Jerking out a cross she had hidden in her jacket pocket, she pressed it down on Forest's arm. Immediately the Irish vampiress's skin began to smoke.
"Short maybe, human, definitely, but stupid, no way."
Forest jerked back her scorched arm, her fangs extended. She hissed at Sam, "You're stupider than I thought!"
"But you aren't as tough as you think you are," Sam wisecracked unwisely. She ignored Nic's nervous expression.
"You'll pay for this, you malicious miscreant!" the vampiress howled, cradling her arm.
"No, she won't," Nic broke in harshly. "We are at serious business here, and you provoked her."
Sam agreed. "We have better things to do than trade insults all night. I get enough of those from Nic," she said. But she was pleased as punch that Nic had taken up for her.
Before Forest might launch herself across the table, Nic staunchly placed both hands on the woman's shoulders, suggesting firmly, "Forest, remember that Sam was invited here by the Prince of New York, New Hampshire and Vermont. Prince Varinski wouldn't like it if you attacked her. She has Petroff's protection as well as my own."
Then, dropping his hands from Forest's shoulder, he grabbed Sam's hand and pulled her to her feet. "Let's dance, Sammy." He gave her no chance to object.
"The name is Sam," she protested, tugging slightly on her wrist. Forest gave her a look that would have sliced her to ribbons if it was a blade, then stormed off in a huff, her red miniskirt barely covering her fast-moving bottom.
"I'm really not in the mood to dance with a devil," Sam spoke up as Nic led her to the floor.
"Tough."
On the dance floor, the band was playing an old Chicago tune; "Colour My World." Glancing over Nic's shoulder, Sam couldn't help letting her feminine side enjoy a victory; Nic had taken up with her and Forest was stomping upstairs to the bar area of the club!
"That's some playmate you've picked out for yourself," she said snidely.
Nic only smiled.
"Better watch your neck, your back and anything else that gets in the way of those snapping fangs," Sam remarked, secretly savoring his closeness.
"I'm a grown boy. I can take care of myself."
Sam snorted. "You're not as smart as you think, buster. You're not as tough as you think. You may be good-looking and all that, but good looks don't cut it with a fang-face."
"I happen to like fang-faces."
"What, you want to end up sharing a sepulcher with some nasty Nosferatu? Funny, I didn't take you for a sucker."
"I think I'll manage."
Sam couldn't stop herself. "You may not realize it, but you're heading the way of the uneternal big sleep by letting her hang all over you."
"She's beautiful, sexy and none of your business," he replied, stoking her jealousy. She was hot and bothered; her lips were in a pout, her pink, ripe lips, making him ache for a taste. She pushed against his chest, but Nic didn't release her. She felt too good in his arms.
"Are you always this charming, or did you take piss-women-off lessons?" How dare the rotten rake flirt with both her and Forest! He couldn't have that birch and her too; only he was too dumb to recognize that fact.
"You know, you're adorable when you're mad, Sam. It makes me want to kiss all the spit and vinegar out of you."
"I don't think that can be arranged," she replied angrily. His face was just inches from her own, with its dark smoldering gaze daring her, challenging her. But he had used and abused her, and he didn't deserve for her to give him the time of day, much less a kiss. He could have all the vinegar he wanted, though.
"Too bad. We could have a lot of fun."
"Ha!" Sam knew it wasn't her best comeback, but she was again thinking of how hot and honeyed Nic's kisses were; how much she wanted not only his lips, but also wouldn't mind another in-depth history lesson about Peter the Great. She stifled a groan.
"We can have a lot of fun, Sam, if you let us."
"In your dreams. I won't sit through intimacies with liars, betrayers, or one-night standers."
Nic stopped dancing and held her at arm's length. "You better walk easy around me, Sam, and learn where to draw the line. I'm prepared to give you some leeway because of our past, but don't insult my honor anymore. And for the hundredth time, you're not a one-night stand!"
"Don't threaten me, Nic!" she snapped.
"Don't push me, Sam, or you're gonna end up on the floor with your skirt around your head." Nic stared at her, smoldering. Oh, how he wanted Sam—here and now! "You want to make a scene in the middle of a vampire bar?" His eyes were glittering with the red-hot glow of desire; this feisty female roused his passions faster than anyone he had ever known.
"You know, buster, somebody needs to teach you a lesson."
"Who's going to do it?" he asked smugly. "You?"
"You bet. I'm the one wearing the boots that are going to kick your Russian butt right back to Vermont."
"Sounds kinky. Let's go," he replied. He wore a wicked grin, a lady-keep-your-knees-together grin. "I'm all yours. I know you want me."
Unfortunately, before Sam could punch Nic in the gut or let him have a piece of her mind or boot, Ripley interrupted them. "Outside, now. There's been another stoning."
First-rate Dicks
It was a night for detectives, Sam mused dispiritedly. Where was Columbo when you needed him? Sam had always felt that there was something comforting about Columbo's old trench coat and sad-faced dog look, just like Monk's ever-ready handy wipes. But they were on their own, no help to be had.
Sam, Nic and Alex followed Ripley to the back of an alley on the corner of Baker Street and McCallam. Wearing only a short skirt and a long sleeve blouse, Sam certainly felt the nip in the air. But the chilly night winds were not what had frozen the woman on the ground.
Moonlight filtered down, revealing the body. Sam studied it. This victim was marble hard, and death was death no matter how a person bought or paid for it.
"Yep, it's murder," she said stonily. She didn't need to be Leonardo da Vinci to figure out that the gorgon had struck again. And if they didn't catch him soon, there would be a new exhibit of female stationary gracing the sidewalks of New York. She doubted the Met would approve of the competition.
The woman lay with her skirt hiked up, her face frozen in pain and ecstasy for all time—just a stoned throes away from a big city that didn't care.
Shaking her head, Sam remarked, "The NYPD Supernatural Task Force will be stumped." How could they suspect a mythical monster that hadn't seen the light of day for over eight centuries? Would they realize a gorgon was getting his rocks off by turning women to stone? "Will they even believe us?" she wondered aloud.
She and Nic were between a rock and a hard place, like running a gauntlet blindfolded or walking a tightrope in high heels. She doubted the NYPD Supernatural Task Force would help them; more likely they would just slow things down. Even their best detective, Rockford, with his meticulous files, wouldn't be able to deal with this murder case. And CSI couldn't get blood out of stone.
"I doubt it," Nic replied. His eyes narrowed in rage; nobody deserved to die like this.
"The task force also won't know the weapons to kill a Meduse. They sure can't go after him with Remingtons or Magnums."
"You're right. We shouldn't involve them yet," Nic agreed, sniffing the air and surveying the crime scene.
Picking up the victim's purse, Sam found crackers and a wallet inside, along with other detritus. The lady's name was Harri Kenny. "Human female, five foot seven, one hundred and forty-two pounds and thirty-one years of age. Well, at least we know who killed Kenny. You don't have to be a psych to figure it out. What a tragic end to a life cut short. Dammit! We've got to stop Nero. This woman needs to be avenged," Sam said.