Free Lust for Life by Jeri Smith-Ready Page A

give him something for the pain,” I tell her.
    “That’s crazy.” She turns to Shane. “Were you there when this happened? Why didn’t
     you pull out the stakes?”
    “I was ordered not to.”
    “Since when do you take orders from anyone?”
    “Since we joined the Control. It wasn’t voluntary.” Shane lifts his gaze to mine.
     “But I’m not sorry.”
    “I thought you looked different.” Deirdre stands and faces him straight on, examining him from
     head to toe. “More confident, less . . . slackerish.”
    Shane’s eyebrows twitch, like she’s insulted him but he doesn’t want to show it. “It’s
     temporary.”
    “It better be.” She sighs and turns to the dark fireplace. “I’d like to keep living
     here, if it’s okay.”
    “Good,” he says, “because there’s no room at the station, and you’re not living at
     our apartment.”
    “I get that.” She heads for the stairs—to show us out, I guess. “You and I have a
     past. It’d be awkward.” Deirdre emphasizes the last word of each sentence as if to
     mock them.
    Shane rolls his eyes at me, then follows her. “I’ll talk to the other vampires about
     taking you on as an apprentice.”
    I head up after them. “Noah’d be a good match, don’t you think, Shane?”
    “Ooh, Noah!” Her step takes on a bounce. “I saw him at a show once. He’s cute.”
    Noah’s Rasta pacifism is just what Deirdre needs to balance her own wild tendencies.
     She was reckless to begin with, and with Jim’s blood in her now, she could be a powder
     keg without the steadying influence of a straight-edged mentor like Noah.
    In the kitchen, Deirdre tries to hug Shane. He accepts it, but with stiff arms.
    I point to the fridge. “There’s a day’s worth of blood in there, so drink half of
     each container every three hours.” I turn the knob on the front door and swing it
     open. “We’ll bring more tomorrow and—”
    Everything freezes.
    Standing on the porch, mouth agape, fist raised to knock on the door, is Jim.

8
    Paint It Black
    Our eyes meet, and for one tick of the wall clock, I know that I am dead. Dead for
     good.
    Something blurs between us. I leap back. Jim surges forward. As he rushes past me,
     I see his eyes go wide with—could it be fear? Not predatory fervor or a victorious
     gloat?
    Shane smashes him against the wall next to the coatrack. Jim’s hands bounce against
     the coats, then rise, reaching for Shane’s throat.
    A second blur and he stops. A third blur and he sinks to the floor as Shane steps
     back, right hand up in a defensive posture and left hand—
    Oh.
    In Shane’s left hand, a wooden stake drips blood.
    “No . . . time,” Jim gasps, rolling over on his back, grasping for anything. A white
     faux fur coat falls across his lap. Within a few seconds, it’s soaked in a flood of
     scarlet.
    Deirdre pulls in a squeaky breath, then another, making pre-scream noises. I shove
     the front door shut a secondbefore she looses a caterwaul of grief and horror. The sound crawls up my spine and
     wants to burst out the top of my head.
    Jim writhes under his fountain of blood, mouth opening and closing. He reaches toward
     me, pleading, just as he did the night Monroe staked him to save my life. I shake
     off my shock and prepare for another attack. If Shane’s blow missed, Jim will heal
     and be on us in a flash.
    Shane stands over him, ready to strike again. His face is the cold stone of a professional
     assassin. Except this was no hit job. This was a split-second, kill-or-be-killed-along-with-your-fiancée
     situation.
    Jim’s body goes limp.
    “No!” Deirdre lurches forward, hands outstretched. Shane stops her.
    “It’s not safe,” he says. “Get behind me. Both of you.”
    But when he lets go of her, she drops to her knees next to Jim.
    “Let her say good-bye,” I tell Shane.
    “But if he’s not—”
    “It’s her choice.”
    Deirdre keens and wails against Jim’s chest, one hand in his dark-brown