Many Bloody Returns Part 11

Tonight's choice was a drug dealer with feral eyes and a quick switchblade. We watched from the shadows as the man threatened a young runner. Aaron rocked on the b.a.l.l.s at his feet, his gaze fixed on that waving knife, but I laid my hand on his arm. As the runner loped toward the street, Aaron's lips curved, happy to see him go, but even happier with what the boy's safe departure portended-not a quick intervention but a true hunt.

We tracked the man for over an hour before Aaron's hunger won out. With no small amount of regret, he stopped toying with his dinner and I lured the drug dealer into an alleyway. An easy maneuver, as such things usually were with men like this, too greedy and c.o.c.ksure to feel threatened by a middle-aged woman.

As Aaron's fangs sank into the drug dealer's throat, the man's eyes bugged in horror, unable to believe what was happening. This was the most dangerous point of feeding, that split second where they felt our fangs and felt a nightmare come to life. It is but a moment, then the sedative in our saliva takes hold and they pa.s.s out, those last few seconds wiped from memory when they wake.

The man lashed out once, then slumped in Aaron's grasp. Still gripping the man's s.h.i.+rtfront, Aaron began to drink, gulping the blood. His eyes were closed, face rapturous, and I watched him, enjoying the sight of his pleasure, his appet.i.te.

He'd been hungrier than he'd let on. Typical for Aaron, waiting that extra day or two, not to practice control or avoid feeding, but to drink heartily. Delayed gratification for heightened pleasure. I s.h.i.+vered.

"Ca.s.s?"

He licked a fallen drop from the corner of his mouth as he held the man out for me.

This was how we hunted-how Aaron liked it, not taking separate victims but sharing. He always made the disabling bite, drank some, then let me feed to satiation. If I took too much for him to continue feeding safely, he'd find a second victim. There was no sense arguing that I could find my own food-he knew that, but continued, compelled by a need to protect and provide.

"You go on," I said softly. "You're still hungry."

He thrust the man to me. "Yours."

His jaw set and I knew his insistence had nothing to do with providing sustenance.

As Aaron held the man up for me, I moved forward. My canines lengthened, throat tightening, and I allowed myself a shudder of

antic.i.p.ation.

I lowered my mouth to the man's throat, sc.r.a.ped my canines over the skin, tasting, preparing. Then, with one swift bite, my mouth filled with- I jerked back, almost choking. I resisted the urge to spit, and forced-with effort-the mouthful down, my stomach revolting in disgust.

It tasted like...blood.

When I became a vampire, I thought this would be the most unbearable part: drinking blood. But the moment that first drop of

blood touched my tongue, I'd realized my worries had been for naught. There was no word for the taste; no human memory that

came close. I can only say that it was so perfect a food that I could never tire of it nor wish for something else.

But this tasted like blood, like my human memory of it. Once, before I'd completed the transition to vampire, I'd filled a goblet with cow's blood and forced it down, preparing for my new life. I could still taste the thick, metallic fluid that had coated my mouth and tongue, then sat in my stomach for no more than a minute before returning the way it had gone down.

Now, after only a mouthful of this man's blood, I had to clamp my mouth shut to keep from gagging. Aaron dropped the man and grabbed for me. I waved him aside.

"I swallowed wrong."

I rubbed my throat, lips curving in a moue of annoyance, then looked around and found the man at my feet. I steeled myself and bent. Aaron crouched to lift the man for me, but I motioned him back and s.h.i.+elded my face, so he wouldn't see my reaction. Then I forced my mouth to the man's throat.

The bleeding had already stopped. I bit his neck again, my nails digging into my palms, eyes closed, letting the disgusting taste fill my mouth, then swallowing. Drink. Swallow. Drink. Swallow. My nails broke my skin, but I felt no pain. I wished I could, if only to give me something else to think about.

It wasn't just the taste. That I could struggle past. But my whole body rebelled at the very sensation of the blood filling my

stomach, screaming at me to stop, as if what I was doing was unnatural, even dangerous.

I managed one last swallow. And then...I couldn't. I simply couldn't. I hung there, fangs still in the man's neck, willing myself to suck, to fill my mouth, to finish this, mentally screaming, raging against the preposterousness of it. I was a vampire; I drank blood.

