Professor Blood (Ironwrought Book 2) Page 6

  For a hunter to do all this, well. Maybe he could trust Brandon with more things around the lab.

  Quinn finished off the tour by showing them the cabinet contents—where the chemicals were, where they could find test tubes, and the roster for washing the glassware.

  “Now, as part of the research group, you’ll have to take turns to clean the test tubes and flasks,” Quinn said to the students crowded around him. He waved at the half-rinsed glassware in the sink.

  Next to him, Brandon muttered, “You’re just pushing the chores to someone else.”

  “Did you volunteer to wash the test tubes?” Quinn smiled. “You’ll have to get in all the way to make sure they’re really clean—I don’t tolerate contaminants in my tubes. They’ll affect the... success of the experiments.”

  Brandon eyed him, full lips curled in a smirk. “Yeah, I’ll get all the way in.”

  Quinn swallowed. A couple of students raised their eyebrows, so Quinn smiled innocently at them. They would cringe if they knew what had really happened between Brandon and him. “Such confidence, Mr. Remy.”

  “I know how to clean up, damn it.”

  “So demonstrate it for us,” Quinn said, grabbing the apron and gloves from a wall hook. “Put these on, and get into all those tubes.”

  Brandon scowled. He tied the apron around his waist, though, and Quinn walked him through the multiple test tube rinses.

  As Brandon scrubbed out the glassware, Quinn couldn’t help but wonder if he did the same at home, whether he had someone else he lived with, whether he stood at the sink in an apron. So he said, “I imagine you do great at home, rinsing all the dishes.”

  “Yeah. My dinner plates are rinsed six times so the contaminant levels fall to 0.04%.”

  “Surely you have to wash them a seventh time. I can’t eat off a plate unless the levels are at 0.01%.”

  Brandon quirked an eyebrow. “You? I figured you’d lick your food up like a dog.”

  “Now, that’s slander.”

  “Just hypothesizing.”

  Quinn smiled, delighted at all the scientific terms Brandon threw back at him. He wasn’t teaching an ape of a hunter, not by a long shot. “You work efficiently.”

  “I clean up pretty well.”

  “You might have left a stain or two,” Quinn said, thinking about the white streaks on his shirt three days ago. That had been a pain, bringing his clothes to a laundromat.

  “Point them out,” Brandon said, his tongue darting over his lips. “And I’ll clean them again.”

  Maybe he was merely wetting his mouth. But maybe he meant he’d lick those messes up, and Quinn swallowed, a thrill shivering down his spine.

  No. They weren’t fucking again.

  The tour ended when Brandon set the wet glassware into the countertop oven to dry. Quinn handed out quiz sheets to the students. “Fill this in, and drop them off here tomorrow,” he said. “It’ll help me gauge your understanding of the tour today.”

  The students murmured amongst themselves, and Quinn watched as they shuffled out the door. Next to him, Brandon rolled his shoulders, popping his joints.

  “You completely shredded my reputation in front of my research group,” Quinn said.

  Brandon glanced over, unmoved. “Any regrets?”

  “Not really.” As much as it pained him to acknowledge it, Quinn enjoyed Brandon’s snarky comments. They challenged him, made the same course teachings just a little different. Even if Brandon had blackmailed his way into the lab group.

  Brandon chuckled, studying his quiz sheet. “Can I fill this in now? I don’t want to make the extra trip here.”

  “Don’t you have classes tomorrow?”

  Brandon hesitated. “No. I’m only taking this class and the research group. I work full-time.”

  Quinn’s stomach flipped, and it had absolutely nothing to do with Brandon. “Just—just this class?”

  “I told you. To help me hunt.”

  Quinn watched as Brandon perched on a wooden stool, filling out the quiz. There was a solemnity to him that made him old for his age, and Quinn knew the effort Brandon put into hunting. I’ve killed eighty vampires, Brandon had said. That ripped away any fluttery feelings Quinn might have felt toward him.

  “So you’ll kill me with whatever you learn here,” Quinn said.

  And maybe... if it were those hazel eyes staring at him as he died... Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.

  Brandon looked up from his quiz, mulling on his words. “Depends.”

  “On what?”

  “You haven’t killed anyone.”

