Fashionably Fanged Read online

  The training center also encompassed a very large empty area covered in mats for sparring. There was an observation deck on the north wall about forty feet up. It was accessible from an outside set of stairs. The adjoining building contained a shooting range and a cavernous room filled with weapons—swords, daggers, katanas, throwing stars, guns, and then some.

  The weapons building also housed a room used for knife throwing. I tended to steer clear of that section since the profane idiots, Martha and Jane, spent hours a day practicing in there. Anyone brave or stupid enough to venture in when the old gals were hurling weapons usually left with something sharp impaled in their head.

  “Home sweet home,” I muttered as I put down my gym bag and scanned the area for my new students.

  Maybe they wouldn’t show up. That would be incredibly awesome. I could find a sparring partner, work out some of my pent up aggression, and call it a day.

  Or I could run a few miles, and then work on some sword skills, and then…

  Shit. No such luck.

  “Hey gurrrrl, gimme some skin,” Jane shouted using what I could only assume was her attempt at what some would call an African-American dialect.

  Not killing them was going to be almost virtually impossible.

  Ignoring the greeting and crossing my arms over my chest, I gaped at them in open-mouthed shock. “What in the hell is on your head?”

  “You like it?” Martha bellowed, preening and posing.

  The outfits were appalling enough—gold lame booty shorts paired with feather trimmed pink workout bras, black socks and green high tops. Clearly the dress code that Astrid had imposed on them had tragically ended. However, it was what I was pretty sure were supposed to be afros on their heads, that made me itch to smack them into tomorrow.

  “As you are Afro-American, we thought it would be in good mother humpin’ form to show our acceptance and appreciation for your culture,” Martha said while performing a fucked up version of the Black Power salute.

  Watching two eighty-nine year old white women try to be black almost rendered me speechless. The freak shows had caused more trouble in the short time they’d been undead than our entire Vampyre race had in centuries. However, they had saved Samuel’s life and earned Astrid and Ethan’s undying thanks and loyalty. Actually mine too, although I’d never admit it.

  “It’s African-American,” I snapped, closing my eyes and praying to every deity I could think of to help me not go Rambo on their bony asses. I was proud of myself that I’d come unarmed. God only knew what would have happened if I’d been carrying a sword.

  “I told you,” Jane grunted, backhanding an unsuspecting Martha in the head. “You and your stupid ideas. This is worse than the time you pulled your hair back too tight so you could fit in with the Asians.”

  “That was your idea, you fucktard,” Martha reminded her, adding a gut punch to make her point.

  Maybe if I just let them go at it, they’d kill each other, and I’d get out of my side of the bargain. I watched in horrified amazement as they tackled each other, swearing like sailors and accusing each other of crimes so politically incorrect I had to laugh.

  Bizarrely, their age didn’t reverse when they’d been turned—but then again, most of us were turned in our youth. They looked every second of their eighty-nine years even though they behaved like un-medicated, rabid squirrels.

  “Enough,” I growled, extracting them from each other and tossing them onto separate mats. “While I somewhat appreciate the heinous effort, the reality is insulting and wrong. Remove the wigs, stop attacking each other, and I might train you today.”

  “No can do, sis-tah,” Martha said, wiping the blood from her broken nose with the edge of her ̓fro.

  “I’m not your sis-tah,” I told Martha through clenched teeth. “And when we train, I’m in charge. You backtalk and I get a free pass at you. Take off the wigs or I’ll do it for you and make you eat them.”

  “Holy shitbombs, ease up gurl-friend,” Jane griped, getting to her feet with effort. “What Martha should have said is that the afros kept slipping, so we stapled them to our heads. We could probably take ‘em off, but it would be a goddang bloody fucking mess unless you have a stapler remover.”

  Letting my chin fall to my chest so they didn’t see my grin, I slowly shook my head back and forth. Stupid didn’t even begin to cover it. They were a menace to society and themselves. I was actually shocked no one had killed them yet. Martha and Jane were walking targets.

