The Vampire's Fall. Michele Hauf
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to keep them from going after her.
He wanted to know where the demons had come from and why. And if she thought to use an amnesia defense to cover her knowledge then she’d better think again. She had to be hiding something. If a person had amnesia, shouldn’t they not operate a motor vehicle, avoid drinking in a bar and most likely be lying in the hospital?
Yeah, she was definitely pulling something over on him. Yet if there was a slight chance she was on the up and up, he sensed she wasn’t safe.
He entered the bar, and stood by the door to take in the yawn of an establishment paneled in rough-cut timbers and decorated with fishing rods, neon beer signs and the mascot stuffed bass with the milky white eyes. At the bar, Zenia ordered a beer. She didn’t fit in this redneck outpost. She looked more like a wine kind of gal.
Currently, she held her own against Brock Olafson, the town asshole. The guy had been divorced twice, owned a tanning bed—which explained his weird orange leathery skin—and never slowed his Hummer for a stop sign unless he sighted a black-and-white nearby.
Asshole was trying to pick up the pretty woman. Blade’s fingers had curled into fists the moment Brock sat down next to her. He held his jaw soft, not tense. Years of practice had allowed him to remain calm while holding within the roiling need to attack. It was never wise to attack. At least, not with human witnesses.
On the other hand, if a man opened the door of a house and was greeted by three demons, by all means, attack.
Brock slid his hand up the back of Zenia’s T-shirt. She slapped at him and shifted over to the next bar stool. Blade could hear her politely say, “Leave me alone. I just want to finish this drink in peace.”
“I’ll buy you another,” Brock said, shoving thick fingers over his short blond crew cut.
Before the asshole could slide onto the vacant bar stool, Blade pushed his palm onto the bar between the two of them. The bartender nodded at Blade and poured him a shot of Krupnik, a honey-sweet vodka the owner kept in stock for him.
Brock stepped away from the bar, muttering something about weirdos under his breath, but Blade kept an awareness of the man’s location in his peripheral vision as he tilted back the shot.
“Despite his rudeness, he did pin you correctly,” Zenia said and sipped her beer.
“How’s that?”
“You’re a weirdo. And I’ll ask you to leave me alone just like I did the other guy.”
“Sorry,” he said, and pushed the shot glass forward. “Did I interrupt something promising?”
She snickered and when she looked at him, he was momentarily fixed to her green eyes. She was so exotic and colorful, this memory-less woman who didn’t seem to belong, no matter the setting. And she smelled like the long grass and flowers he’d followed her through but an hour earlier. Blade lost track of Brock.
“Thanks,” she said. “But you can leave now.”
He sat on a bar stool and propped his elbows before him. “I’m not a weirdo,” he offered.
“You accused me, a person you don’t even know, of being a demon. Your hair is blue. You look like a goth. And you followed me here like some kind of serial—er, stalker. In my book that’s considered weird.”
The bartender poured another shot for Blade. He swallowed the vodka with a wince. Good stuff. He had a difficult time getting drunk. Blame it on his genetics. Being vampire and faery did come in handy when he wanted to hold his liquor. The only time he got drunk was when drinking from someone who had consumed whiskey. Whiskey-spiked blood always went straight to his head.
“It’s black,” he offered regarding his hair. “The neon light from that sign over the bar makes it blue.”
“If that’s your story. But I did see it in the sunlight. It’s blue.”
It wasn’t. Well, it sort of was. It was the faery in him. It sheened his black hair blue. It was a damned sight better than the pink that donned his sister, Daisy Blu’s, head.
“And yours is copper,” he offered. “Like a precious metal that someone steals to hock for as much cash as they can manage. It suits you. Looks great with your skin tone. Sorry.” He shoved the empty shot glass toward the bartender. “I don’t say things like that to women—”
“You mean compliment them? Are you flirting with me? Trying to pick up a demon?”
She was going to work that one until he surrendered. So he would. But only because she was pretty.
“Listen, can we start over? I’m Blade.” He offered his hand to her and she stared at it. “I live about ten miles out of town near the Darkwood.”
“That sounds...dark.” She smirked and he wondered if she might be a little tipsy. But when she took his hand and shook it, he felt a good firm clasp warm his fingers. “Zenia. No last name. At least, not that I recall. I live nowhere, or probably somewhere. But you know, Amnesia Chick.”
“So, Zenia, who is only recently Zenia, what’s up with that? Did you used to be Martha or Gertrude?”
This time she laughed out loud. Blade heard Brock’s huff on the other side of the pool table. The asshole tossed a dart at the board nailed on the wall—and missed.
When Zenia looked at him now he decided she was assessing him. A better risk than Brock? He should hope so. And then, he knew he was not.
“For all I know, I probably could have been Gertrude,” she said.
“You don’t look like a Gertie. The hair is all wrong. Gertrude likes curls and something shorter. Maybe even a blue rinse.”
“You could be right. Okay, so weirdness aside, I like you, Blade.” Her long dark lashes fluttered with a look over his face. “I’ll reserve judgment on your weirdness quotient until I get to know you better.”
He was about to say that she would be better off not liking him, but instead he simply smiled. A rare thing for him. Just ask any of his brothers or sister. The dark silent one put people off with his stoic expression. And for good reason.
He’d learned that keeping his head down was best for all. And yet, his surprising curiosity for this woman demanded satisfaction.
“No memory?” he asked. “How did that happen? Or do you know?”
“I think I only lost personal stuff. I know things. It’s as if I know crazy stuff like Russia’s population is almost one hundred and fifty million. The main ingredient in miso soup is dashi. And it would take the average person about eighteen months to traverse the wall of China. But I don’t know my name, who I am or where I came from. That’s why I’m here in Tangle Lake. I was hit by a bus in front of that old woman’s house.”
Blade was about to order another shot when he paused. “Seriously? Hit by a bus?”
“Yes. I was walking out of a yard—probably that old woman’s yard—and onto the street, and—bam! No memory of my life after that.”
“So you woke up in the hospital? They must have taken you to Unity. Closest hospital from here.”
“No. I, uh, stood up and walked away.” She offered a sheepish shrug. “Never saw a doctor.”
Blade put up two fingers when the bartender tilted the vodka bottle over his glass. This information was worthy of a double shot.
“It’s been a week,” she said. “I thought about going to the police, but—I don’t know, something inside me said they wouldn’t be able to help. So I hitched a ride into the Twin Cities and have been staying at homeless shelters, trying to make some cash to survive. A girl’s gotta eat, you know?”
“They have homes to stay in for people who have amnesia. Maybe.” What did he know? “If they don’t exist, they should. You should see a doctor.”
“I’m