Chapter Nine: You Flash Some Fang And I Bat My Lashes
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* * * * *
Juliet wove her way through the crowd, trying to tamp down the urge within herself to break free of her own blood and bone and just run, exit the party and dash out into the darkened streets, heading at breakneck speed for the city limits. What good it would do, she really had no idea.
But she knew for sure she had to put distance and space between herself and Lassiter; the way she had been looking at him over the few feet at the table frightened her. A minor key of lust had settled in her mouth, the saliva under her tongue as a hunger deep within her—no, not herself exactly—geared up her teeth to strike, like a viper, like a wolf.
As well as she knew her partner, she still knew that he would be utterly blindsided by any attack from her front and possibly unable to defend himself over concern for hurting her. And Juliet could not let that happen. All day, the apprehension she had felt over something bad happening to Carlton was a threat coming from her.
Juliet slipped easily between throngs of costumed groups, many holding glasses of wine or punch, carrying on serious conversations about business or talking excitably about their children or planning their next girls' night out. Their words caught in her hair like bugs as she passed them but melted as quickly as snow brought indoors, slipping down the back of her neck as indiscernible foreign phrases. The crowd seemed to part for her, acutely aware of her as a draft of chill air drawing them away from her and into the circle of refuge of lovers or friends.
She had all but forgotten their purpose for being here—identifying and capturing a criminal, a potential killer who chose Halloween Eve to strike—over the fight or flight response ringing inside her head. Juliet was confused and scared, unknowing of what to make of what was happening to her, the how or the why, least of all how to make it stop. Let it run its course. It's just one night.
Juliet gasped, stopping dead in the middle of dance floor. These whispering words had come within earshot, a voice close enough to expel air into her ear. Juliet tensed, resisting the urge to look over her shoulder, afraid to question her sanity further should she find no one there. Instead, she closed her eyes and held out a hand in front of her, as if she could trust the first person who might take her hand and lead her away from all this.
He is a different kind of predator. He does not need an open wound, or blood in the water, to attack.
This voice echoed within the confines of her ribcage, hissing and urgent; still with her eyes closed, Juliet watched Shawn step into her circle of light, running both hands down her arms as if to warm her up. He grinned at her with sharpened, gleaming canines, and hooked a hand around one of her own. He thrust her body outward and snapped her arm ruthlessly, jarring her to her teeth before spinning her and curling her back toward him. She could not recall the name of the dance, though she thought she should know it, but its name fled as Shawn bent her back in a deep dip, leaning over her, nibbling her.
Juliet took a deep breath, her body rigid in Shawn's arms as he ran his tongue up her neck. She could picture him, as he was—or used to be—smelling of pineapples and sweat, Australian kangaroo paste, the way could make her dizzy with just one look. He didn't even have to try. She liked the thrill.
Or she had, before all this. Before she had ignored five nights of warning. Was this a culmination of a dream begun long ago, long before she had even come to Santa Barbara, even before she met Shawn Spencer? It was both hard and easy to for the dream's imprint to return to her, when she had first screamed, first been charmed by a man—a creature—with a mouthful of fangs.
Why was she never the one with the teeth—sharpened to a perfect point, gleaming white in the moon's crescent light? Why was she never the one brushing back a swath of hair, nuzzling his cheek with its stubble before drawing her lips down to his pulse, opening wide with her mouth already wet—hungry—piercing, breaking skin? Why was it never his scream echoing through the night, through the leaves and branches of trees, over the skylight, trailing down to the corner?
Still yet, why didn't she ever fight back with the strength of a hunter—no doubt she had it in her— gathering up cross, wooden stake, garlic and holy water charms—going straight for the heart? (The head would of course do, but the symbolism of one organ over another—) Juliet squeezed her eyes tighter as if in intense pain; she felt forces as work with the strength of hurricanes or wildfires acting against her within her, as if she were trying to fight off a twin, or doppelganger. She sucked in a breath through her nose, inhaling the strong masculine scent of Shawn.
He wasn't stopping—no apologizing, no speaking at all, just biting, a mouthful of razors on her neck—piercing, gouging, penetrating. Her mouth fell open, with a teardrop full of blood escaping the corner of her parted lips. She could taste her own blood, sweet as candy corn, as chocolate coconut, as—pineapple juice.