  “While I usually carry office supplies in my gym bag, I’m all out of stapler removers today,” I said with sarcasm dripping off every word. “When we’re done here, you’ll remove the wigs and burn them. You’re white. I’m black. This is a fact. Afros will not make you black. What they will do is piss me off and you really don’t want to do that. We clear?”

  “We are,” Jane said, covertly flipping Martha the bird while Martha mouthed “I told you so”.

  “Stretch for five minutes while I figure out how to torture you,” I instructed, still trying not to laugh or scream at their appalling attempt to impress me.

  And then a bad day took a turn for the worse…

  I felt him before I saw him. His power was unmistakable even in his weakened state. It bounced around the vast room and I noticed many bowing down to his royal ass. He could easily take down any Vampyre in the Cressida House, except for his brother Ethan. At full health, I’d have to call it a draw between the two men.

  Female Vamps fell over themselves to get close to him. And why not? His damn cheekbones would make a sculptor jealous. His full lips were sinful and his eyes were a mesmerizing crystal blue. Full, jet black hair—just a little too long—begged a woman’s fingers to get tangled in it. The six foot four package was gorgeous—savagely gorgeous. Only problem was that it was wrapped up in an outer layer of gaping, macho asswipe.

  “That Prince Gareth is a hot piece of man meat,” Jane announced as she sat in the splits with her spindly arms over her head. “I’d do him in a hot second.”

  “Better lookin’ than George W,” Martha agreed, getting stuck in what I could only call a human pretzel.

  “Since he’s a big man hooker, I say go for it,” I muttered in disgust as I watched every Vamp in the room with boobs fawn over the asshole. Whatever. I’d stupidly been with him one time—two months ago. A mistake that would never be repeated. Gareth was not my problem. And I was quite sure he’d bedded at least half of the female Vamps in the Cressida House since then.

  Turning my back on Gareth and entourage, I attempted to untangle Martha so I could get the session over with. However, minding my own business was not in the cards for me this afternoon. Freakin’ great.

  “Venus,” Edward—my latest mistake—called out as he strode across the training area with purpose. “Der you are. I’ve been searching for you for days!”

  “Now that one is smokin’ too,” Jane commented. “But kinda girly.”

  “Zip it,” I hissed as I put on a polite face for the girly man I was trying to avoid.

  He walked up, planted himself, and tapped his Prada clad toe impatiently. I wanted to deck him almost as much as I wanted to deck the old gals. Decisions… decisions.

  “Edward, I’m busy right now. How about we chat later?” I suggested, dismissing him with a curt nod of my head. It would be all kinds of inappropriate to physically remove him—not difficult, but not my finest moment. I’d try manners first.

  “Vat time?” he demanded.

  He was clearly unhappy I wasn’t making time for him. “Um… eight?” I suggested.

  “Vere?”

  “How about…” I started.

  “Your suite,” he finished, looking quite satisfied with himself. “Very goot. I look forvard to being alone vith you. I vill stay here vith you until eight.”

  Not going to happen—it was only two in the afternoon right now. His smile made me feel bad, but it also made my skin crawl a little bit. Damn it, why couldn’t I be a le
sbian? Women were so much easier than men.

  “No Edward, I need to concentrate and you distract me,” I lied prettily.

  He wasn’t a bad guy. He just wasn’t the Vampyre for me and he definitely didn’t know how to take a hint. I needed to cut him loose and be very clear.

  “You heard, the lady,” Gareth cut in, standing so close to me I could feel the power vibrating off of his body. “You need to leave, my friend.”

  “I’ve got this covered. I don’t need your help,” I snapped at Gareth.

  He simply laughed—stared at my lips, then my breasts, and then back at my mouth.

  This was turning out to be a very shitty day. I now felt naked after his perusal—and horny. His damn eyes may as well have been his hands. Gareth was all kinds of trouble and I wanted no part of him.

  “As you wish,” he said with a smile. He added a bow that made Martha and Jane giggle like schoolgirls and fan themselves vigorously. “Good day, Venus.”

