de Sang: Embrace Your Blood Lust

by Hussey, C. D.

  "Kate Miller," Lohr interjected.

  Slade felt his whole body stiffen. Lohr was watching him carefully and Slade tried to force his muscles to relax. No matter how hard he tried though, his traps twitched angrily. So he tried a casual shrug and probably looked like he had Tourette's or something.

  "Couldn't tell you."

  "Was it you?"

  Slade set his jaw. "Again, none of your fucking business," he said through tight lips.

  He'd had enough.

  Pushing past Lohr, he managed to remember Armand begging him to be cordial to all the Community members, no matter how irritating they were, and said tensely, "Hey, welcome the fuck back."

  Irritation combined with a grating hunger pushed his stride to maximum length, and within minutes he was ducking under the low gate that kept the riffraff out of his narrow side yard and the tiny, brick covered courtyard he shared with his neighbor.

  As was customary in the Quarter, he entered through the back.

  Slade tried not to think about anything but whipping up a nice fat burger with at least two slices of Velveeta dripping off the top. Sure enough though, the harder he focused on the frying pan, the clearer Lohr's underwear model face became imprinted in his skull.

  The guy had always irked Slade. He got the whole vampire routine, but Lohr took it to another level. So much so it didn't seem like a routine at all.

  After providing security for Lohr's parties, Slade knew firsthand the depth of Lohr's blood lust, and the idea of that lust being fulfilled by Kate made Slade's stomach boil.

  He didn't know why it should matter. Besides having the privilege of tasting her amazing blood and inserting a finger into her warm, slick depths, it wasn't like he had a claim on her.

  Black smoke poured off the pan where Slade was quickly turning his hamburger patty into a hockey puck. He flipped on the fan and pulled the frying pan off the burner.

  Goddamn, he didn't like a woman controlling his thoughts like this.

  He wasn't about to waste good food though, so after sliding the half-burnt burger onto a bun and dousing it in ketchup, he plopped his ass in front of the TV. There were surely a million better things he could be doing with his time, but Slade was more concerned with putting food in his mouth and avoiding jerking off to the memory of some flakey, unstable broad who just happened to excite his cock enough the bastard was trying to jump out of his pants.

  How did Lohr even know her? And how did he know she'd been marked? And more importantly, why the fuck did Slade care?

  He didn't bother rinsing his plate when he tossed it into the sink. He needed to think about something else. He hadn't checked his mail yet. That was mundane enough.

  Sifting through the junk mail and miscellaneous bills, he stopped short when a bright white envelope with his legal name handwritten across the front caught his eye. Slade picked it up like it might explode. Hardly anyone used his real name. Most people didn't even know it. Hell, even his electric bill was under Slade Corelli.

  It was from his sister. He loved getting the rare letter from Stephanie, especially since they usually contained pictures of his nieces and nephews. But there was something about the tight, concise way she'd written his address twisting his stomach into ropes.

  He took the letter to the couch and gingerly sat down, closing his eyes as he carefully slipped his finger under the flap, letter opener style, and sawed through the paper.

  There was only a single piece of lined paper. No pictures. Slade had to take a deep breath before he could unfold the damn thing, his chest so tight it was like trying to inflate a milk jug.

  Dear Scott,

  I'm very sorry to have to tell you this, but daddy passed away on Sunday. He's been sick for a while, so it wasn't a huge surprise. The stroke he had this summer really took a toll on his health and it's been bad since September.

  The service was nice. People from all over...

  Slade didn't read anymore. Releasing his grip on the letter and letting it fall from his fingers, it floated to the ground on unseen air currents, giving a final dramatic scoop at the end before settling onto the area rug.

  Dead. His father was dead and no one had even bothered to tell Slade he'd been sick. And, of course, inviting a bloodsucking freak to the funeral was out of the question.

  Knocking over the coffee table with his abrupt rise to his feet, he ignored the papers and magazines spilling over the floor like an oil slick. He wasn't sure how he felt about his dad dying. The man had been the primary barrier to Slade reconnecting with his family, and was the man who'd booted him from it in the first place. It wasn't like they were close. But to have him die and then…nothing?

