Eternal: More Love Stories With Bite (2 page)

Sometimes an author merges the familiar with her own unique vision and creates magic. That's what Nancy Holder does
in
"Letters to Romeo." Who doesn't want to revisit the tragedy of that love story and believe that our Romeo could— would—fight to live and then wait centuries for our return, the way this Romeo does for Juliet? In my heart I felt Romeo's "unrelenting loneliness. How did one still hope, after the first century, the second? What if he hadn't grabbed onto life and wrestled it from the catacombs? What if she had come back, and not found him waiting . . ."I want my Romeo, and I want him to wait for me for-friggin'-ever if he has to!

Then, after the bitter sweetness of star-crossed lovers and fortune's fool, Heather Brewer works her own heart- pounding version of the same familiar-but-not magic in "The Other Side," drawing us into Tarrah's horror as she teaches us about real monsters and madness:

Terror painted her insides, but she forced herself to remain calm. Her hands slid along the pole, feeling, hoping that she'd be able to either yank or lift her way free, but her explorations found nothing but metal . . . that is, until they met with flesh. Someone else's flesh.

Yep, Ms. Brewer made me care, surprised me, and scared the bejeezus out of me.

I ached with Rachel Caine's Eve and Michael while they fought to discover the truth behind true love and loyalty in "Drama Queen's Last Dance." With them we find out "love is rarely that
simple ...
or that painless." We know what Oliver means, not because he's a vampire but because Ms. Caine makes us
feel
it.

Finally, the brilliant Jeri Smith-Ready hits a homerun in "Thief' with Cass and Liam, and a relationship that transcends genre to get to the soul of all that is good and right in love, no matter the outside shell. Actually, Cass sums it up to Liam better than I when she finds out her fiancé is going to end up in a wheelchair:

"You've always been the most beautiful boy I've ever known. You always will be. Okay?"

His gaze slid off me, like he couldn't bear the truth in my eyes. "You mean on the inside, right?"

"No!" I took his face in my hands and pressed my forehead to his. "You got any idea how late I lie awake at night, remembering every little inch of your face?" My fingertips traced his cheekbones. "I play back every kiss in my head in slow motion, again and again until I know I'll never forget it."

Curl up, all you vamp lovers, and prepare to experience
more than
a genre label. Prepare to enjoy a selection of good writing, fascinating characters, and excellent stories. But you're not surprised, are you? After all, you and I are in on the secret to a great read. We know it's more about heart than fangs, even if they do both deal with blood . . .

Bloodshed

A Story of Evernight

Claudia Gray

Boston, Massachusetts

September 1944

The air in the USO canteen was hazy with cigarette smoke, thick with longing. It would've been hard to say who was more easily enchanted by romance in this place. Maybe it was the young men going off to war, desperate for comfort and perhaps for someone to fight for. Or perhaps it was the young women, "junior hostesses" as the USO called them, who were supposed to drink and dance with them but never, ever to fall in love. Sometimes Patrice thought that rule only existed so that infatuations would also have the rich glamor of the forbidden; any kiss was sweeter in secret.

Patrice could have sneered
at
the naivety of the young people around her, if she wasn't the most bewitched of them all.

She glanced in the mirror for the fourth time that hour.
Her
reflection was slightly translucent, but any observer
would
probably think it was a trick of the smoke. These 1940s fashions suited her, Patrice thought: her white dress had navy piping and a matching belt that showed off her narrow waist. Bright red lipstick played up her smile, and her hair was curled up into a complicated twist. Appearance was important to her—always had been, always would be— but tonight she was even more particular than usual.

Once more, she glanced toward the door of the canteen—and just as the band swung into "The Nearness of You," Charlie walked in wearing his crisp army uniform. The smile that lit her up from within was soon matched by his own. They walked toward each other as though it were casual; the senior hostesses, middle-aged matrons who oversaw the USO canteen, would be shocked if Patrice did what she really wanted to do and ran immediately into his arms.

"There you are," she
said
as they took each other's hands. It was as much of a touch as they dared in public, and the warmth of his skin coursed through her like a pulse. "I've been looking for you."

"You know
I
got here as soon as I could." How she loved his deep, rumbling voice. "Nothing
in
this world could keep me away from you for long."

"Come on, then." Patrice put her fists on her hips, mock-angry. "You've kept me waiting to dance long enough."

By the time the band moved on to "Chattanooga Choo Choo," Charlie and Patrice had joined the crush on the dance floor. Girls with orchids in their Veronica Lake hair danced with soldiers, sailors, any man
in
uniform who could get into the USO canteen. Although there were still a few glances in Charlie and Patrice's direction, she was pleased to see that the novelty of black girls
in
the USO was apparently starting to fade. Black soldiers had always been able to come to the canteen—but at first, the USO hadn't seen fit to allow black girls in to dance with them. Dancing with white girls would probably have caused a race riot. So the black women of Boston had banded together and fought for the right to help entertain the soldiers before they shipped off to Europe or the South Pacific.

There weren't many other black couples on the dance floor—but Charlie and Patrice weren't alone, and to her astonishment, she thought they were almost accepted there. Which was the least the soldiers deserved,
in
her opinion; if black soldiers were good enough to fight and die for their country, then they ought to be good enough to share in the fun at the canteen.

