Club Dead

that would lower my window.
    “I’m sorry I was away from my post,” he said instantly. “I had to, ah . . . personal needs.”
    I had a little leverage here.
    “I had to go borrow me a car,” I said. “Can I get a temporary sticker?” I looked at him in a way that clued him in to my mindset. That look said, “Don’t hassle me about getting the sticker, and I won’t say a word about you leaving your post.”
    “Yes, ma’am. That’s apartment 504?”
    “You have a wonderful memory,” I said, and his seamed face flushed.
    “Part of the job,” he said nonchalantly, and handed me a laminated number that I stuck on the dashboard. “If you’ll just hand that in when you leave for good, please? Or if you plan on staying, you’ll have to fill out a form we can have on file, and we’ll give you a sticker. Actually,” he said, stumbling a little, embarrassed, “Mr. Herveaux will have to fill it out, as the property owner.”
    “Sure,” I said. “No problem.” I gave him a cheery wave, and he retreated to the cubicle to raise the barrier.
    I drove into the dark parking garage, feeling that rush of relief that follows clearing a major hurdle.
    Reaction set in. I was shaking all over when I took the keys out of the ignition. I thought I saw Alcide’s pickup over a couple of rows, but I had parked as deeply in the garage as I could—in the darkest corner, away from all the other cars, as it happened. This was as far as I had planned. I had no idea what to do next. I hadn’t really believed I would get this far. I leaned back in the comfortable seat just for a minute, to relax and stop shaking before I got out. I’d had the heater on full blast during my drive from the mansion, so it was toasty warm inside the car.
    When I woke up, I’d been asleep for hours.
    The car was cold, and I was colder, despite the stolen quilted jacket. I got out of the driver’s seat stiffly, stretching and bending to relieve cramped joints.
    Maybe I should check on Bill. He had gotten rolled around in the trunk, I was sure, and I needed to make sure he was covered.
    Actually, I just wanted to see him again. My heart actually beat faster at the thought. I was a real idiot.
    I checked my distance from the weak sunlight at the entrance; I was well away. And I had parked so the trunk opening was pointed away from that bit of sunlight.
    Yielding to temptation, I stepped around to the back of the car. I turned the key in the lock, pulled it out and popped it in my jacket pocket, and watched as the lid rose.
    In the dim garage, I couldn’t see too well, and it was hard to make out even the fuzzy yellow blanket. Bill appeared to be pretty well concealed. I bent over a little more, so I could arrange a fold further over his head. I had only a second’s warning, a scuff of a shoe against the concrete, and then I felt a forceful shove from behind.
    I fell into the trunk on top of Bill.
    An instant and extra shove brought my legs in, and the trunk slammed shut.
    Now Bill and I were locked in the trunk of the Lincoln.

Chapter Twelve
    D EBBIE. I FIGURED it had been Debbie. After I got over my initial flood of panic, which lasted longer than I wanted to admit, I tried to relive the few seconds carefully. I’d caught a trace of brain pattern, enough to inform me that my attacker was a shifter. I figured it must have been Alcide’s former girlfriend—his not-so-former girlfriend, apparently, since she was hanging around his garage.
    Had she been waiting for me to return to Alcide since the night before? Or had she met up with him at some point during the craziness of the full moon? Debbie had been even more angered by my escorting Alcide than I could have imagined. Either she loved him, or she was extremely possessive.
    Not that her motivation was any big concern right now. My big concern was air. For the first time, I felt lucky that Bill didn’t breathe.
    I made my own breath slow and even. No deep, panicky gasps, no thrashing. I made myself figure things out. Okay, I’d entered the trunk probably about, hmm, one p.m. Bill would wake around five, when it was getting dark. Maybe he’d sleep a little longer, because he’d been so exhausted—but no later than six-thirty, for sure. When he was awake, he’d be able to get us out of here. Or would he? He was very weak. He’d been terribly injured, and his injuries would take a while in healing, even for a vampire. He would need rest and blood before he’d be up to par. And he