She gasped, knowing but not knowing how the liquid slipping from her eyes was red, shaped like tears but like the excretion of a cut. Her arms flew up from her body like birds, pushing against the heavy warmth of his body—like pushing on a rock. He wouldn't budge. He continued to drink.
* * * * *
She was a flash of white in an undulating ocean of black, a dove on a night sea. Her blond hair, done up with curls on the back of her head glittered. She was much easier to find and follow than he thought she would be.
Shawn had left Gus in good company, chatting up a shiny, silvery covered spacewoman who had also apparently been suckered by the same costume shop, so he could pursue Juliet and convince her that she needed his expert help on the case she and Lassiter was working with the FBI. Shawn guessed it would be easy enough, in spite of Juliet's extra fluttery emotional displays around him earlier in the day, just because he had superpowers while he was wearing this costume—heightened charm and good looks, not to mention his perfectly gelled knock-'em-dead locks. Who really cared if the costume—which when he'd first put on thought made him look uber-cool—now gave him the creeps and was starting to itch—especially if it gave him an automatic in with Jules? Once Jules was on board, Lassie would grudgingly have to accept it; Lassiter was well past the short phase of saying "NO!" to Juliet.
When he caught up to her, he brushed her shoulder with one white gloved hand, feeling her body tense. She didn't turn around. Up close, she appeared more stunning then usual; really, at a distance was nothing to this. The dress was perfect. He hadn't been consciously choosing something so seductive, though it had been his hands doing the selecting; the choices had been a joke, a good laugh for him and his imagination. So when he had seen the two of them enter the party in full costume—shamed likely by Chief Vick into wearing such skimpy things, he had been shocked speechless and allowed Gus to do all the talking, filling in the blanks for what had happened.
Shawn smoothed the front of his costume and the back of his cape, as if there was a real chance they could have gotten wrinkled somewhere between entering the party and meeting up with Jules. He pulled himself around her, the cape fluttering seductively at her cheek. He saw her eyes were firmly shut, and took extra time to admire how beautiful she looked. Nearly a minute passed in his appraisal of her assets but he saw that she held out her hand to him, as if she expected him to squeeze it or kiss it—she herself wasn't sure, wasn't sure what she wanted or what he would do.
"Jules?" Shawn asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Carmine," Juliet said in a low voice, her eyes still shut.
"Carmine?" Shawn's other eyebrow shot up, then he looked Juliet up and down again. "Oh. Oh, I get it. The costume. That's your name when you're wearing the costume." He leaned in, taking her outstretched hand in his own and pulling her towards him. She didn't resist, not even when he pressed his lips to her neck, and inhaled her sent.
"My name's still Shawn," he told her, moving his lips towards hers, "but if you want, you can call me Sexy."
Juliet's opened eyes stopped Shawn's breath, boring bright blue into his usual hazel. She didn't have to say a word; he already knew it was never going to fly. Still, he was almost unseated by her deep intensity. She was squeezing his hand as if she were in some kind of distress and needed his support, but it was starting to hurt.
"You know, Jule—er, Carmine," Shawn amended, attempting to lighten the tone, "there's a point when you're eating leftover hearts where they stop being appetizing regardless of how good they taste. It's a visual thing."
It was just a thing—even in its most perverted form—that Shawn would say. Still, Juliet was staring at him, dumbfounded. His teeth looked extra sharp, even canine from this angle. He tapped a gloved fist to his chompers and Juliet heard his words echo through her skull.
She wondered whose other hearts he had been eating, if not hers. Were they all . . . female? Did he also have a "thing" for them—the women or the hearts, or both—or did vampires like to mate for life?
"Care to dance?"
Juliet swallowed hard, but allowed Shawn to pivot her so his body met hers. "You dance, Shawn?" she breathed with all the courage she could muster. She slid up against him as if she always fit perfectly.
"I'm a man of many secrets and hidden talents, Jules." His voice sounded robust, smoky. Juliet felt dizzy, as if the skimpy dress had come with a corset and someone had laced it too tight around her. Her stomach was empty.
"Talents," Juliet repeated softly. "How many hearts . . ."
"Hmm?" Shawn bent her into a partial dip, whirling her up just as quickly, pulling her back into his arms, all with perfect timing so she barely could get used to the falling, could barely notice his breath on her exposed throat.
