Sex and the Single Vampire

Plop, plop, plop went the drip of blood. Sprinkle, sprinkle, sprinkle went the ground ginseng over the ghost. Tickle, tickle, tickle went my nose.

'Go. Away.'

I looked up from the notebook where I was reading the procedure to Release a ghost to stare at the man lying before me. Had he spoken, or was it my own overheated imagination that made me think he had? The ghost was lying as still as ever; not even his chest moved. I leaned closer and couldn't help but notice that the man I saw in my dream, the god, the perfect embodiment of masculinity, was nothing compared to him in the flesh.

So to speak.

Despite having every visible surface (and I had the worst urge to peek under the cloth draped over his crotch) mutilated by cuts, he was breathtakingly gorgeous. His skin was tanned and looked—other than the cuts—to be firm and invitingly touchable. The muscles that banded his chest and marched down his stomach were well defined without being too obvious. His arms, crossed over his belly, were covered in a fine dark hair that matched the hair on his chest. I skipped over the covered bits, and mourned that someone had so tortured such a delectable man. He clearly belonged to an age at least a hundred or so years in the past, if the thick muscles of his thighs— what my mother used to call horseman's thighs—were any indication. But it was his face that drew my attention, a strong face made up of harsh angles and a stubborn chin.

'You really must have been something before you were tortured,' I said, my fingers itching to push back the lock of sable hair from his brow. His face alone was unmarked, and I wondered what horrible event had brought him to such an end. I tore my gaze from his lips—really, really nice lips—and reminded myself that it wasn't polite to ogle the ghosts.

'Must have been my imagination,' I told him, then set the chalk down on the ground next to me so I could make the protection symbols as I spoke the words of Release.

'Go away. I don't want to be Released.'

I dropped my notebook. 'What? Who said that?'

I spun around, pulling the flashlight out from where it was clamped beneath my chin. 'Carlos? Is that you?'

'Go away now.'

I turned back to the ghost. The voice—low, beautiful, and smooth as silk floating on water—came from him. As I peered closer at him, one eyelid cracked open and a beautiful brown eye glared at me.

'Um,' I said.

'Leave now,' the ghost said, his words coming from his clenched jaw and thinned lips as a sibilant whisper.

'Don't worry,' I said reassuringly, wishing like the dickens I could pat him. 'I'm going to make sure this torment you've been caught in for so very long is ended.'

The eye closed for a moment, then opened back up. There was a strange quality to the iris that made me feel as if I were being captured in its mahogany depths. 'Now. Leave now. Right now.'

I nodded and bent to pick my notebook up. He was in a hurry to be Released. I didn't blame him one bit. If I were dripping blood all over the place, I'd be in a hurry too. 'I'm going as quickly as I can. You just have to be patient for a couple of minutes longer; this is a bit new to me. I haven't had much practice doing this, and I don't want to mess something up and have you on my conscience. Oh, poop, now I've lost my place. Just a sec, I won't be a moment; then you can leave.'

I flipped through the notebook, absently wiping on my leg the wet substance that coated the front of the notebook.

'If you do not remove yourself from my presence and this building in the next thirty seconds, your conscience will be the least of your worries.'

He was looking at me with both eyes open now, glaring at me really, his hands clenched into fists on his belly, his body unnaturally—or rather, supernaturally—still. I dragged my mind from the wonder and joy that was his voice—a voice that had a delightfully sexy European accent—and back to more important matters.

Like his attitude.

'I beg your pardon?' I closed my notebook and rubbed my fingers together. The floor must have water seepage because the notebook was wet. 'Now let's just get a few things straight here, shall we? I am here to help you. You are here to be helped. Copping an attitude is not going to do anything but tick me off and delay the aforementioned helping. So why don't you just lie there and be quiet, and I will get on with the Releasing, okay?'

The ghost's eyes rolled in a realistically annoyed fashion; then he rose up on one elbow and scowled at me. I stepped back, alarmed that he was too close to me, that if some part of his ethereal, albeit extremely solid-looking body touched me, it would break his cycle.

'I am trying to tell you to leave me. What is so hard to understand about that? Leave, I said, and all you do is nod and go on with your silly Release spell. I don't want you to Release me; I want you to leave. This building. Now!'

'You are a very rude ghost,' I said, poking my notebook at him.

'I'm not a ghost.'

I snorted. 'You are, too. You're lying there dripping blood from some heinous torture you underwent before you died. I know a ghost when I see one, and you can take it from me, you're dead. Finished. A corpse. An ex- person.'

Now the ghost was grinding his teeth. It was amazing the difference between a human ghost and the semitransparent cat. This man looked so real I had to fight a constant battle to keep my hands off him. 'I'm going to say this once more. I am not a ghost. I do not need to be Released. I do not want your help. I do want you to leave me alone and go back to wherever you came from. Is that sufficiently clear?'

'I am a Summoner,' I said with dignity.

'Brava. Go Summon elsewhere.'

'I know ghosts. Okay, you might be the first fully human ghost I've seen, but I know ghosts. Many times the deceased are confused about their status. The first thing they teach you in Summoning school is that not all ghosts are willing to admit they're dead. Clearly you're in that category. Now if you will just be quiet for three more minutes, I will finish the Release and you can go on your merry way.'

The ghost leaped up off the table and stood glaring at me. I couldn't help but look at where the cloth had fallen from.

'Eep,' I said, my eyes close to bugging out of my head.

He snarled something and grabbed the cloth from the floor, wrapping it around his hips. 'By all the saints, will you just leave me in peace?' Oddly enough, that beautiful, silky voice didn't lose any of its charm even when it was bellowing at me.

I dislike being yelled at, however. It takes me back to the days when I was married and didn't have enough brains to know that I didn't have to take either the verbal or physical abuse. For that reason, I tend to be a bit snappish when someone starts lighting into me. 'That's what I'm trying to do, give you peace, you stupid spook! Now lie down and shut up!'

I had dropped my notebook again when he leaped off the table, and bent down to pick it up, secretly amused by the stunned expression on the ghost's face. My amusement died when I picked up the notebook. It was sticky with wetness. I flipped it open and noticed that everywhere I touched I left red smears.

Smears of blood.

I stared at my hands for a second, then down at the floor where the ghost's blood had collected.

'What is… Is it ectoplasm?'

The ghost raised his hands to the heavens. 'In all my years I have never been so plagued as I am at this moment! No, it is not ectoplasm!'

I touched a wet spot on my notebook, then looked at a cut on his chest that was slowly seeping blood. Hesitantly I reached out and pressed a finger against his flesh. It was warm, firm, and felt like the softest velvet over steel. I instantly wanted to touch more, much more.

Then I realized what it meant. I blinked. I swallowed. I cleared my throat. 'You're not a ghost.'