Wicked by Any Other Name (29 page)

Twenty minutes later, Jazz whipped the T-Bird into a parking spot in front of Murphy's Pub. The one-story weathered building near the waterfront had a faded, gilt-lettered sign over the door. No ambiance here. She could hear tinny music coming from the nearby pier, where the amusement park's Ferris wheel glittered with multi-colored lights.

“This is a No Parking zone,” Irma announced, a fresh Lucky Strike appearing between her fingers. She sighed and made it disappear when Jazz shot her a warning look.

“Relax, Irma.” Jazz pushed her door open. “I'm not lucky enough to have you towed away to a nasty, dirty impound lot.” Instead of using a car alarm, she set an illusion spell that allowed anyone without magickal sight to see the car only as a rusting Pontiac instead of the snazzy T-Bird. And anyone who happened to stumble past the spell and still try to steal the car would be in for a nasty surprise. When it last happened in 1980, the hysterical car thief babbled on about the car being filled with snakes. No wonder the police thought he was flying high on drugs.

Fiddles playing Morrison's Jig engulfed Jazz as she stepped inside the pub. The music swept her back in time to the little Irish village where she was born. Memories were so strong, she swore she could almost smell peat burning on the hearth. Seven hundred years ago there had been no pubs, but there were meeting places for the men to gather, drink ale and brag. She was the little girl sent to fetch Da home, cuffed for her efforts as often as not. She shook off the memory as Murphy caught her eye and raised his hand in greeting. She returned the gesture and wove her way between the maze of tables and chairs. The patrons of Murphy's Pub cheerfully ignored the statewide restaurant smoking ban. The two local cops sitting at the end of the bar weren't about to enforce the law when they each had a cigarette in their hands.

“Don't you look like a hot and sexy lady of the night?” Murphy said as she slid into her usual place near the beer taps. He pushed a basket of pretzels toward her and rested his elbows on the bar's surface.

“Thank you, kind sir,” Jazz said, letting a hint of Old Ireland creep into her voice.

“So tell me, darlin', you have any whips and chains hiding under that scrap of a jacket?” He leaned across the space between them as if to get a better look.

She picked up the mug and sipped the warm, yeasty ale with a grateful sigh. “You're such a flatterer, Murphy. Is that why the boys in blue are showing up here instead of heading over to one of their usual hangouts?”

His gaze momentarily shifted toward the cops, then came back to Jazz. “Some vamps have come up missing lately, so they're checking all the bars in the area. I told them vamps don't tend to come in here. We don't serve the right kind of refreshment.” He chuckled.

“I bet they chose this place because they knew no vamp would come in here. They just wanted a place where they could kick back and drink,” she replied, picking up a handful of pretzels and munching away. In seconds the basket was empty. Murphy replaced it with a filled one.

“They've sure been doing that.” He winked at Jazz. “And what brings you to my establishment wearing a hot outfit like that?”

“Getting even with a client who tried to cheat me out of my fee.”

“One of Dweezil's clients or a cursed client?”

“Cursed,” she replied

“The world was saner before creatures came out of the woodwork,” Murphy muttered, nodding acknowledgement at someone's shout for another Guinness. “And according to the boys in blue at the end of the bar, a lot safer.”

“But not as exciting.” Jazz winked back. “Live and let live, Murphy.” She started to say more when she felt a faint stroke of cold trail across the back of her neck. She lifted the mug to her lips and tilted her head back just enough to look in the gilt edged mirror behind the bar. That's when she saw him, sitting at the rear corner table, ready to intercept her gaze in the mirror. Proof positive that a vampire without a reflection is nothing more than an old Bela Lugosi tale.

Nikolai Gregorivich. Tall, dark, and arrogant. Eyes the color of the Irish Sea. Features cold as ice. And a vampire.

Jazz had not seen him in over thirty years. What was he doing here?

White-hot anger settled deep inside and flowed through her veins like lava.

Focus, Jazz, focus.

What in Fate's sake was he doing here? Why wasn't he hanging out at The Crypt down in the warehouse district? There the undead found everything from O Positive to A Negative on tap.

He sure as hell wasn't here to see her. Maybe he was here for the same reason as the two mortal cops were. Nikolai worked as an investigator and enforcer for a vampire security agency. From experience, Jazz knew that vampire cops and mortal cops in the same place didn't always play well together, even if Nikolai seemed to get along better with mortal law enforcement than most of his kind did. A quick glance at the end of the bar assured her the two cops had no idea a vampire was even in the bar.

“Uh, Jazz.”