She couldn't speak. She pressed herself against his body, afraid of falling again. Her mind whirred with what kinds of hearts he'd been eating. Maybe . . . they hadn't been human. Maybe . . . they'd belonged to rabbits, fish, sheep. Maybe they bled, if raw, as he stuffed them into his mouth. What if they belonged to small children . . . or kittens? Juliet gasped. Why did he no longer want her heart?
Abruptly, she lurched back, letting go of him and daring fate to watch her fall. But he hadn't let go of her. "Jules?" Shawn asked with concern, "are you still with me?"
"Hearts," Juliet breathed. "You eat hearts."
"Candy hearts," he explained, sounding surprised that she still wanted to talk about it. "The Conversation Hearts. See, after a while, I get tired of them speaking to me. They are so loud, so bossy! Or maybe it's the reading. It's one of those." He grinned sheepishly, his fangs shining in the light.
His plastic fangs. Juliet blinked, then blinked again. Still plastic.
This was a bad idea; she shouldn't have given in. Juliet's heart raced, and she wondered with fear if Shawn could hear her blood, could smell it even though it was all safe inside of her. He squeezed her hand, easing her closer to his chest. This time, Juliet didn't squeeze back. "Are you still with me?" he asked again, provocative, teasing her—or could she be imagining—? Juliet tilted her head back, getting a good look at Shawn's face—a mistake. He looked hungry, had no qualms of taking her right here, of spilling fresh blood down her nice white dress.
Begging him, on her knees, begging him . . . not to stop.
Oh, god. A blush crept into her cheeks from the back of her neck. This might only entice him. Juliet, in a panic, threw her body back, severing their connection. She spun in the crowd, barely missing taking out another couple—a fox and a rabbit—dancing cheek to cheek. Juliet dashed forward, her heart clamping her jaw shut. Soon, its pounding would reach her eyes, and then all of her senses would be locked. Juliet stumbled as she ran, but she didn't fall.
Shawn had no speakable time to recover from Juliet's unexpected mad ditch and dash—not enough time to stop her, anyway. Her name stuck in his throat and the whole thing made him feel nervous. He didn't know what to do, but his hesitation only lasted a few solid seconds. As before, he pursued her, quickening his steps to overcome her flight. The deja vu of it made him dizzy; hadn't she been running away from something—or someone—just minutes before, when he'd managed to get close enough?
"Jules, I know this isn't the most exciting party," he called after her, "but it's kind of insulting that you think I'm boring you to death!"
They hadn't even talked about the case because he'd been too busy flirting, but Shawn could make no apologizes for it. It was just too hard not to, since Juliet was so gorgeous and seemed to retain some of the inexplicable vulnerability she had worn all day—the fainting at the sight of him and way she had seemed to shrink back from him, as if afraid. It was definitely the costume, Shawn thought, running his new plastic nails under the collar to scratch his own skin. He thought that Juliet could save him if she would just take off his costume—and hers too, while she was at it.
He grinned mischievously, not certain he wanted Halloween to end. All this role play was actually fun, but that didn't mean he wanted to go another TriCon if he could possibly help it. What he was doing—and what Jules was doing too, he hoped—was more along the lines of undercover work, necessary at times as private or homicide detectives, respectively. If he could get his regular brain to focus more on the room and less on the tunnel vision Juliet was demanding of it, then he could check out the people, find the mark or marks and locate the lady fiend, the black widow, the murderess.
But before he could do this, he needed to hold Juliet in his arms again. He would like to know why she had severed their connection and bolted, but he would settle for not knowing if she would just stay.
He chased her to the edge of room, a deserted, dimly lit back corner that even the wallflowers had shunned. They would have privacy to exchange lewd words and/or discuss how to apprehend the murderess before she sunk her teeth into one or more of the wealthier male partygoers. Shawn thought they could do both, maybe even at the same time.
When Juliet reached the wall, she spun around. This was the end of the line. This body could not slide through walls. She would have to, instead, retrace her steps.
For a moment, Juliet fell back against the wall, shuddering. The vampire had followed her, perhaps even flew after her in bat form. She run a shaking hand up her decolletage and neck, probing for puncture marks. Now the vampire loomed over her . . .
"Jules?" Shawn said softly, forgetting he wasn't supposed to call her that. "Are you okay?" He drew his eyebrows together in confusion, wondering what could have scared her so badly. Then he took the chance to get closer. "Don't you like vampires, Jules?" Shawn asked softly, his mouth close to her ear.
