Blood Chance

by Mel Teshco

  My master’s soft chuckle set my teeth on edge and caused my veins to itch and crawl, and my stomach to gurgle with hunger. His voice was congenial and smooth, his features pale but unremarkably pleasant, a perfect foil to the monster beneath. “Your new plaything, Alexander.”

  Alexander wasn’t my real name, but my master always renamed his donors. What seemed like a lifetime ago, I’d been Jake Reynolds, a normal human with normal human aspirations. Not that I recalled much of anything about my past life these days.

  “Over time,” my master continued, his voice unusually smug, “I believe Maya’s blood will be as sweet as your own.”

  If I live that long.

  “I believe, too, that I’ve finally found the female counterpart to you. Maya’s mental strength should also extend her life expectancy.”

  I put a careful hand on my forehead, covering what felt like a vein throbbing to life. Yet another innocent woman sentenced to a hell of the vampire’s making. But I couldn’t show any emotion, couldn’t let him know I cared. Nor did I answer. I never answered unless I was asked. And mostly I was too weak or consumed by my craving. Even had my master allowed me to sip from his vein right now, I’d still want more.

  He’d trained my addiction to an exacting standard. And he’d do the same with this latest recruit.

  I forced aside the mental image of my master’s blood dribbling down my throat to focus my attention on Maya. I wondered what her real name was—her identity was just the start of what my master would take from her—even as I ran an appreciative stare over her long dark hair, which was pulled back into a ponytail. Bright pink runners encased her feet and sweat pants partially hid her long, legs. A bright pink Lycra top covered the swell of her breasts and exposed the taut, quivering plane of her tan belly.

  Gym clothes?

  My master really had raised his standards. He wasn’t just looking for mental strength and those super-rare humans whose distinct hormones and blood type would sustain him. He ensured the donors were physically stronger, more resilient.

  Less likely to die.

  “I ordered the usual breakfast to be sent up. I expect it all to be eaten.”

  His mild voice held the threat of reprisal if the food was left untouched. He knew I couldn’t care less about eating and could easily have foregone a normal human diet and lived from those few drops of blood he allocated me. Except my health was to be at its most optimal when he fed from me, both for the nutrition he ingested and to ensure I survived the feeding.

  Once a week, or thereabouts, he drank from me, and at times I think he almost drained me dry. But my reward was worth the near-death that I sometimes craved as much as the tiny sip of vampire blood that sustained me and kept me permanently youthful.

  But though he drank from me, I was never to take too much in return. My master had informed me more than once that even one extra drop of his blood would kill me, in the same way too much crack would kill an addict.

  I was worse than an addict. I was a blood-slave whose single goal in life was to taste a couple of bright crimson drops from my master.

  “Eat the food. Then I’ll ease your craving.”

  My master’s fangs glinted behind his thin lips, sharper than a razor, his soulless brown eyes glowing red for just a second before he blinked and masked his bloodlust. He’d subdue his own craving before I’d get to alleviate my utter dependence, just for a little while.

  With a smile that contained no humor, my master turned and strode to the door that opened into his private chambers. He’d sleep now, through the day’s heat, allow his slumber to rejuvenate his centuries-old body before he fed from me tonight and became fully invigorated.

  The door clicked shut behind him. The woman, Maya, pushed herself into a seated position. I’d bet shock and blood loss was to blame for her eyes that were glassy and empty of life. My master had already sampled her. She pulled her knees to her chest. “It’s not real,” she said in a broken whisper. “None of this is real.”

  I didn’t move, though every instinct told me to go and comfort her. I’d seen enough women enter the nest to know not to get attached. Despite my master’s assurance, I doubted she’d last long. None endured it here. Most didn’t even make it past my master’s second or third feeding.

  Possibly because they preferred to die rather than face the reality their world had become.

  The elevator dinged and a mountain of a security guard stepped into our nest to stand watch by the elevator doors, while the chef from the ground floor restaurant pushed his catering trolley inside.