  Do you really think that? He wondered how Genevieve would react to Brandon’s words. She would scowl, her lips twisting with fury. He hasn’t killed anyone? Have you seen the bites on my neck? My body in the ground? Quinn promised to stay with me until I found a husband, and look what he’s done!

  Quinn looked away, and Brandon’s shoulders tensed. “My sister,” Quinn said, staring at the familiar lines of the lab benches, the tiles on the floor. The disgust rose in his throat again, like bile. “Two hundred years ago.”

  Brandon sucked in a sharp breath.

  Quinn didn’t want to see the revulsion in Brandon’s eyes, so he headed for the fridge, grabbing a spoon and a box of coagulated chicken blood. Then he headed for his office.

  Footsteps followed behind him. Quinn tensed in the doorway. He imagined the flash of silver, the sharp edge of a blade jabbing into his heart. So he stood still, the box of blood chilling his fingers.

  “Why are you standing here?” Brandon asked behind him, a few inches away.

  Quinn gulped, glancing over his shoulder. No knife? “I was waiting for you to kill me.”

  “What?” Brandon frowned. “Why?”

  “Because you’re a hunter and I killed someone.” Quinn peered at him. “Where’s your knife?”

  Brandon looked at the Cinnamon Farms label on the chicken blood, then met Quinn’s eyes. At length, he asked, “Why did you kill her?”

  Quinn laughed, the sound of it bitter. “Do you think I wanted to?”

  He could still see the dank alley where the vampires had cornered him, the gleam of their fangs in the scant light. There had been few words, only The coven has chosen you, and then the bite. And the stale blood dripping into his mouth.

  Quinn shuddered. “I don’t want to think about it.”

  Brandon started to reach for him, then pulled his hand back. Can’t blame you, Quinn thought. I wouldn’t touch me, either. He stepped over to his desk, setting the blood down.

  “My parents were killed by vampires,” Brandon said, watching him. “I’d just gotten home from school. My mom’s the sort of person who would bring cookies over to a new neighbor. And my dad always said she’d feed everyone too much food. They’re buried in the cemetery just outside town.”

  Quinn flinched. No wonder Brandon hated him. There was no way Brandon wouldn’t, with a reason like that.

  “When were you turned?”

  Quinn sighed. “Two hundred years ago.”

  Brandon started. “Then—”

  “How much do you know about vampires when they’re turned?” Quinn asked.

  Brandon shook his head. “Not much.”

  Quinn pulled the box lid open, settling into his chair. Then, because it was just Brandon and him in the office, he pulled his feet up onto his seat, curling into a ball.

  “We’re ravenous when we first become vampires,” Quinn said. The hunger had been like nothing he’d known; a sharp pain that had cut through his stomach, searing down his veins. It had reduced the people around him to scents and tastes, and he had ached to sink his fangs into someone, anyone.

  He’d staggered home to the cottage he’d shared with his sister, shoving the heavy wooden bed against the door, the closet of his late parents’ clothes against the window. Then he’d curled up under the bed and tried to shut out all the sounds.

  “How old were you?”

  “Thirty-three.” And i
f Brandon was going to kill him at some point, Quinn might as well tell him the truth. “The coven caught me. I locked myself in my room right after I was turned. And my sister demanded that I show my face.”

  Tempting as it was, he never emerged for dinner. Genevieve had hammered on the door and shouted about wasting food. After five days, she’d yelled herself hoarse.

  “I told her to leave,” Quinn murmured. He scooped a cold bite of chicken blood into his mouth. It slid tastelessly down his throat. “She threatened to break the door down. I’d tried to eat everything else—the bed sheets, the closet doors. The hunger didn’t fade. So I opened the door.”

  Her blood had tasted like sweet bread and tea, and Quinn had clung to her, gulping it all down.

  “I sucked her dry,” he said, his stomach churning. “It was—it was only when I stopped drinking that I—that I realized she was dead.”

  In his mind, he saw her pale face, felt the lightness of her body in his arms. He missed her nagging again, suddenly, pain and guilt engulfing him like an inferno. Quinn whined, shoving the box of blood across his desk. He wanted to throw up. Wanted to lock himself into a suitcase and sink himself to the bottom of an ocean.