And even if I didn't want to, by G.o.d, I would force every drop down my throat-

My stomach heaved. I swallowed hard.

I could sense Aaron behind me. Hovering. Watching. Worrying.

Another heave. If I took one more sip, I'd vomit and give Aaron reason to worry, to panic, and give myself reason to panic.

It was the victim. G.o.d only knew what poisons this drug dealer had swimming through his veins and, while such things don't affect

vampires, I am a delicate feeder, too sensitive to anomalies in the blood. I've gone hungry rather than drink anything that tastes

"off." There was no sense asking Aaron to confirm it-he could swill week-old blood and not notice.

That was it, then. The victim. Just the victim.

I sealed the wound with my tongue and stepped back.

"Ca.s.s..." Aaron's voice was low with warning. "You need to finish him."

"I-" The word "can't" rose to my lips, but I swallowed it back. I couldn't say that. Wouldn't. This was just another temporary

hurdle. I'd rest tonight and find a victim of my own choosing tomorrow.

"He isn't right," I said, then turned and headed down the alley.

After a moment, I heard Aaron pitch the unconscious man into a heap of trash bags and storm off in the opposite direction.

Any other man would have thrown up his hands and left me there. I arrived at my car to find Aaron waiting by the driver's door. I

handed him the keys and got in the pa.s.senger's side.

At home, as I headed toward my room, Aaron called after me. "I hope you're not going to tell me you're tired again."

"No, I'm taking a bath to scrub off the filth of that alley. Then, if you aren't ready to retire, we could have a gla.s.s of wine, perhaps

light the fire. It's getting cool."

He paused, still ready for a fight, but finding no excuse in my words.

"I'll start the fire," he said.

"Thank you."

No more than ten minutes after I got into the tub, the door banged open with such a crash that I started, slos.h.i.+ng bubbles over the side. Aaron barreled in and shoved a small book at me. My appointment book.

"I found this in your desk."

"Keen detective work. Practicing for your next council investigation?"

"Our next council investigation."

I reached for my loofah brush. "My mistake. That's what I meant."

"Is it?"

I looked up, trying to understand his meaning, but seeing only rage in his eyes. He was determined to find out what had happened in that alley, and somehow this was his route there. My stomach clenched, as if the blood was still pooled in it, curdling. I wouldn't have this conversation. I wouldn't.

Ostensibly reaching for the loofah brush, I rose, letting the bubbles slide from me. Aaron's gaze dropped from my face. I tucked my legs under, took hold of the side of the tub and started to rise. He let me get halfway up, then put his hand on my head and firmly pushed me down.

I reclined into the tub again, then leaned my head back, floating, b.r.e.a.s.t.s and belly peeking from the water. Aaron watched for a moment before tearing his gaze away with a growl.

"Stop that, Ca.s.s. I'm not going to run off and I'm not going to be distracted. I want to talk to you."

I sighed. "About my appointment book, I presume."

He lifted it. "Last week. On the day marked 'birthday.' The date you must have planned to make your kill. There's nothing else

scheduled."

"Of course not. I keep that day open-"

"But you said you were busy. That's why you didn't do it."

"I don't believe I said that. I said things came up."

"Such as...?"

I raised a leg onto the rim and ran the loofah brush down it. Aaron's eyes followed, but after a second, he forced his gaze back to

mine and repeated the question.

I sighed. "Very well. Let's see. On that particular day, it was a midnight end-of-season designer clothing sale. As I was driving out of the city to make my kill, I saw the sign and stopped. By the time I left, it was too late to hunt."

He glowered at me. "That's not funny."

"I didn't say it was."

The glower deepened to a scowl. "You postponed your annual kill to shop? Bulls.h.i.+t. Yeah, you like your fancy clothes, and

you're cheap as h.e.l.l. But getting distracted by a clothing sale?" He snorted. "That's like a cop stopping a high speed chase to grab doughnuts."

I went quiet for a moment, then said, as evenly as I could, "Perhaps. But I did."

He searched my eyes, finding the truth there. "Then something's wrong. Very wrong. And you know it."

I shuttered my gaze. "All I know is that you're making too big a deal of this, as always. You take the smallest-"

"Ca.s.sandra DuCharme skips her annual kill to go shopping? That's not small. That's apocalyptic."

"Oh, please, spare me the-"