  Even before I looked up to meet the chef’s unblinking, light blue eyes, I knew he was in a trance, the same as the guard. My master cultivated humans to whatever best suited his purpose. And the chef’s weak mind and phenomenal cooking were more than beneficial.

  The chef delivered our meals like clockwork three times a day, seven days a week. I could only assume he had no wife, no family to answer to and staff who didn’t question his odd behavior. Or maybe the staff, too, had been hypnotized by my master.

  The chef paused beside the thick wooden slab of a table, where twelve could have comfortably dined. He took no notice of us—indeed, I doubt he even registered we were there.

  Maya didn’t say anything more. She didn’t even move. She mustn’t have come willingly. My master must have brainwashed her as well as drained her blood in order to subdue her. It was why he hadn’t yet partaken of my vein. He’d had his appetizer. He was saving main course for tonight.

  I didn’t shudder with the revulsion I once did. I’d had years—forty-six of them, if my calculations were correct—to get used to being a meal on legs. Years to want only the crimson drops I was given in return. Besides, my attention was currently preoccupied by master’s latest food source.

  I mightn’t be able to drown out her silent screams, but I could distract her for a little while. I waited until the chef had unpacked his trolley and retreated with it into the elevator. Once the doors closed behind him and the guard, I peeled a plastic lid off its container.

  The scented steam of mushroom omelet with a serving of fried rice saturated the air. Maya turned her head and blinked. “Is… Is the food for us?”

  I nodded. “Yes. Help yourself.”

  Her mouth set, she pushed to her feet and staggered. I saw her determination and I understood her foolish logic. She was weak, but if she could eat and restore her strength, she could try to escape. I stepped toward her and closed my hands over her upper arm. My mouth dried at her soft, feminine skin, her soapy, vanilla scent. And the buzz of instant attraction.

  I mentally shook off my groin’s kick of sexual need. It had been some time—too long, obviously—since my master had provided a plaything. A sexual partner to relieve those other needs that at times plagued me.

  I wasn’t stupid enough to believe my sexual appetite wasn’t right on the bottom rung of the ladder compared to my master’s blood cravings. In my master’s mind, Maya was simply a vessel to be used and abused. But guilt had long ago evaporated from the part I played. These days, survival was all I knew or cared about.

  I guided Maya to the table even as I recounted my past playthings’ names. Sophie. Gemma. Tabitha. Carla. Danielle. Amy. Tania. Rose. Elizabeth. Martha. Louise. Charlotte. Each one had lasted between three-and-a-half weeks and four years. Each one had been a pleasant diversion from my crippling blood hunger.

  Maya sat and reached for the food. A fork clattered—she ignored the chopsticks—before she clamped hold of the cutlery and began shoveling food into her mouth.

  I sat opposite her, intrigued by this latest arrival. I only hoped she would survive the incarceration. Survive the constant blood loss. Survive the mental toll.

  “So tell me about yourself?” I leaned forward. It was nice to hear about normal lives. Nice to imagine a place where vampires only lived in fairytales and humans weren’t little better than cattle. It was even nicer to pretend my master wasn’t one of god only knew how many ot
her vampires there were scattered around the planet. “Where are you from?”

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  About the Author

  Mel Teshco is an award winning, Amazon bestselling author with a love for the written word, along with a short attention span that sees her juggling a variety of genres and heat levels in her stories. From contemporary to paranormal, inspirational to erotic, she hopes there’s a little of something for every reader out there to enjoy.

  Her gypsy-like upbringing saw her living in many places along Australia’s east coast. Each new home stimulated an already over-active imagination, where she spent as much time dreaming about fantasy worlds as the real world—the fantasy sometimes being much better.

  Now living on a beautiful rural property with views of the mountains to keep her fat horse, three cats, hyperactive Belgian shepherd and Rotty dogs happy, she is happily married to Mr Patience, and adores her three children and two grandchildren.

  Email: melteshco@yahoo.com.au

  Mel loves to hear from readers. You can find her contact information, website and author biography at http://www.totallybound.com.

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