Bloodlust
By: D.L. Kramer
Copyright © 2014 by D. L. Kramer
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Published in the United States of America
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty One
Chapter Twenty Two
Epilogue
Prologue
I suppose it would be easier for you if I told you I’d been a wretched child. The sort who pulled the legs off grasshoppers and threw cats into burlap bags then knotted the tops and threw them into the river. That would make sense in your little world, to know there was an explanation, there was a reason why I was cursed to live this life I am.
“You deserve it!” you’d undoubtedly declare, pointing out my story to your friends and holding me up as an example of everything that’s wrong with society.
But nobody deserves this and as uncomfortable as it’s going to make you, I wasn’t a wretched child, either.
My childhood was simple and innocent. I went to school, had friends, played fetch with my dog who had so many breeds in him, you could spot a half dozen just in a quick glance. I ran through the mud and tore the knees in my good trousers. As I grew older, I went from chasing my dog to chasing girls.
Ah, that’s another one. You wouldn’t have guessed it, would you? I wasn’t handsome, but I wasn’t the pit end of the drain either. I stole more than a few kisses on moonlit walks to see some girl or another safely to her door.
Ha! Safely. If I’d only known then… but I distract myself.
I even went to University. I bet that’s another one you wouldn’t have guessed. Oh, you’re probably thinking I was going to do something noble with my life; study medicine or the law or even become an accountant, hunched over stacks of leather-bound ledgers in a cramped corner with a tiny desk and ink-stained fingers.
Hmmph, shows you’re still trapped in your safe little world. You could even make sense of it from that. “He was repressed, his mind eventually snapped, he had no choice but to go mad, staring at formulas or laws or row upon row of perfectly scrawled numbers.”
As much as I’d like to agree with you, I’m afraid I can’t. What I wouldn’t give for madness! Something to take the unquenchable and leave me as incapable of coherent thought as the animal I’ve become.
No, rather than follow a noble course, I chose philosophy. A lot of good that’s done me now. Leaves me plenty to think about as I try once again, to slake a thirst that knows no end and gnaws at me as surely as a rat on a ship’s grain stores.
At first I spent a lot of time thinking about that night. I was still in school and spent my nights working for a friend’s uncle in the kitchen at a local inn. I wasn’t partial to starving and the few hours each evening and full days on the weekends helped provide enough free food and pay to see me through from week to week. It was certainly nothing extravagant, but it was getting by and it was earning my own keep, which felt wonderful at the time.
We closed late that night. There’d been a wedding party come in and it was well after midnight before the last of them had stumbled off into the night. There were four of us there: the owner, cook, dishwasher and myself. I’d finished cleaning the tables and taken the bucket out back to toss the dirty water into the alley.
That was when I saw him, hunched against the far side of the alley, his dark coat shabby and worn, a large-brimmed hat pulled low over his head. He crouched, more than actually sat, leaning against the side of the millinery shop. I barely gave him a second glance as I poured the bucket, figuring he was just a member of the wedding party who’d been overcome by his drinking and had come back here to lose his dinner.
Except the moan that came from him wasn’t right.
“Sir, are you all right?” I walked over, trying to get a closer look at him without getting too close, if you know what I mean. My shoes were barely three months old and I wasn’t intending to be cleaning someone else’s vomit off of them. He gave no sign of having heard me, but there was that moan again—deep in his throat, almost painful and despairing of something dark and not right. I saw his hand move, clutching his arm with grimy fingers and blackened nails and he seemed to try to draw himself further inward. If I’d had any sense, I’d have listened to the sudden knot in my stomach telling me to run.
Unfortunately, when you’re young, you don’t pay attention to such things.
“Sir? I asked if you were all—“ I was reaching for him, I also remember that clearly. I meant to put a hand on his shoulder, perhaps just to reassure him.
He had other ideas. That was when he turned, red-rimmed eyes boring into me as I stopped mid-sentence, the speed with which he moved almost inhuman. He lunged for me even as I stumbled back, throwing up my hands to push him back, ward him off, push myself away—something—anything—I just wanted to get away from him in that instant and knew my feet wouldn’t manage it on their own.
I fell backwards, not sure if I screamed or just wanted to. He was on me then and I felt a searing pain as his teeth tore into my hand. My left hand--for some reason it seemed important to note that to myself, it was the same hand I’d seen him clutch his arm with.
That was when I realized I must have screamed, the kitchen door burst open and Phillip, the cook, stood there holding one of his cleavers, the light behind him bright in the dark alley. The man who’d attacked me turned at the sudden interruption, crouching low over me and growling something, then turning and running into the night.
“You all right, Boy?” Phillip asked, hauling me to my feet with one hand as he stared after the man who’d attacked me.
