I hated doing that, but couldn’t have her trying to follow me. I cursed myself for caring, wishing I could be the animal in my head that I knew I was in my soul. When I knew I was safe from being spotted, I scanned the buildings around me, then crouched, pushing myself into a leap up onto the second floor balcony edge of a cheap motel. I leaped again, up another floor, then once more to the roof. I loped along, leaping from roof to roof as easily as a child would run around the bases at a baseball game.
I spent the rest of the day lurking around my usual spots, looking for someone who might be worth following. There was the old woman at the soup kitchen. I thought she might do until I saw her meeting up with a younger woman and hugging her warmly. I heard the word “mom” and immediately turned away. I’d eat my own heart out before I’d take someone’s mother.
Now that was an interesting idea. I had to wonder what would happen if I tried it.
I’d tried to kill myself. More than once, actually, when I realized what was happening to me. Most of what I knew was from trial and error. I had met a few others through my life and learned some from each of them. We were a rarity, though, definitely in the minority of the population. After the first time I’d succumbed and killed someone, I wanted to die. I wanted to rip my own throat out as surely as I’d ripped that man’s.
That was when I found out all the myths and stories were wrong. I could walk around in the daylight, though my skin was sensitive and subject to burning and the sun hurt my eyes. But I certainly didn’t burst into flames or melt or turn to ash, or any of the other half dozen things I was told would happen. I could walk into any church I chose and cover myself with holy water and only walk away wet. I’d even asked a priest to exorcise me once and only been looked at funny. I loved garlic and ate it regularly when I gave into my one guilty pleasure and had Italian for dinner.
I spent the better part of a decade trying different things, learning strengths and weaknesses. About the only thing I didn’t try was the stake through my heart and quite honestly, it’s a little hard to do that one on your own. And it’s not like I was going to ask someone to help. If you think you get odd looks asking someone to exorcise you, try asking them to drive a wooden stake through your chest.
I also didn’t have fangs. Though my own teeth had strengthened, as had my bones. And I’d grown considerably stronger. Each of my senses had also grown stronger. I could smell the faintest scent, hear the faintest whisper, taste the most subtle thing. Night, however, was significant. Even for the changes during the day, they were more profound at night. I could see better in the dark than most animals. I could track someone entirely by scent or sound. And I could jump far enough to make it feel like I was flying.
Oh, and I grew claws. No damned fangs, but I could grow claws.
I ran along the rooftops, following an alley leading toward the waterfront. That was another thing I looked for whenever I moved to a new location: somewhere I could dispose of a body. It raised too many questions leaving them out in the open where they could be stumbled upon.
There was a warehouse down by the water, just back in from an old, worn loading dock. It had been abandoned about ten years before and a varying number of homeless people took shelter there. Most were drug users and while that didn’t particularly affect my needs, it did sometimes make them more willing to fight back.
I’d hunted a man some years before, when I had gone back to Europe for a spell. He’d been strung out on a number of things. Pretty much anything he could find that could be swallowed, smoked or injected. I’d waited too long that time and had attacked him without waiting for him to become sober. He’d put up a hell of a fight, even managing to almost get away. Almost. It had left a mess behind, one that I wasn’t willing to answer questions about in case anyone had seen me lurking around. I left and came back to the States and had been here since.
I crouched on the top of the warehouse, sniffing, sorting scents. The water here smelled of rubbish and fish waste, trying to overpower anything else. A heavy breeze blew in off the water, rustling litter that was caught on a fence on the south side of the warehouse. A sharp pang shot through me once more, stinging under my skin, making my lips burn and tingle. I shouldn’t have wasted so much time following the man with the shopping cart, I admonished myself. I’d lost too much time. I didn’t have long now.
As the breeze shifted slightly, more scents came to me. Eventually, I picked out two distinct people below me. One male, one female. At least one of them was smoking unfiltered cigarettes, both were drinking. I was somewhat surprised I didn’t pick up anything illegal, but wasn’t going to complain. I tensed myself for a second, then jumped from the roof, landing silently on the broken pavement below. I hunched myself further into my coat, pulled my hat down low, then crept through the broken door.
My eyes adjusted to the dim light immediately, picking out movement, shadow, sound and scent. The first room was heavily spray-painted and reeked of urine and rat droppings. Broken glass littered the floor, along with pieces of plaster and broken and half-burnt furniture.
I heard a belch, then laughter come from the level above and glanced up at the ceiling. Broken tiles had fallen through onto the floor and I could see frayed wiring and lengths of ductwork. Somewhere off to the side, water dripped slowly and I found myself absently counting the drips as they fell.
1…
2…
3…
I sniffed, testing for anyone else that I might not have picked up immediately. I turned direction slightly, moving silently across the room, listening for the telltale scrapings of their movements above me. I looked up again, tracking their voices through the ceiling separating us. Waiting. Patient. Focused.
