Bloodlust

by Kramer, D. L.

  Rasmussen looked somewhat startled, then exchanged looks with his partner. “Social services hasn’t been in contact with you?” he asked.

  “No,” I replied. “Why would they be?”

  He paused, shifting his weight slightly in the chair. “Miss Merced named you as the father on the birth certificate and left a written statement naming you as guardian,” he stated.

  I swallowed, my stomach nearly bottoming out. Why had she named me as the father? And why had she wanted me to be the child’s guardian?

  “She…what?” For the first time in years, I was honestly surprised and wasn’t sure what to say or think. “I was under the impression she never woke up again--” I swallowed again. What was the girl thinking?

  “It’s my understanding she woke up briefly the morning after. Long enough to give the nurses and hospital social worker the names for the birth certificate and leave them a written statement. She even had the clarity to name it her will.”

  My head spun and ears rang. Blood pounded in my temples and my stomach knotted and unknotted itself a half dozen times each heartbeat.

  “I—think I need to call social services,” I responded, my voice weak.

  Rasmussen nodded, his look obviously concerned. “Are you going to be all right?” he asked. “I can call for an ambulance.”

  “No, that’s all right.” I shook my head. That was all I needed now. “It’s just a shock, I only knew her for a few weeks.”

  “I understand. From what the nurses said, she told them you were the only one she really considered a friend and trusted.” He stood up from his chair, flipping his notebook closed.

  “You said she was awake long enough to tell the nurses the names for the birth certificate?” I asked, also standing. The room spun, but I kept my feet under me.

  “Yes.”

  “Did she name the baby?”

  He paused, then opened his notebook again, flipping back several pages. “Yes, she did,” he said. “She named her Dawn.”

  “Dawn.” I repeated the name. Morning. A new day. A new life. Hope. Future.

  Curses.

  Chapter Three

  Marcella

  I sat in the front pew of the church, my head bowed. I didn’t pray. I’d given up praying a long, long time ago. But there was something calming about churches. Maybe it was the quiet. Maybe it was the calm respect. Maybe it was because their entire basis was built on the death of one person and the belief it had been for a greater good and to save so many more. So much faith built on so little.

  “Can I help you?” A calm voice asked from the side. I turned to look at the priest standing there. He was a young man, barely through his twenties.

  “I doubt it,” I replied. “I just came looking for some quiet and perhaps inner reflection.”

  The priest nodded. “It’s a good place for that.” He paused, considering. “You seem troubled.”

  I barely smiled. Oh, if he only knew. No doubt I could send him running in tears back to the seminary.

  “Nothing I can’t manage,” I assured him. I’d spent that morning arranging things with the social services offices and meeting with the social worker from the hospital. He had expressed some concern about my ‘disability’ and if I would be able to care for a baby and I had to honestly tell him I was considering the same thing. I knew he only saw my scars and what he thought was a blind eye and wondered how they would affect caring for a baby. I also knew he had noted my clothing and that while I didn’t dress in expensive clothes, what I did wear was well cared for and of quality, so he knew I had some stability in my life. I had time to think about the problem—or opportunity—of the baby, however, as any guardianship would have to be made final through the courts.

  I paused, turning to look at the priest with my clear eye.

  “Do you get many people from the shelter next door coming in here?” I asked him.

  He nodded his head, waiting for me to continue.

  “There was a girl, about sixteen or seventeen, named April. She was pregnant.” I paused, noting when he thought for a moment, then recognition dawned on his face.

  “Ah, yes, she was a quiet girl, she’d come in once or twice a week and light two candles.”

  Two candles. Two spirits. Two people to remember. Parents.

  “Do you know who they were for?”

  The priest shook his head. “I try not to pry unless someone is in obvious distress,” he explained. “I do remember she stayed for a while after once, though, about a month and a half ago. When I asked her if she needed anything, she told me ‘a friend’. I invited her to come back whenever she felt the need to talk or if she just needed to be around other people.”

  I nodded my head, thinking this over. “Do you know how she came to be at the shelter?”

  “I’m sorry, no, I don’t. She never caused any concern, so I didn’t feel the need to check her background there.”

  “Thank you,” I told him, sincere enough that I tried very hard not to growl it at him.

  “Did you know her very well?” he asked me.

  I shook my head. “I hired her part time to help me organize some things. Only a few weeks, really. But she struck me as someone who was doing her best.”

  “That she was,” he agreed. “I’ll leave you to your thoughts, if you need anything, I’ll be around.” With a final nod to me, he walked quietly to the front of the church.

  I considered the church for a few more minutes, then sighed and walked out, making sure I was as covered as I could manage in the late morning light.

  My next destination was a fair distance downtown and not in the nicest neighborhood. I walked most of the way, my thoughts varying between the shallow and the deep. I paid little attention to those around me. That sense of direction keeping me going the way I wanted and experience proving once again that most people had the sense to get out of my way, even if they didn’t consciously realize it. The only time I climbed to the rooftops and ran along was when I knew it was safe and I wouldn’t be spotted by security cameras or other people.

  I could smell the shop I was heading for long before I reached it. A rich, deep scent of incense and well-oiled wood as well as a whole host of other things, books and candles among them. After several more blocks, it came into sight.

