Cazimir was still snoring on the sofa, one of his hands thrown over his head on his pillow. I left him there and headed out to grab a super-mammoth-sized coffee before heading over to Le Poisson to start my opening shift.
When I left, I spotted an envelope taped to my apartment’s door with my unit number written in pen on the front. I pulled it down and locked the door, tearing the envelope open as I made my way to the rickety old elevator and hit the call button. I was too sore from hauling body parts to take the stairs.
Inside the envelope was a scrap of paper with the words “See me—Gene, Manager.” I frowned at it. He’d also written his apartment number—1C—in case everyone didn’t already know. There was a lockbox with a slot outside his door where people dropped their rent checks, for god’s sake.
I checked the time. As long as he was quick, I could see what had crawled up his ass and stop for coffee without being late. I stepped into the elevator and hit the 1.
Gene’s apartment was on the opposite corner of mine, right near the building’s lobby doors. I knocked three times in quick succession, wanting to get this over with.
Gene opened the door. He was in his forties and was the bassist of a Goth rock band called Festering Sinkhole, which I knew because he was always posting flyers about their shows in the lobby. Today he wore cargo pants with a flannel shirt over a tank top that had a big gold skull on the front. He opened the door and said, “Harriet. Come on in.”
I didn’t bother to correct him on the name. Harriet was good enough for a person I spoke to maybe twice a year.
I stepped inside, but only because I didn’t want to talk in the hall.
Gene’s apartment was pristine, which was the opposite of what I’d pictured. His furniture was worn, but other than some mail piled up on the counter, his place was spotless and free of clutter. My apartment used to be pretty neat until Cazimir moved in and had no place to put his stuff, which now sat in piles all over my living room.
“Can I get you something to drink?”
“I’m on my way to work,” I said, gesturing to my black slacks and white shirt. “Can we make this quick?”
He nodded and rubbed the scruff on his face. “Sure, sure. Look, I hate to be this guy, but I need to talk to you about your squatter.”
“My what?” I asked.
“Someone else is staying in your place, but he’s not on the lease. I’ve been asked by Brighton Management to give you a warning and sort out the situation.”
“A warning? For what? My friend is crashing for a few days, that’s all,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest. “What’s the big deal?”
“Your friend has been here for almost three weeks,” Gene said, running a hand through his hair and staring at the wall behind me. “He has to be put on the lease. It’s for insurance.”
“Okay, fine. You can add him to the lease.”
“You’ll need to have him come down and show me ID. We’ll have to run a background check and a credit check like we do for all tenants.”
I opened my mouth and shut it again. I had no idea what Caz’s fake ID situation was, but given that he’d spent over the last hundred years living on his own property and paying off anyone who started to ask questions, I highly doubted it would stand up to even the most cursory background check. “He’s not staying long. This is just temporary. He got kicked out of his place.”
Gene lifted one shoulder in a half shrug. “Sorry. These aren’t my rules.”
Bullshit, I thought angrily. Brighton Management was rarely on the premises, which meant the only reason they’d asked Gene to talk to me was that he’d brought it up in the first place, probably after seeing Cazimir coming and going. I hated that he was too scared to admit it and tried to pass the blame to a faceless corporation.
“Fine. I’ll send him down tomorrow.” I hoped. If we had to get Caz an ID and a background that would hold up under scrutiny, it might take longer than that, but I could stall. I had a friend in Portland who was amazing at creating those kinds of identifications and backgrounds, but she would need time to work.
“Great,” Gene said, still not meeting my eyes. “And that means your rent will go up by a hundred.”
“A hundred dollars?” Gene actually took a step back from me, so I guess I wasn’t doing a good job reining in the hateful look. My rent was already astronomical for a small one-bedroom. “You’re joking.”
“Either that, or he has to leave.”
I sighed. “Right.” I pulled my phone out of my purse and glanced pointedly at the screen. “I have to go so I’m not late. I’ll send him down to sign whatever.”
