Unbound

“I’m mortal, too.” Eavan wasn’t sure of it just then; she felt pretty far from mortal after the way she’d thrown herself at Cillian. The words, the reminder—to herself and to Muriel—were important though. “I’m still mortal.”

“You are, sweetie.” Muriel reached over and squeezed her head. “You haven’t killed anyone, and I don’t know if that was sex enough to count.”

Eavan and Muriel had discussed what constituted “sex” often enough, but there weren’t any clear answers. Things Other were notoriously prone to loopholes, semantics, and arguments of intention. If she considered it true sex, would it be? Or was it the definition of the matriarch? Or was it the interpretation of some long dead ancestor? Eavan had no answers, but she did know that she needed to tread extra carefully the next month. Just in case. One month without murder—usually that wouldn’t sound so impossible.

“Help me stop Daniel?” Eavan stared out the window into the dimly lit parking lot of the Chaos Factory. Somewhere out there, her prey waited.

“It’s a trap.” Muriel pulled in and zipped around the line of cars to go to the valet stand. “You know that, right?”

“I do.” Eavan accepted a hand as she slid out of Muriel’s Vanquish.

Muriel walked around the car and wrapped an arm around Eavan. Then she caught and held the valet’s gaze.

“Don’t joyride,” she warned. Her fangs appeared just long enough to scare the valet. “If any of you so much as stroke the car, you’re dinner.”

The valet shuddered. He wouldn’t remember the words, or seeing the fangs, but he would take good care of Muriel’s car.

“This is a bad idea, Eavan.” Muriel motioned at the club. “Going in there when you’re like this is a really bad idea.”

“I need to get the girl out,” Eavan insisted. “I can handle it.”

Silently, Muriel walked past Eavan.

She didn’t need vampire powers to charm the doorman. She skipped the line and went to stand in front of him. Eavan followed. Muriel wrapped an arm around her again. This time, though, she stroked her fingers over Eavan’s hip.

Eavan gasped. “Muriel…”

As Eavan leaned in to Muriel’s caress, she felt the doorman and innumerable mortals in the waiting line respond to the tease of a show.

Not as much as I am.

“Shhh, sweetie,” Muriel whispered in her ear. “We’ll be able to dance in a sec.” To the doorman, she added in a low whisper, “My girl’s in a bit of a mood. Can we skip the line? She’s not much of an exhibitionist unless the music’s on.”

The doorman grinned and motioned them inside.

They stopped just inside the door. Muriel’s hand slid up and across the small of Eavan’s back. “This is where we are, Ev. You’re not in any shape to be here.”

“Staying here.” Eavan swallowed. She fisted her hands, driving small half moons into her palms. “I’ve been almost as bad before.”

“Not in years.”

“I can do this.” Eavan forced the craving back as hard as she could. “Please, Muriel?”

Muriel shook her head, but she asked, “Tell me the ground rules.”

“Don’t let Daniel take me anywhere. Get the girl out.” Eavan leaned against a wall, feeling the onslaught of music, the thrum of sexual energy, the lure of prey in the club. “No sex with anyone. Knock my ass out if you need to.”

“Anything up to that point or nothing at all?” Muriel forced Eavan to look at her.

“Nothing with anyone but you. If I need…if…” Eavan hated to ask Muriel to be her crutch. “I don’t want to hurt…you’re strong.”

Muriel laughed. “Woe is me.”

“We’re friends.” Eavan would hate herself if Muriel actually attached emotion to sex. They’d pushed a few barriers over the years though, so it wasn’t unheard of. Muriel was the closest to sex Eavan had been.

Until tonight.

“I’m here.” Muriel’s teasing vanished. “Just like old times, right? I get all the fun, and you refuse to enjoy yourself.”

Eavan laughed. “I plead the Fifth…actually…” She took Muriel’s hand and led the way to one of the bars. “Redbreast. Triple shot. Neat.”

The bartender looked at Muriel.

“Crown, rocks, with a splash.” She paused and looked behind her as if the man standing there was with them. “And a vodka tonic, neat.”

“That was mean,” Eavan whispered. “I hate vodka.”

Muriel sighed. “Vodka’s mine, sweets. You can have my whiskey.”

With a grateful smile, Eavan took the two glasses of whiskey when the bartender returned. She upended the triple and left the glass behind. It was a start. The whiskey was a comforting narcotic, numbing her senses enough to help block the cravings a little.

For the next two hours, they pushed through the crowd, pausing at each of the bars rather than running a tab, so as not to alarm any of the bartenders with how much she was consuming. Not enough for a glaistig, but far more than a real mortal could drink safely. Even still, Eavan was one pulsing nerve after pressing too close to mortals, all but stoned on the pheromones in the club.