Liquid Diet Chronicles (Book 1): Bite Sized

by Chism, Holly

  She paused, then took the bag from my hand, squeezing a little into the cup, eyeing it, then shrugging and adding more. “No, I wouldn’t,” she said. “I’ve seen the law-enforcement stats on it. So you…what. Kinda roll ‘em, have a snack, make ‘em forget, and move on?”

  I leaned my hip against the counter (which was only possible thanks to the boots) and crossed my arms. “Pretty much, yeah.”

  “What about unexplained wounds?” she asked, sticking the mug in the microwave.

  “Something in my saliva heals wounds,” I said. “Whether caused by teeth or something else. My first meal was an idiot who’d nicked himself during an autopsy. The cut on his finger healed, and he didn’t even remember cutting himself when I was done with him.”

  “Wow,” she said, watching the mug rotate in the microwave. “So if I cut myself, you lick it and it heals?”

  “Something like that,” I said, a little grossed out by the way she put it.

  “What about blood borne diseases? Don’t they make you…I dunno, queasy?”

  “Nope,” I said, shrugging. “I’ve had a few that I could tell had something wrong with them, and it didn’t bother me.”

  “So, what, you’re a giant mosquito passing along HIV like mosquitos pass along Malaria and heartworms?” she asked. The microwave beeped, and she pulled the mug out.

  The smell hit me. I started to drool. Swallowed hard. “I think that’ll do the trick,” I said, accepting the cup. “That…smells good.”

  She looked unaccountably smug as she put a chip clip on the small tube in the blood bag, and put it away. “Good. I’ll order more, and you can stock your fridge downstairs with it. About the whole ‘spreading diseases’ thing…”

  I shook my head. “I don’t feed after I get a sick one. I wait until I’m really hungry, and by then, the blood’s out of my system, and nobody gets sick.”

  “So, you’re not a giant, two-legged mosquito?”

  I snorted. “Bit yeah, bit no. Yes, I drink blood; no, I really try not to pass diseases around.”

  “So, just blood sucking parasite, then,” she said, smirking.

  “Is there a reason you’re bouncing like a toddler on a sugar high?” I asked, watching her bounce around the kitchen.

  “Two bottles of Coke so I’d be awake when you got home,” she agreed.

  I narrowed my eyes at her. “What size of bottles?” I asked suspiciously.

  “Two liters,” she answered. “Now. Tell me what I’m looking for.”

  “Dead women,” I said shortly. “My height or so, my general coloring. Found in their homes with no sign of struggle, other than having their door kicked in.”

  “Oh,” she said. She blinked, frowning. “Anything else?”

  “They would have been raped,” I rasped. Andi looked away from me, and I frowned. “What.”

  “I’ve already been eyeballing that case,” she said, her voice small. “The victims are left with no visible wounds—no bruising. No blood. No useable DNA evidence. I even have your autopsy in my pile.”

  I felt for a chair and sat down as my knees gave out. “What?”

  Andi hauled me up. “This isn’t the place for this talk,” she said. “You’re going to want your fireplace and your library.” She wound her arm under mine and guided me into my library, seating me in my favorite chair, and starting to build a fire. “I have a friend in the FBI, in the serial killer unit. He’s been chasing a killer for a few years, now. His bosses don’t like him much, so they put him on the impossible case. He’s talked to me about it. And recently, there was a body found. Then another. Both have the hallmarks of the killer.”

  “And there’s going to be another found, soon,” I said faintly. “Probably tomorrow, maybe as late as the middle of next week.”

  “I’d guess so,” she said, putting herself in the other chair after the fire caught. “I contacted him after the second body showed up, and he sent me a massive file download today, on the sly. It included your autopsy. They found degraded tissue under your nails, and in your stomach.”

  “I bit a hunk out of his arm when I was trying to get away,” I said numbly.

  “It’s probably why you turned, when none of the others did,” she offered. “And you were, at first, not included in the case—none of the others had anything resembling an attempt to fight back. Just oddly degraded seminal fluid in their vaginal tracts.”