  Brandon would help him with that, wouldn’t he?

  “Shit.” Brandon stepped over, setting a hand on Quinn’s shoulder. Quinn flinched, expecting a sharp knife, or a punch, or a vicious insult.

  Instead, Brandon grasped Quinn’s shirt and hauled him out of his seat. Quinn flailed. Brandon’s arms curved around him, warm like iron bands.

  For a second, Quinn froze, trying to figure what kind of attack this was, where the danger was coming from.

  Brandon’s palm slid around the back of his head, solid and gentle. Then he pulled Quinn’s face into the warmth of his shoulder, and Quinn gasped, breathing in lungfuls of sweat and musk, and the salty-caramel blood that thrummed in Brandon’s chest.

  He wanted to tear open Brandon’s shirt, wanted to break his thin, smooth skin, so he could taste the silky richness of Brandon’s blood. He shouldn’t. He promised himself he’d never drink human blood again.

  “What are you doing?” Quinn asked, trying to squirm out of Brandon’s grip.

  “Hold still,” Brandon muttered. He pulled Quinn against his chest, palm resting on the small of his back. Quinn stilled. Anytime now, there’d be the sharp burn of a knife, a vicious grip around his throat.

  None came.

  He snuffled then, and Brandon’s slow, heavy breath puffed against his neck. Against him, Brandon’s skin smelled faintly like soap, and his arms were strong, warm. Quinn swallowed, locking his jaws tightly together. What was this? Why was Brandon allowing him this close? Brandon stroked his hand up Quinn’s back, his touch feather-light. He wasn’t attacking. Quinn’s mind whirled.

  “What are you doing?” he asked, even though he didn’t really want to. Despite the enclosed space, it felt... safe here. In Brandon’s arms. And it was the last place he’d thought to seek refuge in.

  “I’m holding you,” Brandon said, his voice rough.

  “Why?”

  “Just because.”

  Quinn stopped talking. He wanted to keep the silence as it was, because Brandon held him snugly, wrapping him in a cocoon of warmth. It felt so damn nice. And they shouldn’t be doing this. “You’re a hunter,” Quinn whispered. “And my student.”

  “I don’t want to think about it,” Brandon said. But he held on to Quinn, his body hard like a protective cage. For the first time in two centuries, Quinn felt safe from the little threats that lurked around him—the possibility of being found out, the coven’s insidious presence, the other hunters who were always on the lookout for his kind.

  Right now, there was Brandon, and the rest of the world dulled to a muted noise beyond him.

  Instead of thinking, Quinn listened to the rush of Brandon’s blood in his veins, the soft thud-thud-thud of Brandon’s heart in his chest. He set his hand carefully on Brandon’s waist, heat soaking into his palm.

  “Why do you keep living?” Quinn asked, his voice muffling against Brandon’s shoulder.

  Brandon hesitated. “To keep people safe.”

  “Is that why... you were in the rain? Fixing the bus?” It seemed fitting, suddenly, Brandon as a hunter, killing monsters, helping people out of traffic breakdowns. He was someone good, someone Quinn especially did not deserve to have around.

  “It’s not like fixing the bus is a big thing.”

  “I’ve never fixed a bus in my life.”

  “Why do you keep living?”

  Quinn curled his fingers into Brandon’s shirt. Brandon was twenty-eight, and he had repaired buses, killed vampires, done so much more than Quinn ever had. What had Quinn been doing? Had those years of research even been worthwhile? “I want a solution for those like me,” he said. “So they don’t have to drink blood if they don’t want to.”

  Brandon sucked in a deep breath. “You really don’t want to drink human blood.”

  “I really don’t. People like Seb and I, we’d rather be buying liver from the grocer’s. Except Seb has... Well, he has his human now.” So much for being animal-blood friends.

  “And you want to drink my blood.”

  Quinn’s face scorched. If it weren’t for his filed-down teeth, he might have bitten Brandon that day, gulped down more of his blood. “I... your blood tastes good. In case you didn’t know.”

  Brandon froze, his eyes wary. “What does it taste like? Just... metal?”

  Quinn breathed a laugh. No human had asked him this before. “Oh, no. It’s like you eating seasoned steak. To me, your blood tastes like burnt sugar, like someone sprinkled flakes of sea salt into it. It... feels like fireworks on my tongue.”

