. Not one item out of place.

She wandered back into the main room and considered the futon. Then she went to the door and pulled aside the curtain. It was dark outside, and the lit bank sign across the street that flashed the day, time and temperature said it was 3.17 am. So much for making her shift at the club. It closed at 2 am.

Nine hours. She’d been asleep for nine hours? Her last client had left just after six o’clock. Had she really just pulled out the futon and slept in her clothes? What about Weirdo? What about the phone? It should have awakened her, if Benny tried to call her when she didn’t show for her shift. It was too bad she’d pawned the answering machine, or he could have left her an angry message. Oh, well. She’d smooth things over tomorrow, somehow.

Marina looked down at the door as she restored the curtain. It was locked, from the inside. So, if Weirdo had done anything to her, he was a bloody magician to let himself out then lock the door behind him. She’d already found her keys, and she had the only one to the place.

No way Weirdo had a key. Besides, the door was locked from inside. Inside. Which meant, if Weirdo had been here, he should still be here. And he wasn’t, unless he was hiding in the U-bend of the toilet.

There weren’t a whole lot of places to hide in here.

Man, she was thirsty.

Marina went back to the bathroom and gulped more water. Shaking her head at her reflection in the small mirror, she went into the back room, changed her clothes and went to the futon. Hopefully she would look better in the morning. If she didn’t, she’d have to borrow some of Lisa’s make-up to hide her pallor.

Marcos scowled at the dark window of Marina’s shop. He hated himself, but he’d become something of an unwilling stalker. He told himself he was hunting in the area – as usual – but he knew better.

Her shop window was never dark this early on a Friday night.

Hating himself even more, Marcos ducked into an alley, out of human sight, and thought about where he wanted to be.

Patchouli assaulted him. Would she never desist using that foul incense? She could at least choose another scent.

Still, it was comforting to him in a way. It was her. It was this place.

He looked to the futon. Yes, the scent of her was still heavy there. She still slept here. Nightly. Perhaps she’d merely gone to obtain a meal. But she was never gone this early on a Friday night. It was one of her busiest.

Perhaps she was contracted to read fortunes for a party. It was one of the things she advertised she was available for.

Marcos wandered into the back room, where she kept her things. There was a bookcase he ran his fingers over the top of and smiled. She’d polished it. He could still feel the oil along the grain. He could see her in his mind, rubbing the surface with a cloth and the orange oil he could still smell faintly. She’d done it perhaps a week ago. She liked things clean.

A hardcover book rested open to a page depicting a tarot card. Marcos reached for the cover and lifted it, wishing to see the title of what she was reading.

An envelope slipped from the pages and fluttered to the floor at his feet.

He curled his fingers in a beckoning gesture and the envelope came to his hand. His brow furrowed at the name scrawled on it.

“Angel”.

Inside was a yellow scrap of square paper with a rough, unmistakably uneducated note scrawled on it: “Ain’t much, but good for your first week back. Pass these around and there’ll be more – Benny.”

In the envelope were black cards emblazoned with stars and the logo of the “gentleman’s club” two streets over.

“Featuring the return of Angel! Two shows on Fridays!” the cards proclaimed across the bottom in silver letters.

He remembered their brief conversation about “entertainment”.

And it was Friday.

Surely not. Not her. She was his. His Angel. She should be here for him, not . . . not there . . . sharing any part of herself with . . . anyone else.

Marcos scowled. He didn’t think about anything but his need and disappeared.

The envelope wafted to the floor, scattering the cards beneath it.

* * *

One more show to go, Marina thought, staring wearily into the mirror that stood in what Benny laughably called the “dressing room”. She was just about to apply more mascara when she was jerked to her feet by strong hands.

Her eyes widened as she realized it wasn’t Benny.

Oh, God, Weirdo. How had he found her, and how had he gotten in here?

She tried to speak, even scream, but no sound would come.

Even so, Marcos brought up a hand and stilled any sound she would have made with a thought. It would not do to have her screams summon anyone.

As though they would do so, in this place, even if they could be heard over that noise they call music, Marcos thought wryly.

Marcos looked helplessly at the woman before him.

He should simply take her memories of him and leave. Or kill her and be done with it. It would be for the best. Madre de Dios, he could not do it. Marcos brought a fist to his forehead with a groan.

