Bloodshot (7 page)

But I felt like I was wide open, standing in a clearing, holding up a sign that said,
COME AND GET ME
.

I was straining for all I was worth—to hear something, or smell something, or see something.
It’s not another vampire
, I thought. He wouldn’t have turned on the lights. Whoever he was, he was mortal enough to die. And I was immortal enough to take quite a beating before going down, so what exactly was I so afraid of?

Again I tried to run a scan with my mind. My psychic powers aren’t profound, and I’m lucky I have any at all. Some vampires don’t, and those who do tend to be women—though nobody knows why. It’s kind of like how men are more likely to be left-handed or color-blind; it’s not a hard, fast rule, but a generality. My abilities aren’t very good, but they give me a slight leg up.

I can usually scope a room and pinpoint the places where everyone was standing. Or sitting.

Or …

I looked up.

There he was, doing his best bat impression—hanging from a square iron beam that used to be part of a ceiling track for machinery.
He was clinging to the support at the other end of the room like a baby monkey on its mama’s back.

And he saw me.

He’d probably seen me come bursting in, smashing up the light, and squatting behind my inherited machinery. He’d been watching the whole time, and now he could see me, seeing him.

I did not wait for him to make the first move. He’d already made the first move by breaking into my building. If that isn’t a grievous act of aggression, then I just don’t know what is.

With a scramble worthy of the aforementioned monkey, he righted himself on the beam and scurried along it. He was running toward me, and I was running toward him, but he was about twelve feet above me and I was on the floor.

As soon as I realized what he was up to, I hit my metaphoric brakes and doubled back to the door. He was trying to zip past me and get out behind me. No way, José. Whoever he was, he wasn’t going anywhere until I’d gotten some answers or some blood. I’d settle for either one, but I’d shoot for both.

I reached the door about half a second before he could. I kicked it shut and whirled on my heels, katana poised, as I faced him.

He did a backward shuffle-hop on the beam and I was certain he was going to fall, but he didn’t. Instead he did a quick gaze-around-the-room, then bolted down a side beam toward a small square window at the far end of the premises.

Never at any point did he appear properly on the verge of panic. And never at any point did I get the impression that the darkness was inhibiting his flight.

I didn’t see any goggles or glasses but he wasn’t missing a step, and that beam wasn’t more than eight inches wide. Great. I had a night-spying ninja on my hands. Was he armed? I couldn’t tell. He wasn’t trying to fight back yet; he was intent on getting away—which
was a good move on his part because when I caught him, I intended to hurt him. A lot.

I chased him from the floor level, tagging along underneath him as he bolted for the nearest promising exit, and while we raced, my hopeful guess that he wasn’t a vampire was borne out. I outpaced him easily—skipping up a stack of crates and vaulting up onto the beam between him and the window without even breaking a sweat.

Yes, I know. I already told you that we don’t sweat. But you get the idea.

Now he was nervous. He’d kept his cool nicely until we were eye-to-eye and he was empty-handed against my sword and my terrifically bad attitude.

In the fraction of a moment between me startling him into immobility and his fight-or-flight mechanism kicking in again, I sized him up.

He was taller than me by a fair measure, probably a whole head taller, but it was hard to tell with both of us crouching to keep from knocking our heads on the ceiling. Wearing black from head to toe, he might’ve stood out on any street except for one in downtown Seattle. Even his hat was black, and fitted close against his head. Around his eyes and across his cheeks he’d smudged black greasepaint, which I thought was overkill. How much difference did he think the guyliner would make?

Not enough to save his ass, I could promise him that.

I don’t know what the track used to carry, but it must’ve been heavy, because it didn’t creak at all beneath our weight—not even when I bounced on it just a touch to see how stable it was. I’d never fought anybody Errol-Flynn-style before, up on some high ballast. I wasn’t really looking forward to it, but if I was going to cut the shit out of some guy while trying to hold my balance, I wanted to be sure that the surface would hold us both.

He beat a retreat, backward, not very well this time.

His right foot missed, almost, he slipped, and I’ll be damned—he caught himself, just in time to sling out an arm and snag the beam. He lowered himself in a hasty drop that was impressively smooth and painless.