  Maybe he shouldn’t have mentioned that last bit. Quinn licked his lips, imagining that blood in his mouth.

  Brandon watched him. Thin, silvery scars marked his throat—injuries from knives, or claws. There was a scab from three days ago, too. But there were no puncture marks, and Quinn was relieved for his sake. Brandon hadn’t been bitten.

  “Are you going to drink my blood again?” Brandon asked, his pulse skipping. Fear, probably.

  “You don’t want me to drink your blood, but you’re asking anyway?”

  “I’m not asking,” Brandon muttered. “Was just curious.”

  “I didn’t think you’d be curious about me.” Quinn’s stomach squeezed. Being in Brandon’s arms, talking to him... It had helped push the bad memories away.

  Brandon stared at him for long seconds. “We’ve both lost family to vampires.”

  Quinn flinched. “I killed—”

  “You didn’t do it on purpose,” Brandon said, watching Quinn. The skin on Quinn’s entire body prickled. “Why the hell are you blushing?”

  “I-I—” Quinn gulped, cupping his own cheeks. “You have too much faith in me. You’re a hunter!”

  “I didn’t say I like you,” Brandon muttered, unwrapping his arms from Quinn’s body, stepping away.

  Cool air rushed over Quinn’s skin, unwelcome. Of course he hates you. He said the entire class does. And that was fine. After Genevieve’s murder, Quinn didn’t deserve anything good for himself.

  Except Brandon was perfect, if he weren’t also a student and a hunter.

  “I shouldn’t drink from you,” Quinn said, gulping. Three days ago, they’d been about to kill each other. Now, Brandon had hugged him, and Quinn wanted Brandon’s arms around him again. When had someone last touched him? “This is insane.”

  “Yeah, it is.” Brandon rubbed his arms, looking at the desk.

  Quinn cast about for something to say. He had things to do, like assign research projects, work on his course material, find an antidote for Oriel’s blood. He’d promised a solution to Seb. He should be doing that, instead of hoping for Brandon to touch him again.

  No one could know this had happened, of course. Not the groping, or the hug, or the conversation.

  “This never happened,” Q
uinn said. Brandon had offered him comfort, and he had accepted it. Tomorrow, they’d return to being hunter and vampire, pretending Brandon didn’t possess a soft, gentle side. And Quinn shouldn’t feel a pang in his chest. “You know me as your biology professor. That’s all.”

  “Fine,” Brandon said, stepping back. He watched Quinn for a moment, then slipped out into the lab. Quinn stared at the forgotten box of chicken blood sitting on the desk. Then he returned to his chair, sinking bonelessly into it. He still didn’t know what Brandon thought of all this.

  Brandon walked past Quinn’s office doorway then. Quinn glanced up, hoping he didn’t see disgust in his eyes.

  Across the two yards between them, Brandon’s eyes were unreadable. But he hovered in the doorway for a second, and Quinn’s stomach tightened under his attention.

  “I left the quiz on the counter,” Brandon said. “Thanks for having me over.”

  Then he stepped out of the lab, and Quinn looked around his empty office, Brandon’s voice echoing in his mind.

  He didn’t know what this was. But he knew it couldn’t last.

  7

  Brandon

  Two weeks later, Brandon shoved his phone into his pocket, eyeing the fluorescent lights along the empty lab corridors.

  There had been little word from his nameless phone contact, the one he suspected had connections with the feds. Immediately after the lab tour, he’d regretted even sending Quinn’s name to the guy—at least, he assumed it was a guy.

  Thing was, there were still updates from the private number: one vampire lurking at the park, another hovering near a popular toy store.

  Brandon had caught the news on the police broadcast, killed those vampires, and their victims had retreated, safe. Those civilians never told the police. Brandon knew what the police would say: It’s a hot day. You must have been hallucinating. Vampires don’t exist. It was even all over the school textbooks: Vampires are imaginary creatures. If you think you saw one, tell the police about it.

  Ten years ago, his aunts and friends had brushed his furious spiels off, telling him his trauma had made him hallucinate. Then they’d told him he needed therapy, and after years of trying to convince them, Brandon had given up keeping in touch.