Cherry Bomb_ A Siobhan Quinn Novel - Caitlin R. Kiernan Page 0,3
there. Done that.
“You really want me to fuck off, Quinn, fine. Just say so. You can go back to playing footsie with Little Miss Poser. It’ll be no skin off my nose.”
I leaned still closer and sniffed at the soft, vulnerable spot beneath her chin. The blood pumping through her carotid artery was, to my ears, loud as a jackhammer.
“See,” I said, “that’s what I wanted about ten minutes ago. Now you’ve gone and gotten my attention.”
To Selwyn Throckmorton’s credit, she didn’t even wince. So, either she was genuinely too stupid to be scared or she had balls.
“About damn time,” she whispered.
I touched the tip of my tongue to her throat and held it there a moment, savoring the calm thump, thump, thump of her pulse. Then I told her, “Just so we’re completely crystal fucking clear, it turns out you’re stupid enough you believe this is some sort of parlor game, it won’t make no difference whatsoever. It won’t save your ass if I should lose control, as I have been known to do.”
“Quinn, are you always this worried about the welfare of your food? You’re awfully conscientious for a—”
“Don’t you dare taunt me,” I growled. Eve whimpered and I kicked her. “Don’t you dare.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it. I’d just hate to find out you’re all talk and no bite.”
Well, what happened next, I ordered Eve to get up off the floor and the three of us went back to her place. I had Selwyn strip her and fuck her while I watched. Then I cuffed my CPA meal ticket to her bed, stuffed one end of a silk scarf into her mouth, and made Selwyn watch while I did a messy job of draining Barbara O’Bryan. No, not quite true, even if, at the time, I wanted to think it was. I didn’t have to make her watch. She was as wide-eyed and attentive as a hungry cat waiting to pounce on an unwary mouse.
That night, I didn’t let her drink from me. But I offered her a mouthful of Eve. She smiled that smile of hers, all wicked pretend innocence, and accepted every goddamn drop. And right then, I didn’t feel lonely anymore. It was the first time in all those years since I’d been murdered by a fucked-up china-doll excuse of a vamp who liked to call herself the Bride of Quiet. The first time since I’d been bitten by a Swamp Yankee loup named Jack Grumet. I fell asleep with Selwyn in my arms, the two of us naked and gore spattered, and we slept the day away there by the cold body of a dead woman.
All my dreams were crimson.
That night in Brooklyn I broke my cardinal rule, or the nearest I’ve ever had to a cardinal rule since the night I died. I caved into the loneliness. I was weak and allowed another person to follow me down. Maybe not all the way. It’s not like I turned Selwyn, but I did everything but. Now, sure, she’d likely had a certain predilection all her life. Maybe she was the sort of person who eventually becomes a serial killer, that supposedly rare female variety. Maybe not. Or maybe some other vamp or loup or whatever would have shown up with open, welcoming arms, willing to take her along for the ride—or worse. She was out there cruising, fingers crossed, praying to dark gods that she’d get lucky. She was willing to die, willing to kill. Hell, if I’d put a knife in her hands and told her to cut Barbara O’Bryan’s throat ear to ear, give her that gaping Glasgow smile, I have no doubt Selwyn would have done it. I have no doubt whatsoever. It’s what she wanted more than love or money, and she was willing to do anything to show me that she wasn’t a tourist. That she was, to her way of thinking, deserving of my companionship, even if she knew right from the start—and I’m pretty sure she did—that I’d never share the curse that I have no doubt she saw as a blessing.
Some nights, I wish I’d just given it to her. If I had, maybe everything would have gone differently, and she’d be here, and I wouldn’t even be writing this, because there’d be no tale to tell. Should’a, could’a, would’a. Regret is a wicked bitter fucking pill to swallow.
Yeah, I suppose I just dropped a spoiler on you. But it’s not like I give a shit.