The Eternal Kiss: Vampire Tales of Blood and Desire

“Then we will continue to fight,” I said. “Or at least, I will.”

“And I,” Holgar said.

“Me too,” Skye put in.

The others echoed in the affirmative, Jamie last. Antonio appeared suddenly nearby, slipping his hand around mine. I fought the urge to lean against his shoulder. There would be time enough later for the two of us.

“I have only elixir for one,” Armand reminded. “And it is for Eriko.”

“Yes,” I said. I wondered how I had managed to appoint myself spokesperson for the small group, and why no one else seemed to object.

The priest—our priest—smiled at me. “You understand, then. A witch may offer protection to her partner. A vampire may do the same. However, a werewolf has a wild talent. He could inflict unintentional damage on his partner and cannot change at will.”

Eriko bowed her head. “I am not worthy,” she murmured.

Armand put his hand on Eriko’s shoulder and forced her to look up. “Then become so,” he whispered.

We all will, I vowed.

“Sí,” Antonio whispered in my ear.

And so it began.

Ambition by Lili St. Crow

“YOU I CAN change.” He leaned forward, his lips brushing mine. His breath smelled like peppermints and desire, his hair was copper and chocolate. Then he rested his forehead against mine.

Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I’d said no. But he leaned against me, his arm over my shoulders, our foreheads touching, and everything else was so far away. He was beautiful, and he was holding me as if I was his. It didn’t matter that I was cold all over, that I was scared, or that my throat burned like gasoline. The only thing that mattered was that he’d chosen me.

Me.

So I said yes.

What girl wouldn’t?

* * *

“God.” Gwyneth lay on the bench, thick waves of golden hair touching the shade-dappled wood. Out here under the fig trees was one of the most desirable spots for lunchtime. “This won’t ever end. I’ll be trapped here for the rest of my life.”

“We could skip fifth period.” I hugged my bare knees, my bag a comforting slumped weight under them. It was a way to get around the indecency of wanting to pull yourself up in a ball while wearing a skirt. Double scabs from rollerblading were rough patches, I pushed my glasses up with the side of one knee in a quick sideways motion. “I’ve got the homework done. So we can get there at a reasonable time.”

“But I’d have to change.” Cornflower-blue eyes blinked. She held up one hand, inspected her French manicure. “I can’t go in this.”

“Schoolgirl is always in.” Besides, I don’t have anything to change into. I tried hard not to wheedle. But God, sometimes Gwyn even had to be talked into things she wanted to do.

“With perverts.” She stretched again. “Let’s skip fourth as well. You’ve got that homework done too, right?”

She meant, did I have something we could both turn in? I did. But there was a problem. “Quiz today.” I hunched down, my shoulders sharp points. The shade felt good. Dry wind blew across the lacrosse field, full of the tang of sprinkler water and chemical fertilizer. Molly Fenwick and Trisha Brent and their whole crowd were at the benches in the sun, their jackets off and white Peter Pan-collared shirts unbuttoned enough to be daring. Mitzi Hollenweider was telling a story that involved a lot of handwaving and shrieks of ohmiGOD! , careless of whether any of the teachers could hear.

The embroidered badge on my jacket scratched as I rubbed my chin against the one unscabbed bit of my right knee. The hairpins hurt, holding my frizz tightly back. That was one of the things about St. Crispin’s—every button buttoned and every stray hair slicked down. Gwyn’s waves were placid and acceptable, laying tamely wherever she wanted them. But my mess of dark fritz was always working its way free of whatever was used to confine it. I would’ve taken home demerits for that, except I knew when to smooth the teachers over.

They liked me. Adults usually do.

“Dammit.” She stretched again. “So we take the quiz and bail. Right?”

“Tricky.” And it was—Brother Bob, as he liked to be called, pretended to be down with the kids. It was all a big act—he reported to the headmistress and to the bishop who made all the big decisions. The rumor was he was stuck in a girl’s school because he liked the other flavor of young kid. Boy: The Other Catholic Meat.

You’d think we’d have some things in common to bitch about with Brother Bob if he liked boys so much. But he was a narc, no matter how much slang he tried to pick up.

“Well, then what do we do?” She was getting irritated now.

“We’ll figure something out. We always do.” The wind touched my hair, mouthed my knees. “Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

The bell rang. Second lunch over, freedom gone. A ripple ran through everyone. Mitzi finished up her story, glancing over at us. She always wanted to walk to fourth period with Gwyn. It was getting to the point where being Gwyn’s best friend all the way from second grade was wearing a bit thin, and Mitzi was looking to get her into the popular crowd.

If she could get rid of me.

Gwyn hauled herself up with a groan, like she was forty instead of sixteen. Her knees were smooth, her hair settled into place with a few flicks, and she stood balanced on one leg, propping the other foot on the bench to flick imaginary dust off her shiny Mary Janes. Hers were always polished.

I stood up, and a dragging cramp went through my stomach. Gwyn snagged her brown paper lunchbag, wadded it up. There was half a sandwich still in there.

“We’ll think of something,” I repeated.

“Gwyneth!” Mitzi called. “Hey Gwyneth!”

“God,” Gwyn said, sotto voce. “Her voice drills right through my head. Save my spot in fourth, okay?”

Like anyone else would sit next to me. But I nodded. “Sure. Have fun.”

“Yeah, right. I’ll see what the bitch wants.” Gwyn gave me a weird, stretched-thin smile, and moved out into sunlight. Her hair caught it and glowed, and her legs moved long and lithe, dancing steps as she swung her bag back and forth. I sighed and almost fell off the bench while trying to get myself standing up. My skirt didn’t flip up, though, thank God. Another cramp hit me sideways while I got my books all rearranged inside the regulation satchel.

St. Crispin’s even decrees what bookbag you can buy. They’re like that. Scholarship kids like me get a big break on the prices, though. Not enough of a break, but some.

Mitzi’s voice kept hitting high ugly pitches. I sneaked a glance over while I shrugged back into my blazer. Go figure—here we were in sunny Cali and they wanted us to wear wool.

The gaggle of girls in sunlight all giggled, the very same high-pitched nasal laughter. I was pretty sure Gwyn was laughing at them, though, not with them. I hitched my bag up on my shoulder and walked to fourth period. I only looked back once, and Gwyn was alight with the rest of them, standing in a flood of sunlight that picked out their glossy hair, their pampered skin, and the little glitters of gold jewelry—balls or small hoops, 24K of course— that St. Crispin’s approved of.

My chest hurt. My stomach growled again, telling me I was hungry, but I ignored it. The school doors