Frozen in place with panic, Hunter tried to laugh. It sounded husky and raw, nothing like his laugh. His gaze dropped to the photos in his hand. His eyes were telling him the truth about his visitor, but his mind wasn't accepting it.
"I thought that invitation stuff was for vampires."
When Malcolm answered him with nothing more than an intense, knowing look, a shiver ran down his spine, so strong his shoulders shook. Hunter impulsively thrust the pictures at his uninvited visitor.
"You aren't in any of them.” He paused to take a deep breath, then plunged ahead. “You should be in them. I know you were in them when I took them, but ... you're not there.” His voice rose by the last sentence. He had to clear his throat and swallow to bring the tone down. It came out a husky rasp instead.
He took a step closer to Malcolm, pictures held out accusingly. “It's not the film. I thought it was, the first time it happened, but the film is good. Everything else is in the shot.” He swallowed hard again, terrified and turned on by it, by the man in front of him. “Everything but you."
Malcolm made no move to take the photos from Hunter's hand. His gaze had become lazy, sultry, that light of renewed interest taking on a lustful, predatory quality. His long, thick fingers began to work off the links at his shirt cuffs. Once free, he dropped the glinting metal into his pants pocket.
Hunter's gaze followed every move. He had to wet his lips to keep them from cracking. The air in the room seemed to grow thin as he imagined all the reasons this man might need to remove his shirt. Keeping it clean of bloodstains took first place.
Since it had started to shake, Hunter dropped his hand. He tossed the photos onto the couch, where they scattered over his coat and scarf. The sight of the scarf made his stomach clench, and he looked up at Malcolm to find the man standing a mere foot away from him, bare-chested, sculptured, alabaster body boasting a hardened physique as perfect as any of Michelangelo's statues—and just about the same color.
Taken by surprise, Hunter started, gooseflesh covering his body, his pulse hammering through his veins, his hearing suddenly acute to the point that his breathing rasped in his ears. The scent of his own body and its primal, sexual reaction to this dangerous, alluring, predatory man filled the air between them. It was embarrassing to be so obviously turned on, but Hunter couldn't control it. He was attracted to danger, always had been, and this man—or whatever he was—was danger personified, all wrapped up in alluring muscle and mystery.
The room grew warm, the air heavy, sensual against Hunter's chilled flesh. The sensation increased the closer Malcolm moved to him. It was intoxicating, suffocating, delicious, and exciting.
Hunter stumbled back, colliding with the end of the sofa. Malcolm merely watched him grope for a hold on the couch arm in order to stay upright, no offer of help, no rush to rescue him. Hunter liked that. Too many of the larger men he was attracted to tried to treat him like a frail flower just because he was smaller. It was ironic that this man would treat him as an equal. But once again, the minute he regained his footing, Malcolm was standing a breath away. Hunter never saw him move.
"Who are you?” He barely stopped himself from adding what are you? “Why are you here?” A clean, slightly tangy scent surrounded Malcolm, one Hunter couldn't place but found mildly exciting.
Malcolm's eyelids drooped, and his gaze shifted to look at the scarf on the couch, then slid a heated stare back up to meet Hunter's. “Just before he died, I promised your father I would visit his son.” The words were cold, factual, but something hot and needy lit up Malcolm's eyes.
Hunter leaned back to give himself breathing space, attraction and lust battling fear and, now, confusion. This wasn't a direction Hunter expected the conversation to take.
"You took your time.” Despite a lingering sense of survivor guilt, Hunter had accepted his parents’ deaths long ago. It was an effort to hear even his own voice over the steady pulse echoing in his head. Somewhere in the back of his mind he wondered if the pulse was his own. “My father's been dead for years."
"From his mortal existence, yes.” Malcolm extended one sinewy, powerful hand and ran a single fingertip up Hunter's bare arm, over his shoulder, and down the shallow valley that defined his chest, dropping away just as it reached his belly button. “But his immortal life ended just a few months ago."
"What are you talking about? Immoral life?” Even as he said it, Hunter knew what Malcolm meant. Knew it, but didn't want to believe it. Couldn't believe it.
"He was vampire."
It was short, simple, and carried a weight so heavy Hunter stumbled back. This time Malcolm did reach out, but it was to pull him brutally forward, both upper arms held immobile in a pair of cool, callused hands.
Their bare chests and stomachs rubbed skin against skin. The silky sensation was full of waves of excitement like static electricity that rippled across Hunter's flesh and seeped into his muscle and bone. It was hard to catch his breath. He couldn't look away from Malcolm despite the fear that knotted in his belly. Close-up, Hunter could see the blood-red ring that flared around the man's irises.
"I don't believe you.” It was indistinct, nothing more than a whisper of near soundless air, but Malcolm smiled, and his eyes told Hunter he had heard him. Then the smile grew, and the sharp, pointed tips of Malcolm's pearly white canines were visible. Light danced off them as they grew longer, and the reality of who—what—had him in its embrace struck Hunter squarely in the gut.
Vampire. Mythical creature, folklore demon, living dead, nightmare fodder, unreal.
Someplace deep inside, someplace locked far