  Any mellowness he'd gained from blood drinking was gone. The emotions hit him all at once, slamming into him like two converging rivers that were both flooded. One river was raging pissed, the other was filled with sadness.

  It was one thing his super Catholic family had disowned him when they found out about the blood shit. Some would argue the prejudice was natural or even expected. But assholes like Darus, and Lohr Varius — with his public weirdness and declarations of king vampire bullshit, fed the stigma and misconceptions like a Twilight fanatic at a Robert Pattinson rally.

  He couldn't believe his family thought he was such a freak they didn't invite him to his father's funeral. Thank God he wasn't gay too, or they probably would have lynched him.

  Usually Steph was pretty good about keeping him in the loop, at least on big things: when his brothers got married, when everyone had babies, when cousin Pauly was killed in a motorcycle accident... The only reason she wouldn't have updated him on something so huge was because someone asked her not to. And Slade had a pretty good idea that someone was probably their father.

  He suddenly understood why Armand had been so pissed last year when Darus left Eve on the street to die. The Community was precious to Slade. He needed it for good health and he connected with a large percentage of the population. But he also wanted to see his birth family, be accepted, have some sort of normal life. But fuck if the Community didn't need to follow some basic rules in order to be accepted by normal society like, don't leave your Donors on the street to die.

  For Darus to fuck that up because he wanted to bite some drugged up chick…? Well, didn't that put a giant floater in Slade's cornflakes.

  He tore through the house, fighting the urge to rip things from the walls or knock over furniture. Nearly tearing the door from its hinges when he yanked it open, Slade blew through it and the courtyard and hit the street with lead feet. The sudden urge to confront and then throttle Darus overwhelmed every other desire his body might have, like sleep.

  The soap trucks had just washed Bourbon when he came to it. Remnants of suds gathered in sidewalk cracks, and a strange mix of perfume and sewage hung in the air. The sun was just beginning to peek over the eastern skyline, casting the shuttered bars and souvenir shops in a pale, gray light.

  Except for the occasional runner, the streets were mostly lifeless. But just as Slade was approaching his destination, he passed a girl sitting on narrow stairs leading into one of the closed shops, her head resting on her knees, her strappy heels looped around her wrist.

  He paused. "You okay, sweetheart?"

  She did something with her head that might have been a nod, but it might not have been either. Slade glanced down the street. He could just make out The Cell's hand painted sign a couple hundred feet away. There were a few people lingering at the entrance and he thought he saw Darus' Mohawk.

  Just thinking the man's name made Slade's skin bristle.

  He turned back to the girl. This was a common sight on Bourbon and shouldn't really concern him, but man she looked young. Her neon pink fingernail polish was chipped, she had a large bruise forming on her thigh (probably from falling down), and there was a fresh pool of vomit next to the stairs and a discarded Hand Grenade cup. He couldn't leave her like this.

  Just as Slade was debating how to handle Drunk Girl
, a young man came lurching from some hidden nook.

  "Is this your girlfriend?" Slade asked.

  "Yeah, man, hey." The kid stumbled toward Slade. Stopped. Swayed on his feet. Crinkled his brow as he took Slade in. Then turned to look at his girlfriend balled up on the stairs. "Whoa, Jennifer."

  "You need to take care of your woman." Slade glanced toward The Cell. The trio still stood outside and Slade was positive Darus' scrawny ass was one of them. His fists itched at the chance to crack into Darus' jaw.

  "I'm tryin'!" Slowly, Slade turned to Drunk Kid. His eyes were completely bloodshot, there was a piss spot on the front of his pants and a sloshing beer clutched in his right hand.

  "Jesus Christ," Slade muttered. "Go home."

  "See, that's the problem. I been lookin' everywhere," he gestured wildly around his head, "but…"

  Slade watched the trio walk away from him and turn toward Royal, a wave of disappointment washing over him. As much as he wanted to confront Darus, as much as he wanted to kick his ass, it wouldn't help anything and Slade knew it. Beating the shit out of Darus wouldn't make his family accept him, or Kate hop into his arms, or bring peace to the Middle East. And it would only bring Slade thirty minutes of happiness, tops. Okay, maybe forty-five.