Gene looked genuinely relieved. “Great. I look forward to meeting him.”
I texted Caz, telling him to use the backdoor of the building, and he didn’t bother to reply. Then I texted that friend in Portland and told her I’d have a job for her later.
I arrived at the restaurant in a crappy mood because I hadn’t had time to stop for coffee. I went to the espresso bar and found the barista getting ready to open. I gave him a sad puppy dog look and he asked what I wanted. Five minutes later, I had an iced Americano with extra shots and was feeling better.
And then Eric the Manager came over as I was cutting lemons. “Tara’s sick,” he said without preamble.
“Again?” I asked, wishing Max were here tonight. He and I loved to grouse about Tara, our coworker who called out more than she showed up. She was Eric’s friend’s daughter, and he’d been the one to suggest she take a job at Le Poisson last summer, so there was practically nothing she could do that would get her fired.
“Food poisoning,” Eric said. Which meant she was hungover again. “It won’t be too bad. Not too many tables on the books and I’m not anticipating many walk-ins. We have three food runners. But I’m not cutting the floor tonight. I’m counting on you and Megan to keep the ship afloat until close!”
Well, I thought bitterly, I did need more money since apparently my rent was going to increase for the pleasure of having Cazimir loaf on my couch. I sipped my Americano and tried to steel myself for a long night.
* * *
Shortly after midnight, I got home, ready to strip down to pajamas and not move for several hours, except maybe to refill my wineglass. I was exhausted from running around, covering a huge section of the restaurant floor, and my feet hurt. As Eric had predicted, it hadn’t been slammed, but it had been steady enough that I hadn’t stopped moving all night.
Add in bruised ribs and other sore spots, and I was wiped.
I unlocked my door, hoping Caz was home so we could sort out his current mortal identity for the lease.
Inside, the bathroom door was slightly ajar and there were retching sounds coming from behind it. I made a face, wishing Caz would shut the damn door. There was an empty wine bottle on the counter and I figured he’d finally drunk too much for his human body to handle.
Vampires drink liquids all the time. Drinking a cocktail or a coffee is a handy way to blend in among humans. But it’s damn near impossible for an immortal to get drunk. Their bodies process the alcohol or caffeine too quickly for it to have any real effect. Vampires can get a little buzz from drinking blood tainted with booze, but that’s a different story.
So it was a strong bet that Caz had overestimated his limits and made himself sick. I lifted the wine bottle out of sheer curiosity, but the label had been torn off and the bottle rinsed out. I threw it in the recycling bin beneath the sink.
The bathroom was in front of my bedroom, and as I went past, I heard him moan miserably and then retch again. I tapped lightly on the door.
“You okay in there, buddy?” I asked, unable to keep my tone from sounding slightly sarcastic.
“No,” he said flatly and retched again.
I sighed. Guess I wasn’t putting on pajamas after all. I’d probably need to run to the corner store and grab him some Gatorade, if I didn’t need to take him to the hospital for alcohol poisoning.
“I’m comin
g in,” I warned. I pushed the door open. There was blood everywhere. Cazimir was kneeling in front of the toilet, angry red blotches staining his shirt. Crimson blood dripped down his chin. It was smeared all over the toilet and the white tile floor.
“What the fuck?”
Cazimir shook his head, holding his mouth closed as he swallowed something down. His eyes were bloodshot and watery. His cheeks sunken and gray. He looked like death. “I seem to be ill,” he finally said. His words were a watery gurgle.
“We need to get you to a hospital,” I said, reaching for my phone.
“No. No mortal doctors. I know how they work.”
“Modern medicine is a little better than what you remember.”
He retched again and then sat back, shaking his head. A drop of blood slid down his chin and splatted onto the toilet seat. The smell of copper and bile filled the cramped bathroom. I flipped the switch to turn on the fan.
“Caz, a human puking up blood is like three steps away from the grave.” I held up my phone. “I’m going to call 9-1-1.”
“I’m fine.”