She tore her eyes away from the mirror and saw the mug of ale bubbling in her hand—bubbling like, well, like a witch's cauldron.

“Is there something wrong?” Murphy asked, raising an eyebrow.

Jazz snuffed her temper and smiled, watching the bubbles recede. “Not a thing.”

He frowned as he wiped up the liquid and then glanced up at a rumbling sound overhead. “What was that?”

“Probably a low-flying jet,” she lied, dialing her temper back a few more notches. At this rate, she'd be sent to witchy anger management. She pushed the mug away. She knew any ale that reached her stomach now would only turn sour. “It's been a long night. I think I'll head on home, Murphy.”

“It's not that late,” he said with a hint of invitation in his voice.

She smiled and shook her head as she pulled out a twenty and left it on the bar, ignoring Murphy's attempt to push it back toward her. She turned away and headed for the door.

Another boom of thunder rattled the windows as she reached the exit.

“Damn it,” Jazz muttered, hurrying outside before her witchy tantrum drew the two cops' attention. “And damn him for invading my territory.”

“You shall pay, Nick Gregory. This I vow. You shall suffer and scream for a mercy I shall deny you.” Jazz's parted lips trailed across Nick's collarbone. She ran the tip of her tongue up the taut lines of his throat while her fingers danced their way down his abs following the line of crisp hair lower still.

“Mercy,” Nick whispered as her fingers wrapped around his erection. He lay naked on his bed, legs slightly spread to accommodate Jazz's bare thigh draped over his.

“But we've just begun, darling,” she purred, nipping his earlobe just hard enough to cause him to jump in response, then soothed the bite with her tongue. “You must lie there very still while I have my way with you.”

“Feel free to do what you will—soon enough it will be my turn.” He lowered his voice to a husky growl that made promises she knew he would keep. Her body quivered in anticipation.

But for now, it was her turn and she intended to make the most of it.

Leaning back, she admired the view. Sheer male beauty stretched out beside her. Nick had kept himself in excellent physical condition in life and, as a member of the undead, his well-honed body would never deteriorate. She tangled her fingers in the light dusting of dark brown hair on his chest. She knew many women admired a hair-free chest, but she liked to see a bit there, as long as the man didn't look as if he needed a good chest waxing. No, Nick's was just right. Surrendering to temptation, she lowered her head to nibble on a dark brown nipple that peeked out among the hair. It peaked to a hard nub and brought another groan to his lips.

“Wuss,” she teased, dividing her attention between both nipples, alternating with tiny nips of her teeth and soothing licks of her tongue. She glanced up under the cover of her lashes. “Why no nipple rings? So many vamps love them as bling.”

Nick made a face. “Not my style. Makes me think it would be too easy to loop a chain through it. Make me a slave.”

“Hmmmm,” she giggled and hummed as she mouthed her way down to his navel. “The picture that conjures up. . .”

“Seems like you've already conjured something very much up.” His eyes followed as she cupped her hand around his straining cock, slowly stroking from root to tip in a rhythm that had him clenching his teeth when her other hand gently cradled the sac beneath.

“I ask that thee render me that which I deserve. Because I say so, damn it!” She finished with her own version of “so mote it be” on a wave of throaty laughter right before she raised her body up over him and settled on him with perfect ease. She straddled his hips, bending her long legs alongside his.

“What? No foreplay?” He grasped her hips, although she needed no help in finding a rhythm. It had been written in their blood ages ago.

She leaned forward and brushed her mouth across his, tickling the seam of his lips and teasing the tips of his fangs, darting out before they could prick the tender skin. “We had foreplay at the movies,” she breathed against his mouth. “And during the drive home when I unzipped your jeans and. . .” she deliberately paused for effect, “it's time for the main event, fang boy.” She moved in a circular motion, tightening her core to massage him with her inner muscles.

Nick suddenly jackknifed his legs, flipping her onto her back with ease.

“You are so right, mi'lady. But I'll be the ringmaster for this show.” He dipped his head, kissing her deeply. The scent of arousal grew thick in the room. He reared back until his cock left her folds. As she whimpered the sorrow of her loss, he thrust forward, filling her once again. With each deepening stroke, she arched up, meeting him as his equal.

Jazz looked up, smiling at the dark intensity of his features.

Her smile faltered a bit when she saw the arousal turn to something else, as his expression sharpened and his eyes turned a burning red. The growl that traveled up his throat turned into a feral hiss. Before she could react, his fangs lengthened and he dipped his head. Pain shot through her as his fangs pierced the sensitive skin of her throat.

