Eveillez: Deny Your Blood Lust

by C. D. Hussey

  He lit the cigarette and pulled in a mouthful of smoke. Shrugging, he slowly blew the smoke from his mouth and fell back against the brick wall. "Sure. Whatever."

  "It would be my pleasure." While it was tempting to lean against the wall with him, she didn't budge from her spot on the sidewalk. The vampire image she'd established was so ingrained in her she found it difficult to let it go, even when no one watched. Her hands folded tightly at her lap, she studied him. "You look different."

  "I was just thinking the same thing about you. What's going on with Ash and where's that blond dimwit you like to drink from?"

  "I don't know where Hail is, and Ash has his own demons. He'll have to tell you about them."

  Darus took another drag. "I think I'll pass. The less I know the better."

  In many ways, she felt the same way. She wished she knew less. Three days ago, her life was simpler. Lackluster but simpler.

  "You haven't asked me about Eve," Darus said quietly.

  "No. I haven't."

  "Don't you want to know about the night she died?"

  "I saw her that night. I watched her beg everyone in Luxure to drink from her. I watched her pass out and Armand carry her off to the hospital. And I know your weakness." She smiled sympathetically at him. Darus readily embraced his nature, and he loved stalking victims on the streets. Normally, they were like Amy, the street Donor he'd found the other day. The one whose boyfriend Angel had calmed out of an unnecessary fight. Willing, eager, and unharmed.

  Not only did she know his weakness, she accepted him in spite of it. "I'm just sorry you didn't call for help."

  He snorted and shook his head. "Yeah, me too." Looking everywhere but in her eyes, he said quietly, "I'm ready for a different path. Will you show me?"

  "You know I will."

  He rubbed out his half-smoked cigarette on the wall and shoved it back into the pack. Any trace of vulnerability was wiped away. "I'm ready to face the fucking wolves. Just let me get my silver bullets."

  * * * *

  The cop paid no attention to Hail as he slipped into Lohr's room. It was amazing where a badge and scrubs could get you. Of course with Lohr shackled to the bed and the cop holding the keys, it wasn't like he could bust him out or anything.

  When he entered the room, it looked like Lohr was sleeping. He only took two steps before the Sang opened his eyes.

  "Hail. I am pleased you decided you join me."

  Standing bedside, Hail shifted uncomfortably. He still wasn't sure about his decision to come here.

  "Come closer. Let me smell you," Lohr said.

  He leaned forward.

  "Closer."

  Leaning so far forward his neck was only inches from Lohr's nose, he pretended to adjust the bed sheets in case someone looked in. Lohr's breath was hot on his neck when he let out a very sexual, "Mmm. B negative. I had no idea you were so rare … and no doubt delicious. No wonder Angel keeps you around."

  He'd like to believe Angel kept him around for more than just his blood. His dance background allowed him to be somewhat useful, but it wasn't enough to gain her favor. He knew he would never be anything to her but a Donor she happened to be able to use in her performances. Even Ash, who at least helped her run the studio, was rarely allowed to touch her. At least he was respected in the Community as Angel's partner as opposed to Hail, who was nothing but a lackey.

  "Your lawyer said I would be rewarded if I came here," he said as he stood upright. "What do you have in mind?"

  "Your blood first. After I am renewed I will be better equipped to explain what I need."

  "If it's Kate you want…"

  "No. I hoped to make her my Queen, but she is Slade's toy now and as such, no longer interests me. But you do." Lohr inhaled deeply. "Your blood smells phenomenal. Don't torture me any longer."

  He hesitated. His current situation might be lacking but could Lohr actually offer more? The man was handcuffed to a hospital bed with a cop guarding the door.

  Why else was he here if he was going to back out at the last minute? He'd been trying to get into Lohr's coven for years. This was his chance.

  The toys he brought were made of plastic—to fool any metal detectors. The tiny ice pick-like tool was still incredibly sharp. Choosing a spot on the inside of his right forearm, he shot a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure they were still alone before piercing the skin. He immediately placed the bleeding wound over Lohr's waiting mouth.

  Where Angel was gentle and soft, Lohr was like a goddamn animal. Hail was thankful for the restraints. As hard as Lohr's mouth was sucking at his flesh, he hated to think what would happen if Lohr were free. He was pretty sure he'd be enjoying his first bite right now instead of getting a rather painful hickey.

  If it somehow got him out from under Angel's, and even Ash's, shadow it was well worth it. To get something better, he might even let Lohr bite him.