"I don't—I don't know," she said, clasping her hands in front of her as her shoulders began to tremble. He was so close to her—yet her fear was dissolving, trickling down her body like sweat.
"Aren't I your dream?" Shawn asked, his breath warm on her ear lobe, on her neck as he drew back to look into her eyes. Aren't I your fantasy? The words echoed loudly in her ears though they hadn't been spoken aloud.
Closing her eyes, though he was right in front of her, Juliet dreamed. When her eyes opened, a change had come, a brush of transformation. She knew what she wanted.
"I crave you, Shawn," a thick, sultry voice uttered from behind Juliet's painted lips. He was just repeating it, but with a nervous giggle trapped in his throat, his Adam's apple going up and down as if he couldn't catch his breath. His eyes, a usual shade of light hazel, glowed green against the dim lighting of the party.
They fell into each other, hungry, tasting each other, embracing bare skin, trying to get closer, closer. She wasn't even afraid anymore, even knowing that he might bite into her, share in her pulsing life force. Juliet could sense her blood humming like an electric current against his as they kissed each other passionately, with abandon. She forced her tongue into his mouth, turning him so that his back was against the wall, and tore his shirt. She broke to kiss his chest and suck on his neck. This is so much better than the dream. Shawn guided her face back to his lips.
Juliet pulled back after what seemed like hours, her own mouth burning from his touch. "Please," she heard Shawn beg, "please, don't stop," and leaned back in to brush his lips while her eyes traced a line to Shawn's throat. As if called to a certain spot, she moved her lips downward in featherlike kisses and when she drew close enough to touch, her mouth clamped down on Shawn's neck. This time, she didn't tease or suck.
She bit with the intent to pierce, to taste blood, to feed.
Shawn stiffened, but his whole body was a tight knot; uncomfortable, he started to panic. Under the mask of Halloween music and loud conversation, he screamed—a shuddering whimper of pain, at first—trying to jerk back, trying to push his palms against her arms to force her to step back.
To silence his cries, Juliet swiftly slid her lips to his mouth, covering them with a caress. She moved as if entranced, choosing not to bite but to kiss—hard, violent kisses that would bruise.
Suddenly scared and disoriented, Shawn fell into whimpers, giving in to her. She had manacled his wrists to wall with her hands, pressing the muscle of her frame sharply against his. He let her—take whatever she wanted.
And she was so hungry.
She kissed harder; his lips felt numb—but he was terrified to stop. This felt so real. . . .
* * * * *
Gus found Shawn slumped on the floor against a wall, alone, after receiving a distress text— HELP jules—an act Shawn had somehow managed during the ritual bloodletting-slash-paranormal-attack-slash-horror- kissing. Shawn was holding the side of his neck, staring blearily into the dark, colored dots of light keeping time with the now electronic beat of the party—a change of DJ, he'd guessed. Which meant that he'd been fighting unconsciousness for at least twenty minutes.
"Shawn! Shawn" Gus called, quickening his pace to reach him. He stopped at Shawn's side, his mouth open, his eyebrows scrunched to his hairline. "What happened?"
"I think—I think—" Shawn gasped, noticing that his hand, which had been on the floor, propping him up, looked unusually pale. He licked his lips, trying to catch his breath.
"What?" Gus repeated. "Spit it out!"
"Trying," Shawn said, rolling his eyes at Gus weakly. "I think Jules needs a . . . a rabies shot."
Gus's brown furrowed further. "What? What the heck are you—"
Shawn pulled his hand away from his neck. In the poor light, Gus gulped at a red substance on Shawn's neck, but then caught himself, annoyed. "Shawn, what the hell are you doing? When are you going to stop it with the fake blood? It's not funny now and it hasn't ever been!"
"It's not—" Shawn paused, looking at his other hand. Well, would you look at—? He groaned, leaning his head back against the wall. This couldn't be real. . . .
Gus sighed, ignoring the gross but fake blood on Shawn's skin. "Why does Jules need a rabies shot, Shawn?"
Shawn forced himself not to blink, to hold Gus's eyes like a bright beam of light. "Because—she bit me."
"WHAT?" Gus stood up straight, staring incredulously at Shawn. Shawn didn't seem to be joking around, in fact, he looked bad, as if he'd been beaten up. "What really happened?"
