Bete Noire by Christina Moore Page A

mocking the Scotsman’s accent terribly.
    “Oh aye? Wee tiff wit our lass, then?”
    Tristan only stared at the big guy. Desmond was tall, only an inch or two shorter than Tristan’s six-three, and big, at least twice as bulky as the American. He was the Hulk, less the green. But Tristan wasn’t afraid of the vampire. Stupid? Sure, but he couldn’t be afraid of someone who didn’t take anything seriously.
    Desmond gave a little sneer around his smile, stepping into Tristan. Tristan refused to give ground. “Dinnae ken, mate… we’d be ‘specially afraid of someone like that. Never ken when they micht go aff their heid.”
    “Yeah, like what, make a piñata out of my bed she—”
    Tristan couldn’t remember how it happened, but he was airborne, flying across the apartment. He didn’t have far to travel before slamming into the front door. His head smacked against the metal, sending spots across his vision. He slipped to the floor, disorientated and half blind.
    His vision cleared enough that he got a glimpse of pale flesh and crystal green eyes. He had only a moment to try to stand before the vampire was on him again. Tristan was too slow as a laugh rank with blood wafted across his face. Unbidden, Tristan’s stomach clenched at the scent, telling him he was hungry. A huge fist balled into the front of his shirt and he was yanked to his feet.
    His head swam and he groaned, pushing at the immoveable force of Desmond’s tree -trunk arms. The vampire grinned and pulled back his arm, hand balled up. Tristan gasped and jerked his head to the side only just missing taking a fist to his face that put a big dent in his metal apartment door. He swallowed hard, thankful that he avoided the blow. If that had hit him it’d have been lights out. Maybe for good.
    Desmond laughed at the frantic thought and Tristan retaliated. He jabbed his right hand straight up into the hand fisted in his shirt, knocking it away. Feeling a little too overconfident at his small victory, he laughed and hit the floor, rolling away. He ended up in the kitchen on one knee, the other foot planted, ready to push up. Desmond dove and slammed into his chest. He cried out as the breath left him in a long gasp. His back hit the front of the refrigerator and he felt it give under their weight. Another dent for his landlord to bitch over.
    Steel fingers clamped around his neck and started to squeeze. His mouth opened for a gasp but there was no air to be had. Frantic for a breath, he looked around for something, anything to hit the big vampire with. There was nothing in sight, unless you counted shoes as a weapon. He was going to die and he wouldn’t even know why.
    He knew he couldn’t save himself from a monster more than three times his strength, but that didn’t stop the rage. Anger, hot and instant, filled him. He wasn’t going to let this asshole kill him. He’d seen too much, been through too much the past year of his life to roll over and die now.
    Who does this prick think he is? Fuck him!
    Desmond’s expression lit up and he laughed, spitting in Tristan’s face, fingers tightening. Tristan’s vision clouded, quickly becoming lost to him. His lungs burned with the need for fresh air. If he didn’t breathe soon, then he never would. He reached up and found the edge of a drawer over his right shoulder. He struggled to find the opening and when he finally did, he pulled too hard. The drawer shot out and broke apart as it crashed down next to pair, spilling all of the contents across the kitchen floor.
    Tristan fumbled blind for a weapon. At that point, he would have been happy with a spoon if it was enough to carve the vampire’s eyes out. Something cold and sharp cut into the tender flesh of his fingertips, drawing blood. They both smelled the fresh blood, but only one of them was fazed by it as Desmond’s grip faltered. Tristan groaned, feeling the strain on his vocal cords and ran his hand down the sharp metal until he found the