  The shop was tidy, especially for the run down neighborhood it was in. I was sure they could find a better spot, but the owner was…stubborn. Outside the door an old card table was set up with an assortment of books on improving yourself or those around you and with gold and silver jewelry on display in plain white boxes. There wasn’t any risk of anyone stealing the jewelry, the owner had each piece securely attached to the table and the table was securely attached to the building. Besides, only a fool would steal from this shop. The door was propped part way open, a strand of bells hung on the handle to signal anyone opening or closing it. Over the top of the door, in faded hand-painted letters, the name “Marcella’s” was clearly positioned just above the address.

  I walked in, taking a moment to savor the richness of the air inside. No exhaust fumes, no factory odor, no cloud of black smoke from passing buses. Narrow, darkly stained wooden shelves ran along one wall, each one crammed with books on a whole host of subjects. Everything from aliens to crystal energy to government conspiracies could be found there. In the center of the room on a heavy table was a carved tree, silken bags of herbs, assorted jewelry and finely crafted pendulums all hanging from the branches. The front windows were all decorated with a variety of sun catchers, the light playing off them with a surprising cheeriness. Off to one side, a small rock fountain burbled quietly, complementing the quiet flute music playing in the background. The wooden floor was well cared for, swept spotless and with rugs at key places to protect it from damage in the high traffic areas.

  Peaceful. Inviting. Safe.

  “Hello, Michael,” the young woman behind the counter greeted me, smiling warmly. She set aside the books she was sorting and came around, ra
ising up to kiss my cheek lightly as I greeted her. She was in her mid twenties, with long dark hair she wore pulled back in a single ponytail. She moved gracefully in every way, right down to her long fingers. Her dark brown eyes were large and round and had a familiar warmth in them, but then I’d known her for her entire life, so I couldn’t be sure I wasn’t putting her personality in her appearance. She was wearing a striped cotton blouse and short skirt, both of which did wonders for her figure.

  “Hello, Rosie,” I returned her greeting. “How’s business been?”

  She shrugged, walking back behind the counter again. “Picking up a bit,” she responded. “But it’s been quiet.”

  “Quiet’s not always a bad thing,” I told her. I walked over to the bin with the large unframed prints in it. Flipping through them, I shook my head. “Why didn’t you tell me you needed more prints? I could have had them sent over right away.”

  “They’re on my list,” she responded, chuckling quietly. “I suppose you’re going to tell me how many of each sold?” I could see her trying hard not to grin from the corner of my eye.

  “No, because it would only amuse you.” I turned back to her. I’d quickly noted four garden paths, five ivy archways, three baby carriages and six mountain brooks were all sold. I’d make sure those were at least replaced. “I don’t suppose your grandmother’s here?” I said the last hesitantly. It was why I’d come, but I didn’t have to enjoy it.

  “She is,” Rosie nodded. She motioned to the narrow steps at the back of the shop that disappeared around a corner. “She’s upstairs. I’m sure she’s been expecting you.”

  “Oh, I’m sure,” I nodded. I made my way over to the stairs, then paused before heading up them. “I don’t suppose I’ll luck out and she’s not armed?” I asked hopefully.

  Rosie laughed. “Just with knitting needles,” she said, then grinned at me. “I don’t think you have to worry about her trying to nail another cross to your forehead.”

  “Good,” I nodded. “That sort of put a damper on the conversation we were having.”

  As Rosie laughed again, I made my way up the narrow stairs. No sooner had I neared the top when I could hear the steady clicking of the knitting needles I’d been warned about coming from the door just to the right.

  “You might as well come in, Mikhos, I could smell you five blocks away.”

  She insisted on calling me by my birth name.

  Her voice was as strong as ever. Her accent varied, depending on her mood. At the moment it was moderate, which was a good sign. Unless she’d been planning something for a while. If that were the case, it was a bad sign.

  I opened the door and stepped inside, taking my hat off as I did. I had accidentally left it on once and it had gotten me literally three months worth of lectures and scolding. Jewish grandmothers have nothing on Italian grandmothers.

  Marcella lived above the shop that bore her name. A couple of the rooms were used for storage, while the rest were living quarters. Most of them were decorated with an assortment of things that she’d owned all her life. I was sure if an antiques dealer ever saw some of the things she had, they’d suffer immediate apoplexy. This room was what passed for her living room, with an old red sofa along one side and two antique hand-carved dark brown chairs with a matching table between them. Shelves, tables and a few plants were placed around the room, along with what I already knew were close to seven dozen figurines, pictures and other odds and ends.

  Marcella was old. She’d been old when I first met her and that was well over a century before. Her skin was a sallow shade, not as patchy as mine, but still enough to notice. Her dark eyes were red-rimmed and she had dark circles under them. Her grey hair was thin, but she still wore it long and loose. She wore a simple, long-sleeved dress, with a scarf loosely wrapped around her neck. Like me, she had scars. I hid mine because they disturbed people. She hid hers because she didn’t like admitting she had them.

  Like I said, stubborn.