4…
5…
6…
7…
There, by the window. Shuffled feet and a chair moving several inches. I turned direction again, finding a space between the ducts overhead. The edge of my vision tinged with red and I could taste the bitter flecks in my saliva. The hunger in my gut clenched around my stomach, sharp pains and stabbing pulses taking hold and not letting go. Not yet…give me a moment more of control…
8…
9…
10…
I clenched my hands into fists then slowly relaxed them, feeling my claws extend from my fingertips, growing thick and yellow, curving inward in perfect, razor sharp arcs.
11…
12…
13…
14…
I crouched, my entire body tensing for only the briefest second as I realized it had to be now, before the animal seized full control from me. I leaped straight upwards, crashing through the ceiling and landing in a low crouch on the floor above. My hat came off as I landed in front of them and I remember the woman screaming. I leapt toward them both at a speed they had no chance of escaping.
My claws tore through her flesh first, tearing at her throat, then abdomen. Each hand swung from a different direction, slicing inward and across. Her body gave no resistance and she collapsed immediately, her scream silenced. The sharp, bitter tang of her blood igniting my full fury. The man tried escaping, falling over backwards in his chair, knocking over his bottle of cheap whiskey as he scrambled for the window. I jumped over the woman’s body, landing squarely on him with an agility that belied my scars.
We rolled to the side, my claws tearing through his clothing and finding flesh with no effort. I heard his heart stutter, try to beat a few more times, then shudder to a stop. I crouched over his body, tearing a chunk from his chest and sinking my teeth into the warm flesh. The blood made my heart race. My temples pounded and vision went full red as I fed.
As I tore a second piece from the man, faint movement caught my eye. The woman moved, moaning softly, one hand twitching.
I paused, realizing I hadn’t made sure she was dead.
A low growl began deep in my throat as I stood, still too far gone into the animal to stop myself. I walked the few feet over to her, pausing to
look down at her. Blood surged from her throat with each slow beat of her heart. She’d be dead soon from the blood loss, that much was certain.
But still…
With another growl I lashed out, slashing my claws once more across her neck, nearly severing her head as she gave a last wheeze. I felt her heart stop with a final, hesitant beat. I ignored the man’s body behind me and crouched now over the woman’s, cupping my hand under the blood pouring from her neck, then drinking. Thick. Warm. And it quenched the last of the animal in me.
Slowly, my vision cleared and the pounding in my head quieted to little more than a distant thunder. The pangs through my stomach were gone, the hunger having been satisfied for now. I sat huddled in the corner, the two decimated bodies laying only yards from me.
Two of them. I’d killed two of them this time.
I sighed, looking down at my hands, not surprised to see I’d retracted my claws. Turning my hands over, I could see bits of their flesh and dried blood under my nails and staining my hands. I bit back my curses, wiping at my face and mouth, still tasting the blood and flesh.
Pushing myself to my feet, I knew I had to clean things up as best I could. I absently realized I’d lost my hat at some point. That would be easy enough to find. Funny how you think of the oddest things at moments like this. But I had other things to do first.
I managed to find enough plastic from around the litter in the warehouse to wrap both bodies in. I didn’t worry about leaving fingerprints; I didn’t have any. The burn scars on my right hand had destroyed those and the skin on my left hand had peeled consistently shortly after I’d been infected and caused my fingerprints there to slowly fade. Using chunks of cement to weigh down the bodies, I tossed what was left of them both into the water, waiting to make sure each had sunk and was safely out of sight. The blood upstairs on the walls and floor I couldn’t do anything about. It would just have to stay there and scare off anyone else who came here. Those who frequented this place weren’t likely to call the police anyway.
A quick search of the room as I was leaving found my hat, off to one side behind a torn sofa. I put it on, pulling it low over my face and tilting the brim to hide my scars.
Water still dripped in the room below. I continued to count the drops until I could no longer hear them as I walked away into the dark, glad for the all-encompassing black around me that hid me as I left the area.
Chapter Two
Dawn
I studied the photos laying on the table in front of me, my eyes picking out the finest details, faintest shadows and each subtle shade of color. The fountain and rose bushes offered some interesting contrasts and had caught my eye some months before. Now I was relying on them to distract my thoughts. Something by Rachmaninoff played on the stereo on the other side of the room. I’d forgotten which piece of his I’d put in to play and wasn’t paying close enough attention to pick out the details of the music.
I had buried myself in my work since the night at the warehouse. Trying to forget the details that were still so vivid in my mind. The woman’s scream in my sleep had woken me early enough it was still dark out, echoing through my head over and over. The smell of her blood still tainted everything I did.
I hadn’t been outside of my studio for three days now and had only watched television in passing. There was nothing in the news about the warehouse and I doubted there would be. The place wasn’t frequented that often and was large enough there were plenty of places for people to go inside besides that one room.
My work would once again be my salvation. At the other end of the room, my easel was set up. A painting taking shape at what seemed a painstakingly slow pace. Two children played hide and seek in a park, their dog revealing one child’s hiding place to the other. It was a moment of innocence, a moment that the children would either recall fondly for the rest of their lives, or quickly forget as they moved onto other things.
