Dead Girls Don't Cry Read Online Free Page B

near encounter with true death. “Were you worried about me, Sire? I’m touched.” Jonathan’s sharp frown and narrowed eyes told me I had best shut up. “I didn’t think you cared.”
    Jonathan seized me by the back of the neck like a bad puppy and dragged me down to his office. The door slammed, rattling the frame so hard it threatened to pop the hinges. I really needed to keep my fool mouth shut.
    “Do not sass me, child.” Jonathan released me. Worry lines creased his brow. His fists were balled at his sides. His eyes glowed red, as though hellfire burned inside his skull.
    I bared my throat. “My blood is your blood.” A show of respect and deference. Something I almost never did. “I’m sorry, Sire.”
    His shoulders relaxed, the red light faded from his eyes, but his hands remained clenched. I wasn’t out of the woods yet.
    There was a long pause before he finally spoke. “I made you a promise a long time ago. I will always keep you safe. On my honor. ”
    “I remember.” How could I forget the absolute worst moment of my life? Even now, over a hundred years later, it still hurt. The loss of my human family.
    “Cherry?” Jonathan placed his hands on my shoulders. “Come. Take what you need from me.” He drew me close, my lips a hair’s breadth from his throat.
    His honey-scented skin comforted me, even though I wanted to shove him away. “Not the throat.” Too intimate. I didn’t want the safety of Jonathan’s embrace.
    “Fine,” he sighed. He bit the veins in his wrist then extended his arm toward me.
    Two drops of blood beaded around the punctures, beckoning me. I studied Jonathan’s face. His black hair was unbound and hung loosely on his shoulders. To a human, he wouldn’t look older than thirty-five. I knew for a fact he was twenty when he became a vampire. Life was a lot harsher back in his day.
    My stomach knotted. My fangs elongated at the sight of what my body craved. I resisted for a moment longer, then the heady fragrance of his blood reached my nostrils. I latched onto his wrist and sucked with hard, greedy pulls. The blood flowed so quickly, I nearly choked myself.
    “You always wait too long,” Jonathan grumbled.
    Every cell in my body sang with joy. In addition to quelling the hunger, his blood soothed, like a promise everything would be okay. Tears leaked from my eyes. I chided myself. False euphoria. Not real. Not to be trusted.
    When Jonathan reached over to pat my shoulder, I snarled at him and twisted away. Again, he sighed, disappointed this time. “Cherry, it’s time for you to stop—”
    I dropped his wrist. “No!” Tremors shook my hands. “Don’t tell me it’s time to move on. We both know what happened.”
    “You’re right,” he said. Darkness hung over his face. Our tangled past lingered in the air between us like a physical presence.
    “Stop. We are not doing this right now.” I escaped from the room before he could order me back.
    I didn’t go to my dressing room. Jonathan would search for me there first. Instead, I headed to the backstage storage room, where the band kept their equipment.
    My throat was tight as I circled around the small room. A single light bulb provided weak light, plenty for me to see and not knock into instruments. I used to love music once. Singing in particular. My father called me “God’s little angel” on account of my voice. He claimed I came out of the womb singing. I doubt that, but I do remember starting at a young age.
    My mother balked at first. She was more puritanical and felt it wasn’t proper for a lady of my station to sing at all, let alone publicly. My father compromised and allowed me to sing hymns at our private mass.
    When my parents weren’t around, I sang whatever I felt like. I learned new songs whenever and wherever I could. From the Irish housemaid, the African washerwoman and, later, when my parents became missionaries, songs from the countries we visited. I wasn’t alone in the singing