  “Vhat vas dat about?” Edward pouted and stomped his foot. “You are mine. Not his.”

  “I belong to no one but myself,” I said flatly—again thanking the Lord above I wasn’t armed. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”

  Edward sputtered a bit until he realized he was causing a scene. Turning on his heel he marched out of the gym, his perfectly coiffed head held high.

  “That Vamp sounds like the smarmy fuck with the pencil mustache and one testicle from that long ass documentary we watched,” Jane said, pursing her lips and wrinkling her nose.

  “Shitler,” Martha confirmed with a disgusted nod of agreement.

  “You mean Hitler?” I asked, bemoaning my taste in men for the millionth time.

  “No, gurl friend, I meant Shitler. That lowdown turdass was a total piece of shit. If he wasn’t already dead, I’d gut his sorry ass and shove his entrails down his throat,” Martha vowed, meaning every word.

  “And I’d laugh like a loon,” Jane added, still stuck in the splits.

  Maybe training them wouldn’t be as bad as I thought.

  Wait, who was I kidding? Just because we had a few beliefs in common didn’t mean the old gals weren’t batshit crazy.

  “You know what?” I said, thinking out loud. I needed to clear my head and I knew just the way to do it. “Today we’re gonna run. Stamina is part of the battle. You old farts ready to put some mileage on those skinny, wrinkly legs?”

  “You bet your ass we are,” Jane shouted, falling over sideways, still stuck in the splits. “Can someone give me a goddamned hand here?”

  “Me too,” Martha said with her legs still in some kind of bizarre knot. “We love running. One time we saw Barry Manilow at the mall and chased that hot piece of love muscle right to his limo. Damn bastard locked the doors. We must have run ten miles after that dang vehicle before we gave up.”

  “Son of a bitch will never know what he missed,” Jane said sadly. “We wanted to love him up good.”

  Both repulsed and curious about their obvious stalker problem, my mouth moved before my brain could stop it. “Was this when you were human?”

  “Hell no,” Martha grunted as she finally untangled her legs. “It was last week.”

  Astrid was going to owe me big for this.

  “Ground rule number one—no more talking. Ever. In my presence, you’re only allowed to ask questions about techniques and that’s it,” I informed them, pulling Jane to her feet.

  “But don’t you want to hear about the play dough genitalia contest we’ve entered?” Martha inquired in complete seriousness. “You know, Titties McBoobyland used to be our art teacher back in our human days.”

  “Titties who?”

  “Astrid,” Jane clarified, popping every bone in her body in preparation for our run. “We have a few nicknames for her. She loves them.”

  “I’ll just bet she does,” I muttered. “Never ever use the words play dough and genitalia in the same sentence again—it makes me want to hurl and I don’t have that ability. We’re doing at least fifty miles today.”

  “Hot damn,” Martha squealed. “That’s great!”

  And it kind of was, in an annoying, horrifying way. The air bags didn’t shut their mouths for the entire fifty miles, but they actually made me laugh a few times. I had to slow my pace in order not to lose them, when I ran at full speed I was virtually invisible. They were in pretty damn bad shape, but their willingness to do whatever I told them to do was in their favor.

  They would never be perfect, but they would be much better fighters by the time I got through with them.

  We all just needed to live through it.

  Chapter Three

  Tired didn’t even begin to cover it. Sleepless nights and unsettling dreams starring a jerk named Gareth with a fine ass made me want to crawl out of my own skin. Fifty miles with Martha and Jane made me want a long vacation or a solid set of earplugs. Dealing with a very soon to be ex-lover was not my idea of a good time—at all.

  Who did I screw over in a former life to have to put up with this crap? If I had the ability to sigh, the mother of all sighs would have left my lips.

  My nice little breakup chat with Edward had turned into something else altogether.

  “Vould you like to explain dis?” Edward hissed in the German accent that at one point I’d mistakenly found appealing. He held a stack of books and waved a note in my face like a lunatic.

  What in the ever-loving hell had I been thinking to sleep with the idiot? Boredom—pure and simple—or possibly insanity.