Why isn't my blood making him sick? Everyone knows a witch's blood will sicken, and can even kill, a vampire! She wanted to shriek, to fight back, but her heavy limbs refused to obey her commands. Lights danced before her eyes and she feared instead of her blood killing Nick, he would kill her.

Jazz's eyes popped open as she shot up in bed, her hand pressed against the side of her neck where pain still radiated. Nick lay slumbering beside her.

Fear, memory of searing pain, and just plain fury warred inside her. She looked down at the source and let her temper—and fist—loose.

“You son of a whore!” She threw a punch to his bare abs that could easily have broken her hand. Not that she would have noticed. “You bit me!”

“What? What?” Nick scrambled away from her flying fists and fell out of bed. He grasped the covers and stared at her as if he was positive she'd somehow lost her mind. “What in Hades is wrong with you?”

“You bit me!” She slid off the other side of the bed and hurried around the room, keeping her hand pressed against her neck. Pain and anger translated to red and purple sparks flying around her.

“Bit you?” Confusion mingled with being just plain pissed off at being awakened with a punch to the stomach. “I was asleep, damn it!” He hauled himself to his feet and stood there in all his naked glory. For once, Jazz's cold stare warned him that she wasn't admiring the view. He stared at her hand covering her throat but saw no signs of blood or trauma to the skin. He refused to believe he would take her blood without permission, asleep or not. In all their times as lovers he hadn't even given her a hickey. He also kept a close eye on her free hand. The last thing he wanted was witchflame thrown at his favorite part of the body. “Damn it, I didn't bite you!”

With one hand applying firm pressure to her neck, she struggled to pull her jeans on one-handed. “You practically tore out my bloody throat,” she snarled, still feeling the ache of her flesh.

Nick crouched slightly, his hands thrust outward. “Will you stop using the word ‘bloody'?”

She blinked back the tears that threatened to leak out. “Get out.”

“What?” Even with his super hearing, he knew he couldn't have just heard what she said.

She breathed hard as if pushing back tears. Or absolute terror. “I said get out!” She stalked around the room, still keeping him out of reach, snatched up his jeans and T-shirt, and threw them at him. The clothing bounced off his chest and fell back to the floor. “Get out and do not ever come near me again.” She refused to look at him as she gathered up her own clothing. “Because if you do I will stake you. I cannot believe you bit me!” Tears and anger made a nasty combination.

Nick's jaw worked furiously. A witch with Celtic origins might have a legendary temper, but so did a vampire with the blood of a Cossack. “This is my room. My apartment.”

Jazz froze in the act of pulling her cotton top over her head. She stared at the navy and cream swirled print comforter that had been tossed to the floor, navy sheets that were likewise thrown every which way, and furniture that suited a centuries-old vampire. None of the stark colors that dominated her own suite of rooms. She finished pulling on her top, then picked up her leather tote bag. “Fluff! Puff! Where are you two? You better not have left the apartment!” she shouted when she discovered it was empty of two items. The errant slippers popped into the room and scampered over to her feet. Sensing the turmoil in the air, and guessing the cause, the fluffy predators snarled and gnashed their razor-sharp teeth at Nick, clearly showing they considered him the enemy in this battle. Jazz quickly stuffed her underwear, the top she'd worn the night before, and a hairbrush into her leather tote bag and slung it over her shoulder. “If Rex sees those man eaters, you'll be permanently banned from the boardwalk along with them,” Nick warned, jumping into his jeans as he followed her to the door.

She sniffed at the mention of the boardwalk manager who ruled his kingdom with an iron fist. “He's not the boss of me.” She glared at him. “And neither are you.”

“Jazz, what in Hades' name is going on? How can you say I took your blood when there's no sign I did! Damn it, show me where I bit you!” Nick was fast on her heels as she raced up the stairs to the building's main floor. Ground-eating strides took her down the hallway to the double glass doors. Nick wasn't worried about the early morning light. His advanced age as a vampire along with heavily tinted glass of the doors helped protect him against the sun. He was confused, and more than a little ticked off, by her accusation. But it was clear Jazz wasn't going to stick around to talk about it.

He gingerly rubbed his palm over his bare abs. If he'd been a mortal man he would probably have had his share of cracked ribs. The heavy glass door almost hit him in the face as she slapped her palm against the surface and pushed it open, sailing through and not looking back. He kept the door open long enough to holler after her, “And why can't you hit like a girl?”

He stared at her retreating figure and realized that wasn't one of his finer moments.