He shook his head and waved a hand at the woman before him, releasing her from the suspension he’d put on her.

“What are you doing here?!” she demanded, taking a step back. She groped behind her for anything she might use as a weapon. “Get out!”

“Stop,” Marcos ordered firmly, gesturing at her again. “I won’t harm you. I will answer all of your questions, I swear, if you will answer one for me.”

Marina couldn’t move.

“O-OK,” she stammered.

“I will release my hold on you if you assure me you will not run or otherwise be a problem,” Marcos said, glaring at her pointedly.

His hold? He wasn’t even touching her. But then . . . why couldn’t she move?

“Sure,” she replied, barely able to get the word out past the fear choking her throat. “No problem.”

“Not here,” he said, shaking his head. He reached out and touched her shoulder, and suddenly they were no longer in the noisy club, but in the back room of her shop.

Marcos lowered his hand and recalled his power.

“What the—” she began. “How did you—”

“As I said, I will answer all of your questions, after you answer mine,” he reminded her. “Your pendant,” he said, his eyes deliberately trailing to her cleavage. “It means something. I know it does. What?”

Was he serious? What was it about that thing that he was so fascinated with?

“It’s been in the family for ever,” she said hesitantly. “One of my great-great-great grandmothers or something had it. Look, if you want it, just take it. There’s no need to hurt me. It’s yours, OK?”

Marcos scowled at her. “I’m no thief,” he replied in disdain.

“Then what do you want?” Marina asked, taking another step back. She snapped on the fluorescent light above them. “You . . . you kidnap me . . . somehow, break in here—”

“I haven’t ‘broken in’,” Marcos interrupted. “But that makes no difference now. You’ve already given me ‘what I want’. All that remains now is what I wish to do with it.”

“The pendant?” Marina ventured, confused.

“Your answer,” he replied, shaking his head. “Would you mind turning off that overhead light? I find it particularly disturbing,” she heard him say.

“Um . . . OK,” she found herself replying, but before she could move, the fluorescent light went out and every candle in the place illuminated.

“Much better,” Marcos said, smiling again. He studied Marina carefully. Heard her thoughts, her rapid heartbeat, the pulse of the blood beneath her pale skin.

“Calm yourself, Mary. I said, I won’t harm you. I do wish to be more comfortable, however, now that it is time for me to fulfil my end of our bargain.”

He didn’t look so frightening in the candlelight.

Their bargain?

“I said I would answer your questions if you answered mine,” he reminded her.

“Who are you?” Marina blurted.

Marcos gestured to the futon behind her. “Do you wish to sit? A glass of water, perhaps? Tea?”

Marina crossed her arms over her chest. “No, I want you to answer me,” she said, unyielding. “I’ve asked you who you are several times now and you keep dodging the question. Who are you? And why is my angel pendant so important to you?”

“My name is Marcos Aquino de los Santos,” he replied quietly. “And that pendant . . . the symbol you display on your window. Do you know what kind of angel it is?”

Marina shrugged. “It bears a sword. It’s likely Michael or possibly Uriel.”

Marcos shook his head. “Michael and Uriel are Archangels. Your angel has six wings. It is a seraph.”

“Seraph?” Marina echoed.

“Surely you’re aware of the difference in the choirs of the Host,” he said, disbelieving.

Marina shrugged again. “Angels are angels.”

“I doubt very much they would agree with you,” Marcos replied wryly. He nodded to her pendant. “That particular depiction is not only a seraph, it is the device of the Destrati.”

“And that means what to me?” Marina asked, rapidly losing her patience with his condescension.

“It is the symbol used by a vampire clan,” Marcos said.

Marina just looked at him and took another slow step back away from him. “OK, well, that’s nice to know. Now, why don’t you leave and not come back,” she said.

Marcos heard her disparaging thoughts and scowled at her again.

“I’m not crazy, or delusional,” he said, unimpressed. “You’re perfectly happy to assist people in contacting their supposed spirit guides and dead relatives, but you’re unwilling to acknowledge the existence of other immortal creatures? Even those standing right before you?”

“So you think you’re a vampire?” Marina asked with a contemptuous snort.

“Just because you can’t fathom the fact that I am indeed centuries old doesn’t make me the liar in the room.”