  "Which hotel are you at?" he asked the kid.

  "Umm…"

  Maybe he could just knock this kid out. That would also make Slade feel better. But then he'd have to deal with the girlfriend. "Give me your hotel key. You do have it, right?"

  The kid fished around in his wallet, dumping wadded up ones onto the freshly washed sidewalks before finally producing a hotel keycard. Slade glanced at it and handed it back to the kid. "I can get you there." He knelt by the girl. "C'mon sweetheart, I'm going to pick you up. Just don't puke on me, okay?"

  Her head moved up and down in barely perceptible movements. Slade scooped her up and cradled her like an infant — a drunk, passed out infant. As she clutched his neck, the smell of liquor and vomit assaulted his nose.

  Best to get them back to their hotel A.S.A.P. "Follow me, kid," he said, walking the opposite direction of The Cell. "And for Christ's sake, throw that beer away."

  Chapter Eight

  It was far too early when Kate's alarm screamed at her the next morning. After the weirdness at the gallery, she'd pedaled straight home and climbed into bed where she probably should have gone in the first place. At that point it was only about two thirty. But hardly an hour passed before Melanie came crashing in, the accompanying low male voice an indication she wasn't alone. They then proceeded to have rather loud sex, and Kate realized with dismay that not only was morning going to greet her with a heaping of sleep deprivation, she would also have to contend with a strange man in her house.

  Halfway through the first cup of morning coffee her dismay was realized. Hail came stumbling into the kitchen, his blond, spiked hair smashed and flattened, his black eyeliner smudged across his cheek.

  "Fuck, you keep this place way too bright," he said, rubbing his eyes.

  Kate spied him over the rim of her mug as she sipped the black coffee. "Considering Melanie and I both work during the daylight hours, having a bright house at nine a.m. is hardly a problem."

  He grunted. "Do you have any coffee?"

  Yeah, at the coffee house down the street.

  "Sure," Kate said instead, retrieving a mug from the cabinet. "It's French Press. That okay?" Remembering their conversation the night before, she imagined Hail's discerning palate wouldn't object to the Press. Now, if she'd offered drip coffee that might be another story. "And freshly ground," she added, not worrying that her tone came out snarky.

  "Good."

  As she handed the filled cup to him, she noticed his eyes were locked on the necklace around her neck.

  "Where did you get that?"

  She touched the vial draped between her clavicles. She'd completely forgotten about the necklace. "Oh. Lohr Varius."

  Hail's blue eyes narrowed. "You know Lohr?"

  "Barely. His exhibit is currently being displayed at the gallery I work at. Why?"

  "And he gave you that?"

  "Well, I didn't steal it."

  Hail sat at the bistro table shoved against the only open wall. Creating a place to sit in the tiny kitchen had been an almost impossible task. At this point, Kate wished she hadn't bothered.

  "He must really like you," he told her. "He doesn't give many of those away."

  She fondled the smooth vial, tilting it back and forth and watching the thick red liquid coat the inside of the glass and then slowly slide away.

  "Huh." She wasn't sure what else to add. She considered asking Hail if it really was blood inside the vial, but wasn't sure if she wanted to get into a long, drawn out explanation about the energy, or lack thereof, or any other properties contained blood might possess.

  "It's definitely blood," he confirmed suddenly. "I seriously doubt it's Lohr's though."

  If the blood didn't belong to Lohr, whose was it? It wasn't something she wanted to think about.

  Releasing the vial, she lifted her eyes to Hail. The sunlight pouring in through the window next to the bistro table lit up his pale skin. She hadn't noticed it in the darkness that was La Luxure, but in the bright morning sun she could clearly see the scars dotting his skin. Some of the marks were fresh, the skin pink and raw, some were smooth and tight, slightly gray, and looked like they'd been there a while. She thought of the wound on her neck and remembered Lohr's comment the night before.

  Hail was marked.

