there were about a million stories about vampires, and never once had she heard them described as swampy monsters.
Had it been close to Halloween, there would have been some explanation for the insanity. Unfortunately, it was nearly March. The Easter Bunny wasn’t this messed up.
So. What next?
She glanced around the stone room lit by the strange, flickering flame, then lifted the cushy comforter. Someone had dressed her in sports sweatpants secured with snap buttons and a large T-shirt, probably a man’s. The shirt was clean and white and smelled like cotton. It was a comforting smell and a comforting setup in a non-comforting room.
She gritted her teeth. She had better not be in some rich guy’s basement. Boy would he rue the day he’d made such a mistake. And whoever had taken Sam’s dress better have kept it and treated it right. And, you know, they better have grabbed Sam’s shoes, too, while they were wrestling her body away from the enormous, couldn’t-be-real wolves.
Funny, this inability to feel fear at the moment. Her flight out of the nightmare house had apparently numbed her to this current predicament.
That was handy.
She pushed back the comforter and swung her feet off the narrow bed. A soft rug embraced them, but the movement made her newly aware of half a dozen aches and pains. She reached around and fingered her back, feeling the padding of bandages. More covered her arm. A bruise discolored her shoulder where she’d rammed the doorjamb in her haste to get outside. Various scratches and bruises marred other areas.
She blew out a slow breath. The numbness wobbled.
It wasn’t real, what she’d seen. It wasn’t. Maybe the partiers who had broken into her chosen room had dropped a tab of acid into her mouth. That would explain it.
She hoped that explained it.
The bed groaned as she pushed off it. Standing, feeling better on her feet despite her throbbing head and aching back, she took in her surroundings. A simple wood table sat next to the bed, holding a glass of water. An equally simple couple of chairs occupied the corner at the far end of the square room, next to a dilapidated dresser holding a porcelain basin filled with water. A mirror hung over a bare wooden shelf, and flip-flops lay next to the bed.
Absently, she scratched her chest, then paused. An electric heat pounded through her middle, a feeling similar to what she’d experienced last night but amplified. Energy zipped through her, invigorating despite her soreness. Excitement—was it excitement?—coiled in her gut, urging her to spar, or fight, or pick up a sword and start hacking at limbs. She just felt so…good. Really good.
Fucking amazing, actually.
“What the hell is happening to me?” she whispered, padding to the door. “Seriously, this had better not be a rich man’s basement.”
At the door, she looked down at the oblong handle and belatedly saw the rusty key sticking out of the keyhole beneath it. A relieved sigh exited her mouth.
If it was a rich man’s basement, he either wasn’t trying to imprison her or he was really, really forgetful. And therefore really, really stupid.
With a last glance at the dancing blue flame, she wrenched the handle and pulled it. Hinges groaned as the heavy wood door swung inward.
Charity grimaced and peered out into the darkened room beyond, ready to slam it shut and turn the key should any of those creatures rush her. A soft rustle drew her eyes to a couch in the middle of the room. It sat opposite two modern recliners with a cozy coffee table between them, sporting a doily trapped beneath a fruit bowl.
The blue light from behind her washed over a bare torso. Movement made Charity brace…and then the man sat up and blinked. He quickly wiped the sleep out of his eyes and stood.
Relief flooded her at the sight of this remnant of her frantic escape from the mansion. Devon.
Shirtless and with black hair sticking out in all directions, he walked toward her with the grace of a dancer. His upper body was lean but solid, his muscles defined. A tattoo covered his shoulder with elegant and artistic scrollwork, wrapping halfway down his bicep. Asian calligraphy cut down the side of his stomach, weaving between his six-pack and sculpted obliques.
Scowling so hard that she absently wondered if she’d kicked his puppy in her sleep, he stopped a little too close, imposing on her with his size, easily half a foot taller than her.