  “I was starting to wonder if you were coming up,” she said, looking up at me from her knitting. Her fingers didn’t stop working and I had no doubt she could probably keep going for hours without looking. She sat in one of the chairs, her back to the large window that was the room’s only source of light. It wasn’t like we needed anything else to see anyway.

  “When did you take up knitting?” I asked, honestly curious. It seemed like an awfully tedious, domestic hobby for her to have suddenly acquired. Though one thing you have no choice to learn in our lives, was patience.

  She stopped what she was doing and pointed one finger at me, a single narrow, finely curved claw growing out from it.

  “I was knitting before you were a twitch in your father’s trousers, so don’t get smart with me,” she warned.

  I carefully hid my smile, nodding instead. I came a few steps further into the room. “I haven’t seen you knit before, I was curious,” I explained. “And one of these days, you’ll teach me how to do that.” She knew what I was referring to.

  Her claw retracted and disappeared as she stared at me. Unblinking. Hard. Prying.

  “Still have to use the whole hand, huh?” she asked, then snorted. “Have to accept it to fine tune it.” She sniffed at me. “When was the last time you fed?”

  I shrugged. “Between four and five weeks ago.”

  “You waited too long again,” she scolded me. “You need to just pick one and go, not wait until the last minute.”

  I nodded, not willing to argue my reasoning or tactics with her again. Marcella was harder than I was, but I suppose she’d had longer to get that way. She didn’t tolerate laziness, or random wanderings of thought. And I sure as hell was never going to bring up philosophy to her. “Rosie’s looking well,” I finally said, changing the subject. Rosie really was related to Marcella and was her granddaughter, just with many “greats” in there between them. I didn’t know much about Marcella’s past. I didn’t know exactly how old she was, though I had a rough idea. I did know she’d been a young mother when she was first infected. Her children at the time had all been under five years of age. What happened to them all, I didn’t know, but I knew her youngest daughter had still accepted her and so it had gone down the generations. There had always been one granddaughter or grandson who had known what Marcella was and accepted her and stayed with her.

  I’d envied her that companionship on more than one occasion. Even though they’d also accepted me and knew I was like Marcella, it wasn’t the same. It was what had brought me here today.

  “She takes care of things,” Marcella nodded, staring at me again. With a deliberate sigh, she set aside her knitting needles and yarn. “I suppose you aren’t going to tell me why you’re here if you think you’re going to get hurt.”

  “You did try to nail a cross to me the last time we spoke.”

  She laughed, deep from inside, something that sounded more like a hoarse cough that grew into a cackle. It was by no means a pretty laugh and almost enough to make my skin crawl.

  “You should have seen the look on your face,” she told me. She was staring at me again, then pointed to the chair opposite her.

  I carefully gauged the distance to make sure I had room to move if she jumped at me. Not that I didn’t trust Marcella, but experience had taught me more than once that if I said something wrong, she’d make sure to get her point across. After a moment more of hesitation, I sat down.

  “I need your advice,” I started. Then stopped while I waited for her to finish laughing again. It wasn’t that I didn’t value her advice, just that I very rarely asked for it. And while she and I often viewed things differently, I did respect her experience and valued having another point of view.

  When she’d finally composed herself, I continued. I explained what had happened, from meeting April to when she’d died and that she’d wanted me to take care of her baby. As my story unfolded, Marcella took it more seriously. When I finished, she leaned back in her chair. Her eyes were looking at me, but I
could tell she was focusing on something else.

  “Can you afford it?” she asked me after several long minutes.

  “Yes,” I replied. “I make more than enough with my paintings and the work I’ve got licensed out to other people.”

  Her gaze focused on me sharply now. “Boy or girl?”

  “Girl. Her mother named her Dawn just before she died.”

  Marcella snorted. “She’ll know what you are. The girls always know before the boys. Especially when they’re young.” She paused for only a moment. “Now, I ask you again: can you afford it?” I knew this time she was referring to a much heavier cost than just the financial side of raising a child. The risks would be incredibly high. While we were not what one could consider contagious, if any of my saliva were to get into her bloodstream while I was nearing a cycle of needing to feed, it would infect her. Thankfully it was easy to tell when that was, as the black, bitter specks in our saliva only appeared at that time.

  Those we fed off of had no chance of being infected. Their death took away any chance of that. It was when someone was bit--but nothing more--that infection took place. The introduction of the infection to the living body brought about a number of changes slowly, taking anywhere from a few months to years to complete. At first you’d become sensitive to lights, then notice your skin got sunburned more easily. Then you’d become insatiably thirsty. Next other changes: your senses growing stronger, your physical abilities growing as well. You’d figure out you could impose your will on someone simply by blowing on them and mentally pushing what you wanted at them. You’d heal more quickly and even faster at night. At some point, between a year and two years after you’d been bitten, you’d feel like you’d gone mad. You would grow claws, hunt someone down and feed off of them.

  After that, you’d realize what you’d become.

  There was nothing charming, handsome or desirous about this life. It slowly took its toll on your body, even as you realized you weren’t going to die. Your skin would yellow and grow pale, your hair would thin or fall out completely. You could still be out among the rest of the world, with precautions, but you would always be apart from them. They would always know there was something different about you.