“Hey! No one’s calling you a liar,” Marina protested. “So you carry the vampire fantasy a little far with your black coat and fangs and the idea that you’re some really old Spanish guy. What, did one of your history books fall on your head or something while you were in school? Whatever happened, it’s OK. You don’t need me to believe you in order to leave.”

“Nor do I claim to be that which I am not for my own gain,” Marcos replied with a smirk. His eyes swept over her meaningfully. “I wouldn’t say anything about carrying a fantasy too far, madam.”

Marina opened her mouth to say something, then blushed and shook her head, lowering her eyes in shame. He crossed to her and brought a finger under her chin, and raised it slowly.

“Look at me,” he ordered.

She did so.

He flashed a wicked smile at her.

Marina gasped at the sight of his pointed incisors. He should seriously see a dentist about those.

“Truth does not require belief,” he said quietly, laughing inwardly at himself for quoting an oft-used ethereal adage. It was one of the things he’d first learned, as a fledgling. From Clan Destrati. The clan who’d found and fostered him. Who’d helped him live again, instead of merely survive.

The Clan – the family – he’d all but forgotten until he found the angel. His Angel.

Dios. How could he have forgotten? How could he have not understood? His endless hunger would be sated by an angel. That was the curse laid on him ages ago by one of the Host he’d inadvertently fed upon. One that had been masquerading as human, performing a task or other such thing it had been set to on the mortal plane.

His all-consuming hunger had driven everything else from his mind, including the fact that such ravenousness was part of the blight set upon him by an angel. The Messenger did not find his inadvertent attack amusing, and decided to teach Marcos a lesson in being more selective in his hunting.

He continued. “Something about you was familiar. The pendant. The angel on the window. Your blood. Nothing made sense.”

“You bit me!” Marina cried suddenly, her hand going to her neck as she remembered the bruise that had only recently faded enough not to need to be concealed with make-up. Bruises were bad for business, according to Benny.

“Yes,” Marcos said, nonchalant and unrepentant. “But I did not kill you. I stopped feeding from you once the familiarity overwhelmed me, and now I know why.”

He cut himself off, unable to go on. He dropped his hold and walked a few paces away.

“Why?” she prompted, taking a hesitant step towards him. “Go on. Why, Marcos?”

Marina was always good at remembering names. She had to be, in her business. It’s the only real talent she had – her memory for names, faces and personal information.

He looked up at her.

“‘And ye shall wander, alone and unfulfilled, awaiting a merciful angel that will deliver thee.’”

“What?” Marina asked softly.

“I remember,” Marcos said in quiet wonder. “I remember it all now. You’re the answer. You’ve broken the curse, my merciful Angel.”

“Curse?”

Marcos laughed softly. “I even forgot the answer to ending my torment. Even if I hadn’t, I doubt I would have considered that the ‘merciful angel’ would be one such as you.”

“What? A psychic? An erotic dancer?” Marina asked, scowling at him.

“A human,” Marcos answered bluntly.

The device of Clan Destrati remained unchanged over the centuries – a six-winged seraph standing with a blazing sword. The pendant marked the wearer as under the protection of the clan. Marcos lifted the chain with a finger.

“Even one wearing the device of my clan,” he continued. “How did you come by this?”

“There’s an old story my grandma used to tell, about how one of our ancestors lived after being attacked by a vampire,” Marina stammered, unsure. “Since there’s no such thing, and it was an old story – every family has one – we just thought it was, you know, something she told us just to get us to behave or the reason we had to go to church or something. In it a priest came by and gave my ancestor help of some kind, and this pendant. Grandma said it would keep me safe when she gave it to me, and it might be silly, but so far, it’s worked. I just wear it now because . . . you know . . . angels.”

She shrugged.

Marcos nodded slowly. “Humans are prey to my kind, and though I should do so, I cannot renounce you,” Marcos said softly, beside her again without her noticing him move. “No matter what symbol you wear . . . or what clothes you’re wearing . . . or not wearing . . . ”

His closeness was overpowering. Marina looked up at him. He was taller than she remembered, than he was in her dreams. He had no scent, except the smell of his long leather coat. His dark eyes were hard to look away from, and she found she didn’t want to. His arm found her waist, and he bent his head to place a gentle kiss on her brow.