  “Huh,” I grunted. “Degraded how?”

  “Dead. Mitochondrial DNA found, but…the rest of it was too degraded for a match. One of the early investigators said it was like the guy had been dead for a couple centuries.” She shuddered. “That comment in the file was why it was handed to my friend as an impossible case.”

  I swallowed hard. “That…sounds plausible,” I said faintly.

  “This is the earliest the pattern’s been spotted,” she said thoughtfully.

  “Pattern? What pattern?” I had a nasty feeling I knew.

  “Twelve women. One—”

  “Per month,” I said, thinking of my dreams. “Exactly a month apart.”

  “Bingo,” Andi said. “So, twelve women in one place, then he moves to another city. I’m working on backtracking from St. Louis, twenty years ago. He moves north or south the length of the continent before moving west. I haven’t trailed him that far, or for that long, yet. He went north from St. Louis, so I’m looking for his earlier trail to the south.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I suppose that makes sense. Tell me, though. Why am I dreaming this from his point of view?”

  Andi shrugged. “That I can’t tell you. I don’t know how this works. I don’t know how any of this works. My best guess is because he was your maker? I don’t know.”

  I sighed. “Are the murders happening here?” I asked. “I mean, I don’t think you fit his profile, but…”

  “Yeah, no,” she said thankfully. “I’m too tall, and too chunky. And yes, they’re happening here.”

  I thought for a few minutes. “Have you contacted your friend about that?”

  She nodded. “I did. I’m wondering, now, if that was a mistake. How do you kill one of your kind? I mean, if holy stuff doesn’t work. Does it have to be a hand-hammered stake to the heart, made of a particular kind of wood? Or what?”

  “Fucked if I know,” I said, throwing my hands in the air in frustrated exhaustion. “I’ve only met one other, and he’s the one your friend’s been tracking for gawd alone knows how long.” I scrubbed both hands over my face, running my fingers through my hair, hating the gritty, sticky feel of the hairspray and gel I’d used to get it into the style I’d used while hunting. It wasn’t far from the greasy-feeling sense memory from the dreams. And I sincerely needed to wash it out. Like, now. Because of the discussion. “It’s not like this mess came with a manual.”

  “Well, damn, I didn’t mean to make you upset,” Andi said.

  “You didn’t.” I sighed, dropping my hands into my lap and leaning back into the wingback chair. I stared into the fire, brooding. “The asshole that attacked me is attacking people in my town, and I’m dreaming the attacks. I don’t know where he is, how to stop the dreams, or how to find him and kill him. Because nothing else is going to stop him. That’s what upset me.”

  Andi grimaced. “Is there anything I can do?”

  “Let me know if your friend will be coming out,” I said. I didn’t like how flat I sounded. “He needs to know what he’s dealing with.”

  Andi nodded. “I can definitely agree with that. Maybe we can get an artist and work up a composite sketch.”

  I shuddered, shaking my head. “I’d help if I could,” I said bleakly, “but I don’t remember what he looks like. I remember general height measured against me—and he’s no taller than you—and his hair color. That’s all. I’m not even sure if I’d recognize him if I saw him again.”

  Andi grimaced. “Yeah, that…that’s not terribly helpful.”

  I sighed. “I didn’t think so. I can tell you he’s d
irty. Like nasty, never showers dirty. And I can’t stand the feel of my hair anymore, so I’m going to go take a shower.”

  Andi stood when I did. “When you said ‘from his point of view,” she said hesitantly.

  “I mean I’m him,” I said flatly. “And I can feel how dirty he is on the outside. How greasy and gritty his hair is. And I cannot stand the feel of the hairspray and stuff in my hair any more, because it makes me flash to that.” I swallowed hard, covering my mouth with one hand. I’d gotten shrill. I hated getting shrill.

  Andi grimaced. “I’ll just…sit here and watch the fire until you get back up here,” she said. “It seems like you could use some quiet company.”

  I snorted. “Can you be quiet after four liters of Coke?”