That was why she had joined the USO herself—more out of pride in her right to do so than out of any concern for the war effort. Patrice had seen too many wars to get misty-eyed over this one.

But then, one night last month, Charlie Jackson had walked in, and for the first time in far too long, her cool heart had caught fire.

"Look at you," he whispered into her ear now as they swayed together to the tune of "String of Pearls." "The most beautiful girl in this room."

"Look at you." She couldn't keep the devilment out of her smile. "Dancing with the most beautiful girl in this room."

Charlie laughed so loud half the room stared at them.

Later, she drew him into one of the far corners of the room, supposedly to enjoy some Coca-Cola. (Patrice would've preferred something harder, but Charlie was a strict teetotaler.) Really it gave them a chance to sit close together, near enough that his knees brushed hers beneath the table.

Just as she began to open her mouth to say—something, anything silly and flirtatious, it hardly mattered what—he turned to her and solemnly folded one of her hands in both of his. The smile he'd worn all night had faded, and only now did she see how false it had been. Patrice knew what he was going to say before he said it, but that made it no easier to bear.

"We got word this afternoon. We'll ship out next week."

"Next week?" she whispered. "So soon?"

"You know they need every man over there."

"Just like I know I need you here."

"Patrice. Sweetheart." His voice cracked on the last word, and she could hear his plea to help him be strong. And for a moment, Patrice was ashamed of herself. This news scared her, but how much worse did it have to be for Charlie? Going over there to fight, perhaps to die—

She leaned closer to him and whispered in his ear, "Let's get out of here."

He went very still, as if he didn't believe what he knew she had to be suggesting. This was a moralistic age, one where unmarried men and women pretended they didn't go to bed together. But Patrice knew war had a way of breaking down such silly rules. "Are you sure?"

"Quite sure."

So she slipped out into the night with him and went straight to her apartment house for young women; the landlady, a patriotic sort, wasn't strict about the "no gentlemen visitors" rule if the gentleman in question wore a military uniform. Charlie came into her apartment, into her bed.

Patrice hadn't felt the warmth of a human body next to hers in so long. Too long. She had forgotten how the heat of a man's skin could sink into hers, through chest and belly and thighs. She had forgotten how his breathing changed, from even to quick to ragged and desperate. And how his heart would beat faster and harder until it thumped through his chest into hers, as if she could take his pulse and make it her own. She surrendered to him, and to her own hunger, in the moment that she saw Charlie was utterly lost in her. Then she could contain herself no longer. Clutching his shoulders, clinging tightly to him, she sank her fangs deep into his throat.

Blood. The weight of his body. The heat and taste of life. She swallowed deeply, metal and salt against her tongue, and for a moment the ecstasy was almost as good as being alive.

When Charlie collapsed unconscious onto her mattress, Patrice forced herself to stop drinking. She pulled back, panting, and licked her sticky lips. Charlie lay next to her, his breathing shallow but regular. The moonlight painted the muscles of his arms and chest, making him even more beautiful than he had been before.

She remembered what her sire, Julien, had told her almost a century before: the first bite is preparation. Charlie would awaken in a few hours, woozy and with his senses unnaturally sharpened, but he would almost certainly have no memory of what she had done. Only after that first bite—after the preparation—could she drink from him again, this time to the death, and have him rise again as a vampire, like her.

The decent thing to do would be to explain fully to Charlie what was going on, who and what she was, before she completed the change. Even Julien, cruel bully that he had been, had given her this courtesy. But Patrice wasn't sure decency was the same in wartime. She didn't have time for niceties, and she couldn't risk him rushing off, not understanding, and getting himself killed before she could make him see sense.

No Nazi was going to kill Charlie Jackson. Patrice intended to make him immortal before the Germans got the chance.

* * * *

She shooed him back to base well before dawn, lest he be considered AWOL.

"I hate leaving you like this," Charlie whispered as he shrugged his shirt back on. He winced—how the noises and smells of the house must be tormenting him now, but he was too stoic to mention it. Probably he thought it no more than a headache. "It's not right, walking away from a lady after— well, after that. Not the way things ought to be done."

His modesty charmed her. Patrice snuggled deeper into her robe. "I'll see you this weekend. We'll have more time together before you go. And if you aren't on the base in the morning, they'll reprimand you, and you're too good to have something like that on your record."

Besides—you don't know it yet, but we're going to be together forever.

Charlie kissed her so deeply she almost forgot her resolve and took him back to bed—but then he straightened his cap and slipped out into the night.

Patrice sighed as she closed the door behind her. For a moment, she simply studied her surroundings, trying to measure the distances she'd traveled, the ways in which her world had changed and how it had remained the same. She had been born the daughter of a free woman of color in New Orleans and a plantation-owner father who paid the bills and would never, ever acknowledge his black child. Julien had freed her into an entirely different kind of existence. Unfortunately, he had also killed the first man she'd ever loved, Amos. For that, Patrice had doused Julien in lamp oil and set him ablaze. Her first kill: her sire, shrieking as he turned to charred dust.