Midnight Bites (The Morganville Vampires)(137)

“Mike?” Shane’s voice was sharp with tension, and his friend was practically vibrating with eagerness to get into it. Claire was quiet, but she was looking at him, too, from the other side. If he lost it, they’d go with him.

It’s Eve’s decision. Eve’s decision. The mantra beat in his temples like a hammer, loud and just as painful, and he almost lost control as he saw the pain sheet across her expression as Rozhkov bit down. No no no no no . . .

And then it was over. He was true to his word. A single quiet mouthful, and then Rozhkov pressed a pale hand over the wound, sealing it. Eve pulled free and clamped her own hand over the bite mark. It wouldn’t bleed much, Michael knew. Part of the vampire’s bite was a healing agent that flooded the wound as the fangs withdrew. He smelled the blood, but not for long.

Rozhkov closed his blue eyes and slumped against the cushions of the sofa. The relief on his face was as intense as suffering. “Thank you, devushka. I am in your debt. In return, I will make you a promise. Never will I threaten you or those near you again. And should you need me, you may call upon me for a favor, yes?”

He got up and walked toward the door, but Shane stood in his way. From the hard set of his face and ready stance, he was still ready to fight if he had to.

“Shane,” Eve said faintly. “Let him go.”

Michael nodded. Shane didn’t like it, but he backed off.

“An excellent decision,” Rozhkov said, as he walked down the hall—silent on the hardwood floor. “One must trust family.”

Michael felt the other vampire’s presence fade into the night outside, and let himself finally relax. “What do you know? We didn’t have to fight anybody,” he said. “Interesting.”

“I’m just a little bit disappointed,” Shane said, and made a space of about an inch between two fingers. Claire walked over to him and compressed the space to a minuscule amount. “Okay. Maybe not so much.”

As Shane put his arm around his girl, Michael went to Eve and extended her a hand. She looked up at him, then let him pull her to her feet and into a hug.

“Did I do the right thing?” she whispered to him. The heat of her breath, her body, was like summer against him, a whole beautiful season made manifest.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I hope so.”

He kissed her, and the kiss held, sweetened, and when their lips gently parted, she said, “So. Now you’ve met my family. What do you think?”

He laughed. “I think everybody’s got embarrassing crazy uncles, devushka.”

“What does that even mean?”

“No idea.” He dropped his voice to an intimate whisper against her ear. “But it sounds as sexy as you.”

“Shhh!” She was blushing under the Goth makeup now, and he felt the heat curl up from her skin in invisible, sweet tendrils. “Somebody should tell the Lockharts that they’re safe. And we should, ah, go home. Right?”

He liked the plan.

? ? ?

In the coming days, they forgot about Rozhkov; he didn’t return, didn’t so much as show up in the distance, and whatever he was doing seemed far away and very much not their problem. Eve’s wrist healed without even a hint of a scar. Life went on, turbulent and calm in spurts.

Michael had never slept soundly since becoming a vampire—too aware of the world around him—but he’d learned to lie still and savor the warmth of Eve next to him as she murmured and dreamed. It was a kind of comfort and peace that he’d never really understood, until he had it.

So he was instantly aware when it started to change.

The first time, it was minor; Eve stirred, murmured something, and sat up in bed. He sat up, too, thinking she’d heard something, but her heartbeat was the same slow, steady rhythm, and though her eyes were open, they were dark and sightless, staring into dreams.

“Eve?” he asked her. She didn’t respond. He watched her, worried, but after a long few seconds, she drifted back down to the pillow, rolled on her side, and was instantly still and quiet again, still breathing softly and regularly.

She’d never woken up.

The next night, she got out of bed. She didn’t walk; she just stood, staring at the wall blankly, and then, with the slowness of dreams, climbed back into bed and snuggled up tight against him. He folded his arms tight around her, holding her safe. The next morning he asked if she knew she’d gotten up; she didn’t remember.

“Guess I’m a sleepwalker,” she said, and flashed him a carefree smile.

He smiled back, but didn’t feel it. It worried him. Eve had always been a sound, peaceful sleeper before—and the blank distance in her when she’d risen had seemed wrong. Very wrong.

The next night, she rose and walked to the window. She tried to open it, but the latch was stiff with age, and after a few tries, she came back to bed.

Michael got up and went to look outside. He saw a dark shape in the shadows by the trees in the yard, but it was gone before he could even begin to identify who it was.

The next night, Eve tried to kill him.

She rose at three in the morning, wandered toward the bedroom door, and went out into the hallway. If she fell down the stairs . . . He followed after her, hovering and unsure whether he ought to try to wake her up, and as she turned, he realized she was holding the silver knife she kept under the bed. Her movements up to that point had been slow and dreamy, but the knife slashed at him with deadly purpose and speed, though the blank, black distance in her eyes never changed.