  The shit at Forever Dark had been the last straw. For someone like Kate, a total outsider, to get VIP access—and then for Melanie to get into the blood room because Angel voodoo'd Kindle… It was all bullshit. He never got invited to the blood parties. Everyone in the Community knew he was Angel's Donor, and that meant he was strictly off limits.

  He was tired of being under her thumb. Tired of yoga and energy training and meditating… Angel's idea of being a Vampire was too wishy-washy-lovey-dovey for him. He wanted more, so much more.

  He'd never be able to break away from her on his own, though. Face to face, she had the same effect on him she had on pretty much every fucking man, even those who preferred cock. He'd been her Donor for a little over a year, and she still managed to leave him tongue-tied.

  When the puncture refused to give any more blood and the skin around it was bruised and purple, Lohr finally fell back onto the pillow, a satisfied grin on his swollen face. Hail pressed a square piece of gauze against the wound while Lohr licked the blood from his lips.

  Eyeing him from the corners of his eyes, Hail said, "Slade sure fucked up your face."

  "He caught me off guard and in an awkward position."

  "Well he is built like a damn tank. I sure wouldn't want to be at the receiving end of his fist."

  The bleeding had stopped, and Hail took the pause in conversation to dab some Neosporin on the hole in his arm. He used so much of the stuff every month he really should buy stock in the company. Crumpling the used gauze into a ball and stuffing it into the pocket of his scrub pants, he asked, "So what now? You aren't really going to jail are you?"

  "No. I will be leaving the country soon. I think I've worn out my welcome in New Orleans. Paris is a little cold this time of year, but South Africa is nice. I have a lovely coven in Johannesburg."

  "What will you do about money? I mean, I’m sure the cops have put holds on your accounts or something."

  "I'm no fool," Lohr said with a patronizing smile. "I have many names and have lived many lives. Money is never the issue; blood is."

  Hail wished he could say money was never a problem. Besides performing with Angel, he worked as a retail clerk in a fetish shop. It barely paid the bills.

  "I'll need a Donor," Lohr said. "You should join me."

  "In South Africa?"

  "The arrangements will be easy to make. Once I am free."

  "So you are going to escape."

  "There is not enough evidence to convict me. And even if there were, once I am stronger, these chains will not be able to hold me." For emphasis Lohr tugged against the handcuffs and then smiled. "Can I count on you and your delectable blood? You are what I need to stay strong. The rest—money, lodging, women … men—I can take care of. Better than you could ever imagine."

  "My imagination's pretty good."

  "What I am proposing will be better," Lohr repeated.

  "Like what?"

  "The closest to immortality your human body will allow."

  Hail liked the idea of that, even if it seemed impossible. "How?"

  "You know so little a
bout Sangs. Tell me, how old do you think Armand is?"

  "Thirty?"

  "He's thirty-seven. What about Slade?"

  "Twenty-six."

  "Thirty-three. And Angel?"

  He was obviously going to be wrong. "Twenty-five."

  "Thirty-one. And why do you think they look so young?"

  "They're all Sangs?"

  "More importantly, they're active Sangs. It's the intake of Prana helping them maintain their youth. But they are doing it wrong. I've learned the secret."

  "Really?"

  "Do you know how old I am, Hail?"

  There were wild rumors about Lohr's age, the craziest being one hundred and fifty. "I have no idea." He looked mid-thirties, but Hail knew Lohr was going to tell him differently.

  "I was born in 1880."

  Hail felt his eyes widen. So the rumors weren't so crazy after all. "How?" he breathed.

  "Can I count on you to help me? To be my Donor?"

  Sneaking into the hospital to feed him was one thing. Plotting an escape was another. If he said yes, there was no going back.

  Going back to what? Being Angel's yes-boy?

  "You can."

  There was still blood staining Lohr's teeth when he grinned. "Good. When we get to Africa, I will show you everything."

  Chapter Fourteen

  By the time Kevin made it to his St. Claude duplex, a quarter of the whiskey fifth he'd picked up on the way home was gone. Stumbling through the front door, he took a long swig before unholstering his gun and setting it on the coffee table with a thunk and flopping onto the couch, ignoring the caramel liquid that sloshed onto his pants. He took a long draw from the bottle and then fell back against the couch, clutching Mr. Daniels to his chest.

  Angel. What the fuck?

  He had no clue how to feel about the evening.

  He didn't want to think about it.

  Taking another drink from the bottle, he closed his eyes and let his head drop back on the couch cushion, the liquid burning down his throat.

  Jesus, he could still taste her. No amount of whiskey could erase that memory. The image of her riding him was permanently burned into his retinas … those sculpted shoulders, pert breasts, smooth tight stomach muscles. And those deep brown eyes … he'd never looked into someone's eyes and seen so much passion he thought he'd drown in it.