“I—I think so,” I stammered, holding my hand against me as it throbbed and pulsed with each racing beat of my heart. I could feel the blood running from it, down my hand and arm, soaking the cuff of my shirt. A new surge with every heartbeat.
“Let’s get that looked at and call the constable,” Phillip said, leading me back inside.
Once inside and with a couple of swallows of brandy in me, I was able to consider my hand more objectively while the owner sent the dishwasher off to fetch the constable and rounded up some clean cloths to try to dress it.
The bite was deep and I could clearly see each tooth mark from both his upper and lower teeth. If he’d gotten a better grip on me, he’d have undoubtedly taken out a whole chunk, if not an entire finger. Bright red blood ran from it still in a steady stream. Around the entire thing, I could see the glossy sheen of his saliva, smeared with what looked like specks of grime and dirt from him.
I had no doubt it was going to get infected. Little did I realize then it already had.
Chapter One
Hunger
Have you ever known true, deep hunger? And don’t get all philosophical with me and try to wax poetic about ‘hunger of the soul’ or ‘hunger of the heart’ either. No, I mean the kind of empty hunger in the pit of your stomach that eats through to your spine, then keeps going through your entire body. Your head pounds, you can’t see straight, yo
u’re not sure if you have ten fingers or twelve—maybe twelve would be nice, then you could eat two of them and still look like everyone else. The kind of hunger that makes even those absurd foreign dishes sound like something you might try at least once.
Yes, that kind of hunger.
And just for the record, some of those foreign dishes aren’t as bad as you might think.
I only get that deep hunger two, maybe three times a year. Enough it’s bothersome, but not so often I’ve got every policeman in the area looking for me. I tried to sate it with animals at first. They’d do for a bit, but never really fill the harsh craving.
Do you have any idea how terrible it is to hunt another human?
I spend a lot of time watching people. I watch you and I feel your hearts beat. I can smell your fear and I can hear your whispers. I know what you say about your boss, your husband, your daughter and your best friend. I hear your babies cry and your old women sighing from loneliness. I hear the lies you tell each other as you pretend pleasantries and the false smiles you give those around you as you try to be polite. Very few of you really are, you know. But you do try.
So I watch and when the hunger drives through me, I start watching more closely.
I truly despise what I’ve become, since that night over a century and a half ago. That one moment when common sense escaped me and my life changed forever.
At first, there was only thirst. But then it grew, took root in my soul and became hunger. Hunger only one thing can satisfy.
I always choose my victims carefully. I follow each one for weeks. No family. No friends. Most even without jobs. The big cities offer ample opportunities, as well as a certain level of social indifference. People there just don’t like to get involved. And I stay the hell away from the ones that do.
I’d been following this man for nearly three weeks now, watching him, listening to his words the few times he spoke to anyone. It was unusually warm for early spring, so it had been easier this time. More people were out, so it was easier to hide in the crowds. Winter made hunting harder and I dreaded those times when I was forced to spend long hours stalking someone in frigid winds and stinging snow. As it was now, I’d been able to wear my lighter coat. I never went out without a coat and hat; there was too much I needed to hide, too much I didn’t want the world to see. Too much the world didn’t want to see of me.
This man had been in some war—I’ve lost track of them all after so long. I’m sure he was an honorable soldier and had done his best for his country. That was what changed my mind about him. He had pride, even now, pushing his clattering shopping cart down the street as he whistled off-key. He’d fought for this freedom, as pitiful as it was and it was what got him up in the morning. He hadn’t given up on his country, even though it appeared to have given up on him.
“Excuse me, you dropped this.”
I turned around, seeing a young woman there, about sixteen or seventeen years old if I had to guess, though it could be hard to tell sometimes. She was pretty, but in a world-weary sort of way. And short. She might have been able to reach the middle of my chest if she stood on her toes and tried really hard. She was dressed in dirty jeans and an oversized t-shirt, her blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail and no makeup. If she had a home, it wasn’t much of one. She ignored the woman in the long red coat who brushed past her, pushing her slightly to the side. Though the woman didn’t even glance at me, she didn’t try that as she passed me. Natural instinct. Avoiding danger. Even the most self-important can do it.
I realized the hunger must be worse than I thought to not have smelled the girl that close to me. She gasped when she saw me, recoiling in horror with her eyes wide even as I tried to pull my hat lower and the collar on my coat up. The patchy, pale skin on the left side of my face was discolored, parts of it a dull yellow and the rest almost white. While that usually got me a few disgusting glances from the Armani and Prada crowd, it was the right side of my head that really gave them a grand finale. Twisted, knotted scars snaked up from my neck, covering my ear and disappearing under my hat. My right eye was pure white, just the faintest outline of my iris visible. No doubt I gave a few of them nightmares after running into me. I could live with that. Anyone who spent that much money on foamy coffee deserved a few nightmares.