I jumped down after him, and it was equally smooth and painless. Probably more so, since I’d made my descent on purpose. I was almost disappointed that he hadn’t seen me do it, but he’d turned tail and was running like the wind again, back to the door, betting that I’d only kicked it shut and that I hadn’t broken it. He was willing to give it another shot, since he didn’t have much of a choice.

“Oh no you don’t,” I told him, and before he’d gotten another two steps I was in front of him. He tried another direction, but I was in front of him that way, too. And there it was, the fear, wafting up off his skin. His eyes, too. Smudged with the greasepaint for added invisibility (or something), they were on fire with the realization that he had not been busted by some half-asleep rent-a-cop.

As for my eyes, they were probably on fire, too. I could smell him and it turned me on, for lack of a better way to put it. I was hungry; I hadn’t eaten in the better part of a month, and look. Delivery.

I grabbed him by the throat and I would’ve killed him on the spot but I felt like someone was watching me and I hesitated.

Oh yeah. Pepper. She’d crawled out of her hidey-hole and she was staring, blank-faced, at our little tussle.

The guy in my grasp twisted and managed to kick me hard in the gut. It hurt, yes. I made the appropriate “oof” noise and almost let go, but didn’t. He kicked again, but I dodged that one. With the momentum of my dodge, I pulled him after me, yanking him off his feet and dragging him over to the door. Hey, he’d wanted to go there, right? I was only helping.

I knocked the door open with my shoulder, even though it was
supposed to open in, and not out. So I’d have to replace the hinges later. No big deal. But I was angry, and wound up, and trying to blow off enough steam to keep from sucking him dry in front of a little girl.

He fought like a wolf, though. He wrestled and contorted himself, and it was hard for me to drag him along by the throat or anything else, but I did it. I hauled him a few feet at a time, letting him use his weight to play a futile game of tug-of-war. Back and forth we went, me gaining ground, and him losing it.

Out to the stairs we bumbled, and I threw him down them, which took the edge right off him. After that, he was slower and easier to haul. We had one more flight of stairs to the basement, and he took them the hard way, too. At the bottom I half dragged, half kicked him around the nearest corner with a door so I could close it and make sure we were alone.

It’s more than being a secretive eater. It’s a matter of practicality (easier to force him down than up), and consideration for others (Pepper, who frankly did
not
need to see it), and ease of cleanup (concrete floor with a slightly sinking foundation).

Down in the basement it was so dark that even I could barely see, but I didn’t mind so I didn’t do anything to correct the situation.

My quarry was starting to babble. I don’t usually like to start up conversations with people I intend to nosh on, but I wanted to know what this paramilitary freak was doing on my premises, and it was either ask him now or figure it out later.

I planted my boot in his back somewhere near his kidney.

He groaned, and I demanded, “What are you doing here?”

He groaned some more, so I swung my foot into his ribs some more until he answered, “Looking around. Just looking around.”

I could smell blood when he talked. His face must’ve met the corner of a stair. Good. Or rather, good for me. Bad for him. Between the salt-and-vinegar tang of his sweat and the rich, metallic
scent of bleeding, he needed to talk fast. He had less time left in this world than he knew.

“Bullshit,” I told him. The word came out funny. I was salivating to a degree that could best be described as embarrassing.

He fumbled around, reaching for something. I didn’t want him to retrieve any weapons or get a good handle on anything potentially defensive that might be lying around on the floor, so I pounced down on him, rolled him over, and pinned him spread-eagle. I tried not to drool all over him when I said, “Tell me what you’re doing here, or you’re never leaving this room alive.”

“Just looking!” he almost wailed. “And climbing … climbing around,” he added.

I didn’t believe him.

Nobody dresses so thoroughly in special-ops garb just to take a stroll through an old building. But he didn’t sound like he was ready to spill any good beans, and the smell of him had me so starved that before I could even make the conscious decision to bite, my hand was over his mouth and my teeth were in his throat.

He struggled and whimpered, but not for long. Going headfirst down the stairs had really softened him up, and I filed the information away for future reference. Violent trip down the stairs equals bruised-up victim who doesn’t fight hard and doesn’t lose too much extra blood ahead of time.