  With that many scars, he had to be a frequent Donor. She had a feeling all the talk last night about blood and energy wasn't coming from firsthand experience. Hail was someone's pincushion.

  "With that," he went on, pointing at the necklace, "you won't need me to get you into the Forever Dark Vampire Ball. Actually, it'll get you places I can't even get into." He sounded somewhat dejected. Hail struck her as the kind of guy who liked to feel important. Maybe being a pincushion made him feel like less of a man.

  "I'm looking forward to it."

  After rinsing the thin layer of coffee grounds settled in the bottom of her mug down the drain, Kate set the cup in the sink.

  "Hey, will you lock the front door if you leave before Mel gets up?"

  She hated leaving a strange man alone in the house — a sleeping Melanie was the same as an absent Melanie — but Kate kept her bedroom locked, there was nothing of great value to steal in the living room, and if she didn't leave in five minutes she was going to be late.

  "Sure."

  "Cool. Thanks."

  The jitters that had made her so restless the night before continued to plague her the entire day. After a tense morning finishing the clean-up from Lohr's gallery opening, she worked a fast lunch shift at the café, and then sped back to La Prochaine to run some errands for Lauren before finally heading home and taking a much needed nap.

  Lauren didn't bring up the incident with Lohr, but she did stare relentlessly at the necklace dangling around Kate's neck like it was made of dead kittens or something. Kate decided to ignore it. The last thing she wanted to do was bring drama to the gallery, so she put on her best smile and completed her tasks with the most professional, most courteous attitude she could muster. Even her mother would have approved.

  It seemed to work a little, and the frown lines on Lauren's face were no longer chasms by the time Kate's shift was complete. Which was good, because she really, really didn't want to get fired.

  * * * *

  Kate wasn't sure exactly what would be appropriate attire for a vampire ball. Nothing in her closet matched the visions in her head. She did have a black satin, strapless dress with a bustled skirt she'd worn to her sister's wedding that might work.

  The dress fit great and looked gorgeous, but her mother and sister had complained bitterly about it. Apparently, black was not an appropriate color for an afternoon spring wedding, and Kate had ruined the family pictures. Since her sister had neglect
ed to include her in the bridal party, Kate hadn't given a shit what they thought. Not that being included in the wedding interested her, but it would have been sisterly of her sister to ask.

  Unfortunately, the pair of red patent leather Mary Jane Platforms that went with the dress were not walking shoes. Her boots were a little aggressive for a satin strapless, but at least she could walk more than two blocks in them. A black leather underbust corset, mascara and lipstick, and she was ready to go.

  Melanie didn't have the same idea when it came to sensible footwear Kate did. Teetering on six inch stilettos, Melanie was almost as tall as Kate.

  "You're serious?"

  Melanie looked at her shoes. "We'll take a cab," she said innocently. "C'mon," she replied to the look Kate gave her. "We always walk."

  "Cabs are a pain in the ass."

  "I know. But I look hot in these shoes and I want to get laid tonight."

  "Last night was insufficient?"

  Melanie shrugged. "Maybe I want a repeat." She leaned in close. "Actually, I want someone to drink my blood. Is that weird?"

  So Hail wasn't a drinker. It didn't surprise Kate.

  She touched the marks on her neck, and then casually passed the hand over her hair. "No. It's not weird." It was hot. Too bad the man behind Kate's marks wasn't the one she wanted.

  Just thinking of her blood in Slade's mouth made her panties wet. If the blood sharing made her this turned on, maybe she should take Lohr up on his offer. In fact, that was exactly what she was going to do. Slade had already occupied too much of her thoughts. She was ready to replace him with a more appropriate Human Vampire: Lohr Varius.

  The ball was held in a three-story mansion on Esplanade. A curving staircase lead to a second story balcony surrounding the huge main floor. A long bolt of deep red fabric hung from the second floor ceiling, with yards of fabric pooled on the center of the wooden stage like spilled paint. A DJ worked the turntables and masses of writhing dancers filled the dance floor, surging and undulating in time to the music. Wrought iron cages flanked the stage; go-go dancers in black latex and thigh high boots filling them.