I took in his gaunt face and his blood-splattered clothes, and the bloody mess that was my bathroom. “You’re not fine.”
“I just…” He swallowed, as if holding back another torrent of bloody vomit. “Drank too much.” I opened my mouth to protest that he’d have to have ruptured his stomach to puke blood like this, but he kept speaking. “Too much vampire blood.”
That froze me on the spot. My veins tightened. “What? Whose blood? When?”
He shook his head and retched. Nothing came out this time. “Not important. This blood isn’t mine. At least, not most of it.”
I gaped at him, reexamining the scene. Vampire blood tends to be a shade or two brighter than human blood until it dries, but that was a tough distinction to make under my bathroom’s crappy lighting. If he wasn’t puking out his own guts, though, maybe the ER wasn’t a good idea. If they realized he’d been drinking blood, things would get weird fast.
But I couldn’t just leave him in the bathroom to vomit until he tore something or died of dehydration.
“Okay. No doctors. There’s someone else who should see you, though.”
Cazimir looked dubious. “What I need is rest. It will pass.”
I doubted that. I’d never seen a mortal vomit that hard from vampire blood. Something wasn’t right. And Caz knew it, too, even if he didn’t want to admit it. After all, he was hardly the type to downplay anything, and the fact that he was trying to told me he realized how serious it was.
“Hold on,” I said.
I went into my room and dug out a pair of sweatpants with an elastic waistband and an oversized t-shirt. Cazimir had a narrow frame, and while my pants might be a little short on him, they’d probably fit. I handed him the clothes and told him to change. He didn’t argue, which was the scariest thing of all. He left his bloody clothes on the bathroom floor. That was going to be a fun mess to clean up.
Chapter 10
I drove to Neha’s lab on autopilot, only remembering she wasn’t using the space any longer when I pulled up and saw the new For Lease sign with a legitimate realtor company’s logo on it. I slammed my fists against the steering wheel in frustration and squealed out of the lot as I headed to her apartment.
Cazimir sat in the passenger seat looking a little too much like a zombie from The Walking Dead for my comfort. The moaning didn’t help. At least he’d stopped vomiting.
I was sore, starving, and in dire need of more caffeine or a ten-hour nap. Probably both. I parked in an empty space in front of Neha’s apartment and dragged Cazimir to her front door. I was relieved to see her plants were still in her little patch of front yard and her gold-and-orange curtains were still in the window. If she’d left town, I wouldn’t have known where else to turn.
It took a few minutes for her to come to the door. She wore silk pajamas and her black hair was matted down on side from being slept on.
“Henri?” she asked, eyes wide and alert.
“Let us in,” I said.
Neha took one look at Cazimir and ushered us inside.
The living room was to the right of the front door. The coffee table was cluttered with medical journals and notebooks. A laptop sat closed on the easy chair. Cazimir eased himself onto the sofa with the grace of a ninety-year-old man.
Neha picked up the computer and put it on the kitchen counter that overhung the living space. “I’m sorry, what’s happening?” she asked. She stood in the center of the living room, in front of the coffee table, arms crossed over her chest.
“That is Cazimir,” I said, gesturing to him. He nodded once, sharply, and then winced like he wished he hadn’t.
“I see. Nice to meet you.” She turned and extended a hand. He did not move to take it. She dropped it to her side. “Why are you here?”
I didn’t want to tell her. I didn’t want to see the victorious smile creep across her lips as she realized another vampire had been turned back by her serum. But something was very wrong with Cazimir. It was possible he’d just drunk too much vampire blood and that was the end of it, but he looked wrecked. Someone had to look him over, and a normal hospital wasn’t going to know what to make of a guy vomiting up someone else’s blood.
“A few weeks ago, Cazimir was given your Cure,” I finally said. Understanding dawned on her face and I could see her trying to rein in the smile that tried to form on her face. I explained that he’d been puking up blood for at least an hour.