“Mmm,” Marina murmured as she found herself leaning in to him, in spite of the fact that she’d sworn off men for a long time to come. She’d had enough of men to last her a while. “Why haven’t I been able to forget you since the night you stormed in here?”

“Because I’m in your blood, quite literally,” he replied. “It knows me. I acted upon the overwhelming hunger within me, and it realized, even if I didn’t, what it was I held in my arms. Had I known . . . ”

His lips brushed against hers lightly.

“How would you like to sleep elsewhere tonight?” Marcos asked gently. He brushed an errant lock of her hair back over her ear. “In a real bed?”

“Yours?” she asked wryly. “You’re gorgeous, honey, I’ll give you that, and seriously sexy, but I don’t do dead guys. That’s just wrong.”

Marcos laughed and lowered his lips to her neck.

“I’m not dead,” he whispered in her ear. “Do I feel dead to you?”

He pressed his lean body against hers. She felt his desire hard against her thigh as his hand moved from her waist to her behind.

She gasped as he caressed her bottom, so unlike the way some guys did when she’d been a waitress. Unlike the way they did at the club when they thought the bouncer wasn’t looking.

Oh, God, please never let him stop doing what he is doing. Marina surprised herself with the thought. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d wanted a man to touch her. She didn’t like men fondling her. She didn’t like their closeness or their hot, heavy breathing or the way they looked at her when they were turned on. The way they wanted her. Men were pigs.

“I’m not a pig, Angel.”

Marina’s eyes widened as he spoke her thought aloud. The way he said her name, with that sexy accent. “Ahn-hel.”

Marcos laughed again at the incredulity in her mind. He nipped at her neck, teasing, and pulled back to smile at her.

“You have a great deal to learn about a great many things,” he said indulgently. “The first of which is that, though I am a vampire, I am not one of the ‘undead’. This body is soulless, to be sure, but it is still very much alive. I have never died. I traded my soul for immortality. I have spent the whole of a human lifetime drowning in desperate, unfulfilled hunger, and now that it is finally sated, I find another desire has taken its place.”

He lowered his lips to hers again.

Marina whimpered at the feel of his kiss. It was unreal, unlike anything she’d ever experienced, and she had more experience than she cared to think about.

She slid her arms around his neck as the kiss deepened, grateful he was truly there doing what he’d done nightly in her dreams.

Oh, God. What if he’d never come back?

“I would have come back,” Marcos assured her, hearing her thought. “If only because I was curious as to why I didn’t take your blood that first night. Now how about that bed? A decent meal, a bath . . . ”

“Hey now,” Marina said, pulling back to glare at him. “I just took a shower at the gym this morning.”

“And you reek of that foul incense, not to mention the sweat of lesser, though no less desirous men,” Marcos replied. “A thorough shower wouldn’t harm you. Those I’m going to take you to meet will insist upon it, besides. Their sensibilities are just as acute as mine are, and just as easily offended. Sometimes more so.”

“Where are we going?” Marina asked through a nervous laugh.

“To meet my family,” he replied quietly.

Clan Destrati. It had been so long. Would they remember him? Had they given him up for lost or slain? Clan wars still raged.

“Now?” she asked, pulling him back to her with an impish grin. “We were just getting acquainted and you’re ready for me to meet the family?”

Marcos laughed in spite of himself and smiled back at her, baring his fangs unashamedly.

Those were seriously disturbing, but nonetheless impressive.

“So you’re a vampire, huh? Have you come to suck my blood?” she teased, offering her neck playfully.

Marcos laughed again.

“Lead me not into temptation, señorita,” he replied as he nipped at her throat. “I am perfectly capable of finding it on my own, especially with your intoxicating nearness. I’ve yet to eat this evening.”

Marina whimpered. Her arms slid around his neck, her fingers curling into his dark hair.

Soft bites accompanied the kisses along her neck up to her mouth. Marcos looked into her eyes for a moment, wanting to see the breathless desire he knew would be there. Marinia was indeed finding it particularly difficult to breathe at the moment. Don’t lead him into temptation, huh? She remembered the Lord’s Prayer from Sunday school.

“Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.”

He was one evil she found herself praying not to be delivered from.