Undead and Unpopular

Chapter 3

I barely had time to get a look at Alonzo—a blade-​thin, fine-​looking guy with skin the color of good espresso and yellowish eyes, before Sophie was doing her level best to claw his face off. Her speed was devastating. I think only Sinclair could have stopped her but he just watched. All he said was, “The French,” with a shrug.

So, as usual, I was the one stuck with the moral high ground. “Stop, stop!” I shrieked. “Sophie, what are you doing? Get off him!”

Meanwhile, Sophie was going for his eyes and a stream of presumably impolite French was pouring from her spittle-​ridden mouth. Alonzo did not appear immediately hurt, and appeared able to fend her off. However, she consumed enough of his attention that he did not say a word.

Liam took a step forward—to restrain the love of his life, or help her, no one knew—but Tina wisely knocked him back onto the couch. Jessica scanned the room for something to throw, or, perhaps more sensibly, hide behind. Eric watched, Tina alongside, and the other vampires observed the skirmish anxiously, chatting to themselves in various European languages. (I think they were European languages. Hell, it could have been Asian, or Antarctican. What am I, a linguist?)

Liam got up off the couch, looked at Sophie and said, “Hon, don't do that,” and started forward again. I tried to grab one of them and got an elbow in the cheek for my pains, which would have given me a massive shiner in the old days, and that's when Eric finally said something.

“Enough.”

In the movies, everybody would have stopped; Alonzo did, but Sophie was still shrieking and clawing at him, and I saw her tear a huge strip of skin off his shaved scalp.

Eric stepped forward, grabbed her by the right elbow, and tossed her away from Alonzo as easily as I'd have tossed a cardboard box. She caromed off the wall and looked ready to keep rumbling despite herself, but I gamely recovered and stood by Eric's side. I tucked my hands into my armpits so no one could see how they were shaking and piped up loyally, if shakily, “Sophie, he said enough. These are guests in my home.”

“Ourhome,” Jessica piped up, glaring at me and ignoring all of Eric's previous advice on the care and handling of ancient European vampires.

“Bastard!” Sophie was as wild-​eyed as a rabid cat; I'd never even heard her raise her voice, never mind totally lose it like she'd done.

Alonzo calmly pulled the hanging flap of skin off his head(blurrrggghhh!) and said in a pleasant Spanish accent, “The pleasure is mine, señorita.”

“You dare, youdare speak to me? You dare look at me, be in the same room with me, and not beg my forgiveness?”

“We have met?” I couldn't believe how mild-​mannered this guy was. And his very voice suggested a man who could sing, dance, and swordfight all at once—yum. I mean, boo!

A sluggish trickle of blood inched toward his eyes, and one of the vampires behind him handed him a spotless white handkerchief. Of course, anybody else would be slipping on a gigantic puddle of their own blood (head wounds in particular looked so frightening), but not a vampire. And certainly not this vampire. He calmly blotted his head for a moment, watching Sophie with his cat eyes.

“You don't remember, swine, bastard, monster?”

He shrugged with suave innocence.

“August 1, 1892? You were visitingParis . You went to a tavern. You—”

“Oh,” he said carelessly. “The bar girl.”

“Don't tell me,” I said.

Sophie pointed a trembling finger at Alonzo. “He killed me. Hemurdered me.”

“Oh, hell,” Jessica said, which exactly echoed my sentiments.