  Andi shot me a wounded look (with her mischievously sparkling eyes giving the lie to the expression). “Of course. I like to read, and I’ll grab a book. You won’t even know I’m here.”

  “I want to know,” I said as I stood up, “what your FBI friend decides to do. And I’d like to know it as soon as I wake up after you find out. I’m going to need to think about how I can help keep him safe if he goes after ass-face.”

  “I can do that,” Andi said, wandering over to the nearest bookcase and sliding a book out of its spot.

  Is It a Cloud or Part of a Kitten on That Puzzle Piece?

  After I’d made my request to be kept up to date on what Andi’s FBI friend was doing, I went downstairs to my apartment. I needed a shower. I had not realized until recently just how much hair product in my hair felt like I’d gone without a shower for a week. Or two. And how much my hair felt like his.

  And I needed to get back into my usual routine. For the sake of my own comfort.

  I took a very hot shower, luxuriating in the steamy water in my gorgeous new bathroom. I took a very long, very hot shower. It’d been really, really cold out when I’d gone hunting.

  I did not yield to temptation and climb into the bathtub as soon as I was done washing my hair and scrubbing my skin.

  I pulled on a set of old, incredibly soft, polar fleece pants and a tee shirt with an ancient flannel shirt over the top, and dug out a pair of super ugly, super soft, ultra-thick slipper socks with rubber non-slip texturing on the soles. I left the towel turbaned around my head to keep my hair from soaking my shoulders, and keep me from getting colder as my hair chilled and dried. Since I was already done with the “out” stuff, I could just work in my jammies—a comfort I didn’t usually allow myself, but rather needed tonight.

  I wasn’t expecting Andi to still be up, but in hindsight (four liters of Coke? Really?) I shouldn’t have been surprised.

  “Hey,” she called from the living room as she heard my basement door open. “Can I talk to you, or do you need me to let you work and wait for tomorrow?”

  I sighed, but called back “Sure. Come on into my office, though. I do need to get to work.”

  I busied myself setting up my coffee maker (again) as she wandered in, dropping a file box on my library table. Uncertainty made her scent take on a hint of…fermentation? Weird. “I was planning on coming in anyway,” she said, “but I wasn’t sure if you were up for a little bit more interaction, or just quiet company. My friend called. It’s not official. He’s paying for a room at a B&B an hour south of here. Can you—are you willing to talk to him?”

  I sat down in my office chair, considering. “What does the file on me look like?” I asked after a long moment.

  “It has copies of your autopsy reports, photos, crime scene photos—which were wrong, by the way—copies of your ID, a report that your car and effects went missing from your office less than two days after your death…” She paused. “If I hadn’t known when we met that there was something fucked up, I’d have known it from your file, because it continues, handwritten, tracking your movements to here, along with a timeline.”

  I blinked. “What.”

  Andi let out a shaky breath. “That part of your file isn’t official. It’s something Ray—my friend—compiled by hand when he got the case. He checked cameras, after he’d gotten an idea in his head.”

  I nodded slowly, twisting back and forth in the swivel chair. Thinking. “He knows where I am, and has a guess about what I am,” I said, putting things together. “Your best judgement: is he likely to be able to work with me, or is he going to try to do something about my…feeding habits?”

  She took a deep breath. “I don’t think he’s going to be a danger to you, if that’s what you’re asking,” she said. “They don’t have any…murders…tied to you. I don’t think he knows how you feed, honestly. And if the blood bags work as well as it seemed like they would…maybe we can pretend that that’s how you’ve always fed when you’re not attacked?”

  I nodded. “Honestly, I’d prefer it, if that’s what he thought. Hell, I’d have preferred feeding that way most of the time, all along.”

  “Good. I mean, you don’t hurt people, and you do help people…” Her voice trailed off indecisively.