Shawn blinked furiously, wanting to go to—or back to—sleep. This night—at least the very last part he remembered—was not turning out at all the way he'd hoped or planned. "We were—she was . . . kissing me . . ."
Part of it seemed like a wild, vivid dream, nothing more than that; the worst part of that was the most dreamlike, the most unreal, had been their hungry exchange of tender but urgent kisses and swapping of saliva, as well as Juliet acting like the aggressor, holding his hands over his head against the wall. The other part, the more real part, was the pain, the biting and his screams, and his paralyzing fear that she was drawing his blood and nothing he could do would make her stop.
Before Shawn could continue, Lassiter appeared behind Gus, his gun drawn. He looked pissed, though when he stepped into some light, Shawn saw that it was just a mask. Lassiter had fear in his eyes. He was looking around them, both ways into the costumed crowd. "Lassie. What are you doing . . ."
"I forwarded the text to him, Shawn," Gus explained. "I didn't know if you wanted help for you or for Juliet."
"Mm-hmm," Shawn nodded. His eyelids drooped. "Both."
"Spencer, where is my partner?" Lassiter growled, grabbing a fistful of Shawn's ridiculous black cape. Shawn grimaced as the knots holding the cape around his shoulders pulled on his neck. "Are you drunk?"
"I don't know, Lassie," Shawn grumbled, trying to yank the cape away from Lassiter, who was just noticing the injury on his neck.
"Are you bleeding?" Lassiter said incredulously. "What happened?"
"It's not blood," Gus countered, though he took another look, gulping.
"Dude," Shawn hissed, rolling his eyes, "you of all people . . . should know what blood looks like. Permission to faint . . . on sight."
"That's not funny, Shawn."
"Will the two of you shut up?" Lassiter demanded, looking rapidly from Shawn to Gus to Shawn again. "Now tell me what's going on."
"How are we supposed to shut up and tell you—" Gus cut in before Shawn could. He ignored both his best friend and Lassiter glaring at him with disbelief.
"Is everyone insane today?" Lassiter growled. He released the wad of cloth from Shawn's cape, jerking it when he noticed it too, as well as his hand, were covered with a wet, red substance that smelled suspiciously like blood. If it quacks like a duck. . . .
He surveyed the scene, noting how Spencer had neither moved nor made a single attempt to mock him in his embarrassing stripper costume. At O'Hara's behest, Carlton had prominently displayed the "Officer Bad Sexy" badge on his chest. Carlton, for his part, neglected to inquire how the two of them had gained access to such an exclusive party. Spencer could be drunk, or sick, but that didn't explain the blood.
"Was O'Hara here?" he demanded, cutting a look at Guster.
Gus shrugged. "I haven't seen her all night. I just found Shawn about five minutes ago."
"What about you?" Lassiter asked Shawn, narrowing his eyes.
"She was . . . here," Shawn got out. "She asked me . . . to call her . . . Carmine."
Lassiter sat back on his heels, surprised. "Oh hell," he muttered. He was uncharacteristically afraid to ask the right questions—had O'Hara seemed odd, or sick herself, or drugged? It suddenly seemed the least likely that Spencer was behind drugging her, unless—unless she had retaliated when she found out and attacked him.
Lassiter shook his head slowly; no matter how angry O'Hara might get, he could not picture her physically harming Spencer, at least, not enough to make him bleed. (A slap or a good right hook weren't out of the question, but Lassiter didn't see a mark on Spencer except for the nasty wound on his neck.)
"You need to stay put, both of you," Lassiter declared, standing up. "Put pressure on that, Spencer. I'm sure you're not going to bleed out in a few minutes."
"Is that your professional opinion?" Gus retorted, but he squatted down next to Shawn and handed him a few napkins he'd taken from the appetizer table. "He's needs an ambulance."
"Absolutely not," Lassiter snapped before Shawn could protest that he didn't need an ambulance. He gave them a stern look, the one that never worked before when he told them not to do something dangerous. "I'm going to go find O'Hara, and then I'm driving both of you to the hospital. The last thing we need is to alert this unknown woman psycho killer to a police presence."
"The last thing I need is for Shawn to bleed on me," Gus muttered. "Or die." But Lassiter didn't hear him. He was already gone.