Otherworld Nights (5 page)

Had he simply decided my rebirth day made a good excuse? Or was there more than that? I watched Aaron through the patio doors. The breeze was chilly but the sun beat down, and he had his shirt off as he worked, oblivious to all around him. This was what he did for a living—masonry, the latest in a string of “careers.” I chided him that, after two hundred years, one should have a healthy retirement savings plan. He only pointed the finger back at me, declaring that I also worked when I didn’t need to. But I was self-employed, and selling art and antiques was certainly not in the same category as the physically demanding jobs he undertook. Yet another matter on which we disagreed—with vigor and enthusiasm.

I watched him for another minute, then headed for the kitchen to make him an iced tea.

I went out later to check a new shipment at an antique shop. When I got home, Aaron was sitting on the couch, a pile of newspapers on the table and one spread in his hands.

“I hope you didn’t take those from my trash.”

“I wouldn’t have had to dig in your garbage if you’d recycle.” He peered around the side of the paper. “That blue box in the garage? It’s not for garden tools.”

I waved him off. “Three hundred and fifty years and I have never been deprived of a newspaper or book for lack of paper in the world. I’m not going to start recycling now. I’m too old.”

“Too stubborn.” He gave a sly grin. “Or too lazy.”

He earned a glare for that one. I walked over and snatched up a stray paper from the carpet before it stained.

“If you’re that desperate for reading material, just tell me and I’ll walk to the store and buy you a magazine.”

He folded the paper and laid it on the coffee table, then patted the spot next to him. I hesitated, sensing trouble, and took a place at the opposite end of the couch. He reached over, his hand going around my waist, and dragged me over until I was sitting against him.

“Remember when we met, Cass?”

“Vaguely.”

He laughed. “Your memory isn’t
that
bad. Remember what you did for me? My first rebirth day was coming, and I’d decided I wasn’t doing it. You found me a victim, a choice I could live with.” With his free hand, he picked up a paper separated from the rest and dropped it onto my lap. “Found you a victim.”

I sighed. “Aaron, I don’t need you to—”

“Too late.” He poked a calloused finger at the top article on the folded page. “Right there.”

The week-old story told of a terminally ill patient fighting for the right to die. When I looked over at Aaron, he was grinning, pleased with himself.

“Perfect, isn’t it?” he said. “Exactly what you look for. She wants to die. She’s in pain.”

“She’s in a palliative care ward. How would I even get in there, let alone kill her?”

“Is that a challenge?” His arm tightened around my waist. “Because if it is, I’m up for it. You know I am.”

He was still smiling, but behind it lurked a shadow of desperation. Again, his worry ignited mine. Perhaps this added incentive
was exactly what I needed. It wouldn’t be easy, but it could be interesting, particularly with Aaron’s help.

Any other time, I’d have pounced on the idea, but now, even as I envisioned it, I felt only a spark of interest buried under an inexplicable layer of lethargy, even antipathy, and all I could think was, “Oh, but it would just be so much
work
.”

My hackles rose at such indolence, but I squelched my indignation. I
was
determined to take a life tonight. I would allow nothing to stand in the way of that. Therefore, I could not enter into a plan that might prove too difficult. Better to keep this simple, so I would have no excuse for failure.

I laid the paper aside. “Are you hungry?”

A faint frown.

“Last night, you said you were hungry,” I continued. “If you were telling the truth, then I presume you still need to feed, unless you slipped out last night.”

“I didn’t.”

“Then we’ll hunt tonight. But not”—a wave at the paper—“in a hospital.”

It was almost dark, the sun only a red-tinged memory along the horizon. As I watched a flower seller clear her outdoor stock for the night, Aaron snapped his fingers.

“Flowers. That’s what’s missing in your house. You always have flowers.”

“The last arrangement wilted early. I was going to pick up more when I was out today, but I didn’t get the chance.”

He seemed to cheer at that, as if reading some hidden message in my words.

“Here, then,” he said. “I’ll get some for you now.”

I arched my brows. “And carry bouquets on a hunt?”

“Think I can’t? Sounds like a challenge.”

I smiled and laid my fingers on his forearm. “We’ll get some tomorrow.”

He took my hand and looped it through his arm as we resumed walking.

“We’re going to Paris this spring,” he said after a moment.

“Are we? Dare I ask what prompted that?”

“Flowers. Spring. Paris.”

“Ah. A thoughtful gesture, but Paris in the spring is highly overrated. And overpriced.”

“Too bad. I’m taking you. I’ll book the time off when I get home, and call you with the dates.”

When I didn’t argue, he glanced over at me, then grinned and quickened his pace.

We bickered over the choice of victim. Aaron wanted to find one to suit my preference, but I insisted we select his type. Finally, he capitulated.

The disagreement dampened the evening’s mood, but only temporarily. Once Aaron found a target, he forgot everything else.

In the early years, Aaron had struggled with vampiric life. He’d died rescuing a stranger from a petty thug. And his reward? After a life spent thinking of others, he’d been reborn as one who fed off them. Ironic and cruel.

Yet we’d found a way for him to justify—even relish—the harder facts of our survival. He fed from the dregs of society, punks and criminals like those youths in the park. For his annual kill, he condemned those whose crimes he deemed worthy of the harshest punishment. And so he could feel he did some good in this parasitic life.

As he said, I’d found his first victim. Now, two hundred years later, he no longer scoured newspapers or tracked down rumors, but seemed able to locate victims by intuition alone, as I could
find the dying. The predatory instinct will adapt to anything that ensures the survival of the host.

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 balls of 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 cocksure to feel threatened by a middle-aged woman.

As Aaron’s fangs sank into the drug dealer’s throat, the man’s eyes bugged, 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. The sedative in our saliva takes hold and when they pass out, those last few seconds are wiped from memory.

The man lashed out once, then slumped in Aaron’s grasp. Still gripping the man’s shirtfront, Aaron began to drink, gulping the blood. His eyes were closed, face rapturous, and I watched him, enjoying the sight of his pleasure, his appetite.

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 shivered.

“Cass?”

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

This was how Aaron liked to hunt: sharing victims. 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 was 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, and I allowed myself a shudder of anticipation.

I lowered my mouth to the man’s throat, scraped 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 had 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.

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 shielded 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 only 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 God, 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’s fault. God 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. 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.

I sealed the wound with my tongue and stepped back.

“Cass …” 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.

“He isn’t right,” I said, then headed down the alley.

After a moment, I heard Aaron throw 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 passenger’s side.

At home, as I headed toward my bedroom, 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 glass 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.

No more than ten minutes after I got into the tub, the door banged open with such a crash that I started, sloshing 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.

I sat up, 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, breasts and belly peeking from the water. Aaron watched for a moment before tearing his gaze away with a growl.

“Stop that, Cass. 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.’ Not your rebirth day, but the date you 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 said things came up.”

“Such as …?”