I could smell her then and forced myself to push it from my head. No children. Never children. Too innocent, too much hope for the future. …And this one with child. That was why I hadn’t smelled her at first and felt some relief. For some reason, I could never smell them when they were pregnant until they were practically right on top of me.
“What?” I growled at her, not intending to, but habits die hard.
“Y-you dropped this,” she managed, holding out my wallet to me. Her hands shook. Wasn’t that special? She was scared of me and still trying to do the right thing. Brave girl. Most would have dropped it and run.
“Thank you,” I said, snatching it from her, hoping she wouldn’t see my hand, with its own collection of scars. I found myself looking anywhere but at her. She was an innocent and had a good heart. She was one of the few that was why I hated what I had become.
“D-did you need some help?” she asked, her voice halting, one hand resting almost subconsciously on her stomach. “You were just standing there, I thought maybe you were lost.”
Now that was hard not to laugh at. I haven’t been lost for as long as I could remember. For all the pain and anguish of this curse, it had some advantages, too. A keen sense of direction being one of them.
“I’m not lost,” I told her. I turned, looking around for a new target, someone new I could follow before the hunger turned me into an animal and took away all my ability to reason and select my own victim. Cars passed on the street, people walked on their way to places unknown. Some stood in little groups at the corners, waiting for the almighty walk sign to light up in their direction. Please, run, girl, I thought. Run as if your very life depended on it. Very soon now, it just may.
When she didn’t leave, I opened my wallet, taking out a couple of bills and handing them to her. “Go get yourself something to eat,” I told her, trying not to growl this time, though not sure if I succeeded or not. I turned away from her and started walking, my eyes looking for someone new to follow, someone who might possibly work for me. The hunger wasn’t that bad yet, I had time. Not much, but I had time.
“I’ve seen you around,” she said, the money disappearing quickly into a pocket and confirming my impression that she didn’t have much as she hurried to catch up to me. “You take pictures with that fancy camera.” She somehow managed to shuffle her feet as she walked, trying to keep pace with me, even as I tried to get away without actually having to run. “I saw you in the park, over by the fountain, last Thursday I think it was.”
“Thursday…” I paused, her words distracting me for a moment. Oh, yes, the fountain, the one near the rose bushes. “Reference,” I finished, still not looking at her. Please, run. And whatever you do, don’t—
“My name is April.”
--Tell me your name. I sighed and stopped, turning back around, hoping perhaps my appearance would scare her off this time. She flinched slightly as I looked down at her from under my hat, but she didn’t back away. Her name. She’d just had to tell me her name. Now she wasn’t one of them. Now she was a person, with an identity. I never want to know names. Some days I even try to forget my own.
“You have a home, Girl?” I asked, this time not trying to hide my growl. “April,” I added as a second thought.
April shrugged. “Not really,” she replied. “I’ve been staying at the shelter down by the church—the Episcopalian one. With the white roof.”
I nodded. I knew the one. It had burned down in a fire some seventy years before, then been rebuilt as a women’s and girls’ shelter. I scratched absently at one of the scars on my arm, my wool coat not nearly thick enough to stop me. Yeah, I knew the one.
“What about that,” I pointed to her b
elly. “Parents? The father?”
She shrugged again. “Nah,” she said, her voice steady, practiced. She shut that part of her down. I could practically taste it from her. Sore spot. We all had them. Well, if she wouldn’t pick at mine, I wouldn’t pick at hers. “I’ve seen you, with the camera,” she repeated, as if reminding me, while trying to change the subject. “I’m not looking for a handout, but I did some photography when I was in school. I could use a job, I thought maybe you might need an assistant sometimes.”
I narrowed my one clear eye at her. “I work alone,” I told her. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not exactly the type people want to be seen in public with.” I didn’t add that it was safer all the way around that way.
She shifted her weight from foot to foot. I could smell her hesitation. Still stood her ground though, I had to give her points for guts. Might have been the baby, she looked about two thirds of the way along, maybe her survival instincts were kicking in, making her realize she had to do something now to provide for her kid. Shelter handouts wouldn’t be enough to feed a baby every couple of hours.
“You got burned, right?” she asked, her voice still hopeful. “I had a friend, back in grade school, she got burned when she pulled a pot of boiling water over, her whole shoulder and chest were red and looked like that--”
“I work alone,” I repeated, my tone harsh, cutting her off. A sharp pang jolted through my stomach, threatening to reach up and clench my throat closed.
Run, girl, run.
April.
I reminded myself her name was April. It might be the only thing that saved her. I pulled out my wallet and handed her a few more bills. “Get yourself something to eat,” I told her again. “You don’t need the likes of me around you.” She hesitated before taking the money, so I stuffed it into her hand. Before she could respond, I blew in her face, willing her to forget me for just that moment. As she blinked her eyes, I slipped into the nearest crowd and left the area as quickly as I could.
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