She disappeared down the hall and returned with a medical bag. She pulled out a stethoscope and had him pull up his shirt. Cazimir’s skin was stretched tight across his ribs. He’d been thin as a vampire, but it looked like he’d lost weight. She pressed the metal against his chest and listened to his heart. Cazimir gave me an irritated look, but I guess he felt too shitty to whine about it.
“Neha’s not a doctor,” I said, to reassure him he wasn’t about to be covered in leeches or whatever the hell medical treatment had consisted of back when he’d been alive the first time.
“Actually, I am,” Neha corrected.
“Okay, well, you’re not that kind of doctor.”
She took his pulse and then had him open his mouth so she could shine a light down his throat. She pulled at his eyes, checked his pupils, and felt his throat. Cazimir must have felt like shit because he was stoic and silent through all of her poking and prodding.
She pulled a white plastic thermometer from her bag and dug around until she found a cover for its tip. Then she shoved it into Cazimir’s ear.
“Did something happen or was the onset of this illness sudden?” she asked.
Cazimir slitted his eyes toward me. I ignored him.
“He drank vampire blood tonight.”
“Huh,” Neha said, in that irritating way people have of seeming to come to an understanding without wanting to share. “Just tonight?”
Cazimir pursed his lips. After a second he said, “No.”
I gaped at him. “What do you mean ‘no’?”
“And what happened to you? You don’t look so great,” Neha said to me, when Caz ignored my question.
“I’ve had a long night.” I was overworked, underfed, and sore, and I could use a week’s worth of sleep, but I wasn’t on death’s door. I turned to Caz. “Where are you getting vampire blood?”
He cut his eyes at Neha again and pursed his lips tightly, crossing his arms over his chest. His back was straight and his shoulders square, his pose regal with an air of “I don’t have to answer your questions.”
“How much blood did you drink?” Neha asked, pulling out a notepad.
“A fair amount more than usual,” he said, which wasn’t a real answer. I started to say so, but Neha beat me to it.
“How much is typical?” she asked.
Cazimir considered. “Less than a pint.”
Neha scribbled notes. “When did you start drinking vampire blood?”
“A few ni
ghts ago.”
“Did you get ill then?”
He swallowed uneasily. “I felt a little unwell, but I suspected that was normal mortal misery. Being trapped in this human shell provides plenty of discomfort on its own.”
“Symptoms?” Neha was good at ignoring the melodramatic statements and getting to the point, I had to give her that.
“Hot, sweaty, and a little nauseated.”
Neha nodded. “And that’s happened every time you’ve consumed vampire blood?”
“Yes. But as I said, food often makes me nauseated as well. I assumed it was normal. Tonight I drank a good bit more blood than I had previously. Within the hour, I found myself regurgitating it.”
Neha frowned. “Interesting.”
“Humans drink from their vampire lovers all the time. It doesn’t make them sick,” I interjected.
“This was more than a taste,” Cazimir said flatly and then turned his gaze to the journals on the coffee table.
Neha jotted down more notes and then set her pen down. “I’m going to need a blood sample.”
“No,” Caz and I said at the same time.
Neha sighed. “Henri, it’s almost three in the morning. You’re the one who came to me. I’m not sure what you expect me to do here if I can’t run tests.”
“Fix him,” I said, and immediately realized how childish I sounded. Neha’s Cure had broken Cazimir the Vampire King, and now he was a mortal who was puking blood all over my bathroom and looking like he could be knocked over by a light breeze. It wasn’t Neha’s fault directly, not like my “Restoration.” But it was her fault there’d been a Cure at all. Hell, if Fiona wanted to tear someone’s throat out, maybe she should start with Neha.
Neha grabbed Caz’s wrist and took his pulse again. “He’s dehydrated. He needs fluids and sleep. If you won’t let me look at his blood, that’s the most I can offer.”
Caz and I exchanged looks. He really did look like he was one step away from being a corpse. He was nearly as pale as he’d been as an immortal. “It’s your blood,” I finally said. “It’s up to you.”
Bloodless (Henri Dunn Book 2) Page 7