Bloodfever by Karen Marie Moning Page A

door. “I’m going to be watching you, Ms. Lane. Every time you turn around, it’s my face you’re going to see. I’m going to be tape to your ass.”
    â€œFine,” I said tiredly. “Can I get a ride back to the bookstore?”
    Okay, that was a no.
    â€œHow about the phone? Can I use it?” He gave me another hard look. “Are you
kidding
me? You guys wouldn’t let me get my purse this morning. I don’t have money for a cab. What if somebody out there mugs me?”
    Inspector Jayne was already walking away. “You don’t have a purse, Ms. Lane. What would somebody mug you for?” he tossed over his shoulder.
    I glanced uneasily at my watch. When they’d picked me up at the bookstore, they’d made me remove the flashlights from the waistband of my jeans and leave them with Fiona.
    Thunder rumbled, vibrating the glass panes in the windows.
    It was going to be dark soon.
    Â 
    â€œHey! You there, wait up!”
    I didn’t break stride.
    â€œBeautiful girl, wait a minute! I was hoping I’d see you again!”
    It was the “beautiful girl” part that flung a noose around my foot, the voice that snagged it tight. I raked a hand through my recently butchered hair and looked down at my dark, baggy clothes. The compliment was balm to my soul, the voice young, male, and full of fun. I skidded to a halt. Shallow, I know.
    It was the dreamy-eyed guy I’d seen in the museum the day I’d been searching it for OOPs.
    I turned bright red. That was the day V’lane had amped up the death-by-sex thing and I’d stripped in the middle of Ireland’s famous Ór exhibit, right there in front of God and everybody.
    Flushing, I sprinted off again, splashing through puddles. It was raining—of frogging course—and the sidewalks of Dublin’s
craic
-filled Temple Bar District were nearly empty. I had places to go, darkness to race, guys who’d watched me strip to avoid.
    He dropped into a long-legged lope beside me and I couldn’t help myself, I slanted a look at him. Tall, dark, dreamy-eyed, he was boy-on-the-cusp-of-man, in that perfect stage where guys are velvet skin over supple hard bodies, without an ounce of fat. I’d bet he had a six-pack. He was a serious leftie. Once upon a time in my life, I’d have given my eyeteeth for a date with him. I’d have dressed in pink and gold, swept my long blond hair up in a playful ponytail, and painted my nails and toes to match, Young-Hearts-Beat-Free-Tonight Blush.
    â€œFine, I’ll run with you then,” he said easily. “Where you off to in such a hurry?”
    â€œNone of your business.” Go away, pretty boy. You don’t fit in my world anymore. How I wished he did.
    â€œI was afraid I wouldn’t see you again.”
    â€œYou don’t even know me. Besides, I’m sure you saw more than enough of me at the museum,” I said bitterly.
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œYou know.”
    He shot me a quizzical look. “All I know is I had to leave right after I saw you. I had to go to work.”
    He hadn’t watched me strip? Some of the ugliness of my life melted away. “Where do you work?”
    â€œAncient Languages Department.”
    â€œWhere?” Hunky and smart.
    â€œTrinity.”
    â€œCool. Student?”
    â€œYeah. You?”
    I shook my head.
    â€œAmerican?”
    I nodded. “You?” He didn’t sound Irish.
    â€œLittle of this, little of that. Nothing special.” He smiled and winked. Dreamy eyes, long dark lashes.
    Wow. Right. This guy was special all the way down to his toes. I wanted to know him. I wanted to kiss him. I wanted to feather my lips on those lashes. And he’d probably end up dead if he hung around with me. I killed monsters other people couldn’t see and had just spent the entire day in the police station on suspicion of murder for the death of a man I