The Rough Riders

Chapter Fifteen

When he rolled over, Slate's hand encountered a fabric that felt strangely slick to his vague senses. It was also oddly warm. His bed was never warm. Vampires, after all, had barely any discernible body heat.

The combination of unusual sensations pried his eyelids apart and, for a moment, he thought he hadn't opened them at all.

Black.

Everything was black.

Slate forced himself to sit up and felt a vague pounding behind his eyes. He'd overdosed on drunken blood enough to know this was a vampiric hangover. Every time it happened, he found reason to be grateful he was a vampire. Hangovers hadn't been part of his regular 'living' experience, but the ones he'd had were nightmarish.

The slippery black sheet pooled around his waist, fabric stroking against his thighs.

Slate went still. His eyes were reluctant to shift downward, but he looked down as far as he could without moving his head.

Why the fuck was he naked?

Where the fuck was he, being naked and with a hango-

His eyes widened slowly as flickers of jagged memory forced themselves into his conscious mind.

Crying in Spider's arms, having told her what he'd told no one else.

The bottle of absinthe glinting leaf-green against the black coffin.

A glance at the clock, hour hand well past nine.

Broken conversation, punctuated by shots of the green alcohol.

The taste of sweet blood, sharpened by the absinthe's bite.

A staircase, narrow, black and slick underfoot.

Stumbling over a throw rug, black edged with vibrant red.

Collapsing onto a broad expanse of fluffy black velvet, cradling like shadows.

"...oh fuck."

"Well, I wasn't expecting a good morning, but I thought there might be something a little more polite than that."

Spider's tone was amused. Her posture, leaning against the door frame, was relaxed. She wore only a long black t-shirt and the eyeshadow and liner were still smudged around her russet eyes. A black mug was in hand, coffee fragrant and balanced on her opposite palm.

He looked her over swiftly, saw the livid marks on her pale throat and groaned loudly, burying his head in his hands. "Oh fuck."

"So is that a yes or a no to coffee? I have a few fangy visitors of my own, so I keep a pint or two on hand if you'd prefer that." Spider shifted her weight, draped one foot over the other. "I didn't spike this cup, but I can."

"Oh fuck."

"Again, that's really not a yes or no to coffee." She pushed away from the frame and padded into the room, bare feet stark against the black carpet. Perching on the edge of the bed, Spider sipped from the mug and tilted her head, arching a thin brow. "I didn't think vampires would have hangovers. Want me to dissolve some aspirin in s- Right, no solids. Anything you take to make it go away?"

He looked at her through his fingers and grimaced, turning away. The sheet, held down by her weight, slipped. Slate grabbed at it, frantic, and bundled it around his waist. "Pants. I need pants. Where the hell are my pants?"

"On the chair." She turned, motioning to a shape that he could now make out as a black chair. Everything in the room was black; it was difficult to tell what was furniture and what was shadow. And he was in no mood to reach out to the darkness to help him.