My dad once told me that the old mob boys used bags of oranges to beat the snot out of people. I’d always thought it was strange before. Now it made a little more sense, at least from a vampiric standpoint.

I took my time feeding on the trespasser.

It’s rare that I take human meals—or any meals at all, anymore. Mostly I do what other vampires do and settle for whatever I can nab from a sympathetic butcher’s shop—or else bribe a blood-bank worker to slip you a little on the side (my personal preference, in a
pinch). Only sometimes do I ever pick off a real, live person. I don’t need to feed like I once did. When I was first turned I needed it every night—or else. But the older I get, the less necessary it is. I suppose it’s like newlywed sex. The first few years, you get busy anytime, anywhere, baby. But after a few anniversaries, you’d rather stay up and watch Leno.

Still, every time I’m facedown in a gushing artery, I swear to God it feels like the first time all over again—and I wonder how on earth I’ve gone so long without it. The hot, sticky taste of rust and salt goes down so smoothly, if not tidily. I’ve read that the average human body holds about six quarts of blood, and that sounds about right. Depending on how hungry I am, I can hold maybe three of those quarts. In leaner times, or in more convenient times if I had a lot of equipment, I might try to pound, squeeze, or suck the last drops out and store them. But this wasn’t one of those times.

This was a dine-and-dash of a whole different sort.

He was malleable and unconscious in under a minute. He was dead in twice that long.

When I finished I sat back and panted, because it’s exhausting and exhilarating, taking a meal like that after it’s been a while. It’s also a bit disorienting—like afterglow, and there I go again with the sexual metaphors. Am I being too obvious? Well then, fine. It
is
sort of like sex. The biting, the fluids, the sucking, the feelings of bliss and elation (for me, if not the victim) … it’s such an easy comparison to make that naughty-minded writers have been doing it for hundreds of years.

So I was down there still, catching my breath, and up above I heard the pattering steps of little girl feet, joined by older boy feet. Domino. I hadn’t heard him come inside and up the stairs, but that’s no surprise. I wouldn’t have heard an air horn up my ass while I was feeding.

Their voices hummed quietly. She was explaining, he was listening,
then he was swearing, and she was trying to calm him down. He was getting mad, and she was getting patient; he was talking about all the things he would’ve done if he’d been there, and she was telling him that it was okay because I’d taken care of it.

I didn’t need to hear the exact words. I could infer.

Guilt followed. He never should’ve left her here alone—no, sometimes he had to, and that was okay, and he shouldn’t feel bad about it, blah blah blah. Pepper’s got far more patience than I do. If I’d been up there, I would’ve popped him in the mouth.

But I wasn’t up there, I was down in the basement with the slowly cooling husk of my latest meal. It was like a bad one-night stand. I was finished with him, and I didn’t want anything more to do with him. Ten minutes before he’d been irresistible. Now he was a mess that needed cleaning up.

I stood and my legs were shaky, but my buzz was losing the worst of its befuddling powers and I found the light switch by the door without any trouble. I can see all right in the dark, yes, but like everybody else I see better with a little illumination. One bald lightbulb like the one upstairs gave me plenty of glow to see by; in fact, for a moment it was almost too much. I let my eyes adjust and then came back over to the battered fellow who was lying on my floor, mucking up the dust with his excess seepage.

I sat on my heels down beside him and began to poke my fingers around in his clothes.

Most of what he was wearing came from Banana Republic. Odd. I’d figured it for military surplus.

I lifted his shirt and found a cheesy tribal tattoo across his belly. Unimpressed by this show of flash-art individuality, I went digging through his pants and remained unimpressed by what I found there, too. By which I mean I found his wallet, and there wasn’t much in it—thirty-four bucks and a condom, with a driver’s license that identified him as Trevor Graham.

I immediately felt better about killing him. I’ve never known a Trevor who wasn’t a total douchebag. It’s just one of those names that goes so nicely with selfish, arrogant, malicious behavior—and really, what did I know about this guy? Nothing, except that his name was Trevor and he’d been nabbed in the midst of breaking-and-entering. That was plenty.