I’d started sketching shortly after I realized what I was becoming. It became a way for me to deal with my emotions, to deal with frustration, anger, remorse and fear. Eventually sketching turned to painting. My paintings had gone through a number of phases. From dark and foreboding to angry and cynical. Now I sought to replace what I saw the world losing. Compassion, innocence, trust and hope had all become popular themes for me. It was a sharp contrast to who I was and more than once I’d been unable to finish a painting.
Of the ones I did finish, however, I had learned to make a comfortable living from them. As a bonus, no one seemed to question an artist who didn’t like to be seen in public and who refused to attend any showings of his work. On the contrary, the public seemed to expect it and if anything, it only made them more eager to buy my paintings when I actually decided to sell them. “Eccentric” was a word I read a lot in relation to myself as an artist. I couldn’t help but snort under my breath. If they only knew what an understatement that was.
My eyes shifted over the photos once more. Picking out details on the roses. Each curve, each new or wilted petal, each thorn that started green on the stem and slowly turned a ruddy brown by the point caught my attention. The way the bushes leaned as a whole in the picture where the wind was blowing. The way the roses grew in relation to each other, allowing themselves plenty of space to grow and bloom. Next I paid close attention to the colors. The shifting of the reds, the brightness of the yellows, the shading of the whites, the subtle streaks in the pinks all got my attention.
I glanced back at my easel, studying the picture there, then looking back at the photos. I sighed.
Damned colors didn’t match.
Perhaps the time of day had been wrong when I took the pictures. Perhaps it needed to be earlier in the day, when the sunlight was coming from a different angle, changing the shadows and shading just enough…
I shook my head and leaned back in my chair. Scratching absently at the curved scar on my left hand as I tried to make up my mind. I looked once more at the painting, then back at the photos. After a few more glances back and forth, I nodded. Yes, that was it! The time of day was wrong. I’d taken the photos too late in the afternoon.
Standing from my chair, I pulled my camera bag out from under the table. I walked to the door, pausing to turn off the music as I did. I shrugged my way into my coat, pulled my hat down far enough to hide most of my face from passersby, then walked out of the studio as I slung my camera bag over my shoulder.
If I hurried, I could still get there while the light was right.
There were children playing on the swings at the east end of the park. They were far enough away I knew they wouldn’t even notice me, but I could hear their laughter and the sounds of their running footsteps, as well as the rhythmic creaking of the swings. Six children, I noted absently, picking out the difference in their voices easily. Two mothers watching them. Some undoubtedly siblings. And one dog.
That wasn’t going to be much of a problem, dogs didn’t mind me. I’d even owned a couple as pets some years before. Cats, on the other hand, couldn’t stand me. They could see me for what I was and didn’t like it one bit. Then again, perhaps they just didn’t like the competition.
I set my camera bag down when I reached the fountain, taking the camera from it and turning it on. I waited a second as it came to life, the rear view screen flashing, then adjusting to what the lens saw. I adjusted a few settings, then started to work, taking pictures of the bushes and a couple of the fountain, making sure the angles fit what I needed and the shading was more what I had in mind.
As I looked back through the images, I smelled her approaching me, from the side, not directly behind me. Her footsteps were unsure and heavy in the grass from the weight of her pregnancy.
“Hello, April,” I greeted her, my voice gruff from not speaking for several days.
“Yeah, I didn’t think I could sneak up on you,” she said. “Not going to bother you, I was just walking.” Her tone was still cautious and I could see the slight fear in her eyes when she approached me and sa
w my scars once more.
I turned to look down at her, somehow surprised to see her wearing the exact same thing she had been wearing when she’d found my wallet a few days before. Given the money I’d handed her and her age, I’d expected her to go spend it on something frivolous. I did note she’d washed her jeans, though. I wrestled with my thoughts, wanting to chase her off, knowing it would be safer for her, but part of me also realizing it had been quite a while since I’d had someone else to talk to. Well, someone normal who didn’t know what I was.
“Are you still looking for a job?” I asked her as she tried to smile at me while she walked by.
She stopped, turning back to me. “Yeah,” she said. “But I thought you worked alone.”
I sighed. “There are times when I need to be alone,” I told her. “It’s part of my…“ I paused, wondering how to finish. “My process.” There, that sounded like something an artist would say. I am eccentric, after all. “I don’t suppose you know much about computers?”
Her face brightened at that. “Yeah, we had classes in school, we used them all the time. I even took a couple to learn how to write programs.”
“I could use some help maybe part time,” I told her. “I can’t afford to pay you a lot, maybe $200 a week?”
I’d never actually heard a girl squeal in joy before as she practically leaped over to me.
“Really? Seriously?” she asked, her eyes wide open and tone hopeful. “But I don’t even know who you are or what you do exactly--” There it was, survival instinct kicking in almost immediately. The girl was smart and knew when to listen to her gut. I wish I’d been the same way when I was younger.
I nodded my head. There might be hope for her after all. “Let’s go get you something to eat and we can discuss it,” I told her. “But first of all, my name is Michael. Michael Dorian.”
Her eyes grew even wider at that and I recognized the look on her face. She knew who I was.
Bloodlust Page 2