  “I do,” I admitted. “But I’m getting really tired of saving the same, dumb bimbos that do the same, stupid things over and over again. I mean, you can only do so much, working with the guys that do the date-rape thing.” I made a face, fully aware it was going to sound like I was victim-blaming. “But if the stupid girls keep getting black-out drunk at parties like that, there’s only so many times I can prevent them from being raped. There’s only one of me, and a whole lot of frats throwing parties.”

  “You sound like you need a break from people,” Andi said sympathetically.

  “I do, I really do,” I agreed. I set one elbow on the arm of my chair and leaned my face into my hand as my coffeemaker gurgled through the cycle. “Look. If your friend isn’t going to be a danger to me, and my basement door locks, why don’t you let him have one of the other bedrooms?”

  “Uh…because there’s no other beds?” Andi said drily. “And I’m sorry, but Ray’s not getting my bed, either by himself or sharing with me. He snores like a damn chain saw when he’s too tired.”

  “Well…when will he get here?” I asked.

  “He’s supposed to get here next week,” she said, frowning. “Why?”

  “Well, why don’t we outfit one of the smaller bedrooms as a guest room?” I said. I gestured toward the file box she’d dropped on the table. “You look like you’re going to turn another one into an office of sorts for yourself.”

  “Assuming you don’t mind,” she said, “I was going to put up cork-board on the walls, so I could be able to put together a better timeline with the files and photos I’ve got on hand.”

  I shrugged. “Go for it. How much is left in the renovation accounts?”

  “Enough for the new roof you’re going to need in another couple of years,” she said, shrugging, “but not a lot more than that.”

  “I’ll have more in there next week. Go ahead and use it to set up your office, and a guest room.”

  Andi nodded, beaming. “I’ll do that.” She snagged the box of files and hustled out. I could hear her moving up the stairs, and listened for a few moments, then sighed and turned to my computer and my coffee.

  There was a fresh layer of snow starting to fall, sparkling in my yard light as I sipped at the coffee, waiting for things to wake up.

  On a whim, I went to the social media page I kept (no pictures of myself that weren’t caricatures—facial recognition software would be a bit of a bitch, since I was dead). I signed in, and scrolled around, visiting pages of people I’d used to know.

  Life moved on, for both the living and the dead.

  The program chimed that someone was sending me a friend request. I checked it (someone read some of the same books I did, belonged to one or two of the same interest groups, and had had the account for a few years—likely a real account, rather than a spammer) then accepted it—I’d managed a few clients, that way—and instantly, a private message screen popped up.

  I know what you are. I kn
ow who made you what you are. I’m looking for him. Will you help me?

  I sucked in a deep breath, shocked. Didn’t respond. A scanned in newspaper clipping of a death notice from 1797 in England popped up in the messages, next. The name was the same as the profile. The face from the sketch was the same as the profile picture. The hair was different in the profile, and he didn’t have a beard.

  But the face and name—Robert Richmond—were the same.

  I swallowed hard. Then reached for the keyboard.

  And then, another message popped up.

  My obituary.

  This is you, right?

  I’m in New York City. I will be making my way westward over the course of the next month, trailing the lawbreaker. I will give you time to think.

  I set my fingers on my keyboard. “I’m gonna regret this,” I murmured. Then I typed my reply.

  That’s me. What would you have done if it wasn’t?

  There were a few moments of non-response, but I had the sense that it would come. I waited. The little ellipsis that signified someone typing into the message box appeared. And then disappeared.

  I was pretty sure it was. Your profile’s public, and you show all the hallmarks of someone trying to hide how they don’t change, and trying to hide that they’re identical to someone who’d died years before, if not decades.

  I swallowed hard. Turned to my coffeemaker and reloaded it with everything but water while I thought. Stood with the carafe, and headed into the kitchen to fill with water for more coffee.

  I didn’t know what to make of this, but I was decidedly…uneasy wasn’t strong enough of a word, but afraid was too strong. I’d suspected that there were other vampires out there, but I had never seen one, or heard from one. And I wasn’t sure how this was supposed to work.

  I carried the water back into my office and filled the coffeemaker’s reservoir, put the carafe back in place, and started it.