  Or maybe loneliness.

  Whatever. What was done was done—stupid or not. Now I just needed to rid myself of him. The sex wasn’t good enough to deal with someone who spent more time on his hair than I did. And I was no slouch in the hair department.

  “I vill not be disrespected, Venus. You vill treat me as someone of my stature or dis affair is over,” he informed me with a well-plucked brow arched so high I was certain it touched his hairline.

  “And what exactly is your stature, Edward?” I asked in a polite tone that sent smart people running for the hills. Furthermore, the affair was already over. Edward just hadn’t clued in yet. And what kind of real man plucked his damn eyebrows?

  If he knew me well—or at all—he’d know that me being über polite put him on dangerous ground. Clearly he didn’t know me.

  “I’m a varrior,” he informed me in a condescending voice, flipping his artfully messy blond hair off of his face with a flick of his hand.

  Warrior, my ass. Astrid had warned me Edward was a weenie, but did I listen? No. I did not listen. He was here in the North American Dominion on a trade from the European Dominion—kind of a Vampyre exchange program. At this point, I was counting the days until he left.

  “Dis is unacceptable,” he continued, marching around my suite and wielding the books like weapons.

  This Vampyre was treading on very thin ice. He was getting attached and on the verge of being possessive, not to mention rude and annoying. I was not the girl for attached or possessive. I was a free dead woman and he was a dalliance that had been over for weeks—plus he was far too young for me. At only a hundred, Edward was a baby with a tremendous amount of growing up to do. Granted he was pretty, but then again, most Vamps were.

  “Dude, it looks to me as if you’re throwing a tantrum over books and a piece of paper,” I replied with my eyes narrowing dangerously.

  Edward really didn’t want to get on my bad side this evening. Several hours with Martha and Jane was my limit for bullshit. My fangs tingled in my gums and I kept them from dropping with effort. I was itching for a smackdown with someone and if he kept going, he would definitely do.

  “It’s de complete collection of de Twilight series,” he snapped. “I vas not named for Edward in dis piece of trash teenage fiction.”

  “I liked the books—very amusing, albeit unrealistic,” I replied easily as I tried not to roll my eyes. “And who said you were named for him?”

  �
�Vell from de vay de note is signed, you did,” he shouted and stomped his foot like a spoiled child. “And de reference to my sparkling tiny man junk is not appreciated.”

  “Your sparkling tiny what?” I took the note from him and scanned it while biting down on my lips to hold back my laughter.

  Oh. My. God.

  My Dearest Edward,

  I bequeath you these books because you remind me of the skinny, pale-faced, sparkling fuckhole in the story that slightly passes as literature. The one rather violent and wildly underwritten fornication scene in the tome is far more tantalizing than bedding you.

  I’m done shagging you and your tiny sparkling man junk. I’m in the market for a real man with balls larger than chestnuts. The simple fact that I could kick your ass to hell and back with my eyes closed while bound in silver is an extreme turn off.

  I’d suggest you take yourself and your overly gelled hair and walk quietly out of my life. You’d be far better off with someone named Bella—or possibly Jacob. After your performance in the bedroom, I’m not exactly certain which team you bat for.

  I wish you the very best—for the most part. Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on your way out.

  Auf weidersehen

  Venus

  “Umm… wow,” I stuttered, impressed that someone had forged my handwriting so flawlessly. Unfortunately, I had a very good idea who had written it. However, what surprised me most was that the culprit had clearly read the entire Twilight series. “I didn’t write this.”

  “Of course you did,” Edward accused. “It matches de script in your journal exactly.”

  My fangs dropped and my body tensed. “I’m sorry, what did you just say?”

  He did not say he’d read my journal. Unfortunately—for him—the self-satisfied smirk on his face confirmed he had said exactly that. How he had found my journal was suspect. It was locked in my safe along with keepsakes from my human life. If he’d so much as touched my mother’s bible or the lock of my sister’s hair, he was about to find out what permanent death felt like.