  He didn't deserve her passion. He didn't deserve anyone's passion. And he sure as hell didn't deserve her blood.

  God, the blood…

  Why the fuck had he craved it so much? The moment he'd tasted it on her lips it felt like someone flipped a switch on in his brain turning him from normal man to crazed psychopath.

  Psychopath … he might not deserve her blood, but he did deserve the label psychopath. Lohr had said they were similar. Maybe he wasn't just referring to the human vampire bullshit. After all, Kevin was as much a murderer as Lohr.

  He was helpless to stop the memory as it filled his brain. His wits dulled by alcohol, he could only sit back and let it assault him.

  Just as the tipster had said, the car was abandoned on a railroad access road barely one mile from the Frank Lutz house. The rusty sedan sat at the edge of the gravel road, the crooked parking job indicating a hasty stop. Someone sat in the driver's seat. That someone wasn't moving.

  The smell hit Kevin like a brick wall the moment he stepped from the car.

  Burying his nose in the crook of his elbow, he nodded toward Fitzpatrick who held a handkerchief over his mouth. Guns drawn, they approached the car together.

  Kevin sheathed his gun more than five feet from the car. He could see pieces of Frank Lutz splattered on the rear window.

  "That explains the smell," Fitz said.

  "Maybe." Besides Frank, what was left of his head, and a whole bunch of trash, the car was empty. He mopped the sweat from his brow. "I know it's unseasonably hot right now, but this body doesn't look like it's decayed enough to smell this bad."

  Fitz leaned on the passenger door and peered into the car. "You're right." He paused. "Where's the girlfriend?"

  Kevin felt his heart stop beating. They'd been expecting Frank to run with Shelly, not blow his own brains out less than a mile from his house. It's why they hadn't scoured the neighborhood as thoroughly as they should have.

  "Maybe she split…"

  He immediately knew Fitz was wrong, no matter how much he wished otherwise.

  He glanced toward the trunk, noting the flies buzzing feverishly around it. "Oh my God." He ran to their car and retrieved the crowbar. Not thinking about what he might find, that the trunk was like an oven in this heat, he returned to the sedan and urgently pried it open.

  The contents made him turn and retch.

  The memories shifted to the gunshot victim in the Seventh Ward. The two victims had been so similar: fetal position, gunshot to the back of the head, both in a state of advanced decay… Only one was a forty-year-old man, the other a twenty-four-year-old woman.

  And Kevin was only responsible for one of their deaths.

  His stomach turned. Fuck.

  Both arms were needed to get his back off the couch cushions and even then it wasn't easy. When he set it on the coffee table, the bottle of Jack wobbled as unsteadily as he did. As he struggled to his feet, he thought for a moment both he and the bottle would fall over.

  He stumbled into the bathroom, fell to his knees and clutched the toilet. The Jack jumped ship. After one round of vomiting, his stomach seemed satisfied, but he rested his head on the toilet seat for a moment, just to be safe.

  Once he was certain the retching was over, he rose and staggered back to the couch. Teetering on the edge of the seat cushion and determined to fall into an alcohol induced coma where his memories could no longer reach him, he reached for the bottle, his fingers grazing his gun as he did.

  He paused. Picking up the weapon, he examined it with hazy eyes. It was amazing how something so small could do so much damage, how one tiny piece of metal could shatter so many lives at once. The gun was barely bigger than his hand, the barrel not much thicker than his thumb.

  He had killed a man once with a gun. He didn't harbor much guilt over it. His victim had murdered his girlfriend and her lover and then barred himself in a nearby hotel with the girlfriend's two-year-old daughter. When Kevin and Fitz busted into the hotel room and found the little girl crying and a gun in the suspect's hand, he hadn't even paused. It was the other victim who drove the guilt haunting him. The one he hadn't directly shot, but might as well have.

  He was surprised by how perfectly the barrel of the gun fit in his mouth. The metal was cool against his lips, its flavor somewhat salty. One quick squeeze of the trigger and everything would disappear. No more guilt, no more fatigue. All gone. Just one little squeeze. It would take less than a second to splatter his life against the wall, less than a second to cease to exist.

  His mother's face was the first deterrent he saw and then his sister and her kids. Finally, Angel's pleading brown eyes joined them. Would she cry if he blew his brains out? He couldn't stand the thought of torment shattering her beautiful features.

  He pulled the gun from his mouth, set it on the coffee table with trembling hands and grabbed the bottle of Jack.

  Kevin! Get a grip on your shit!

  It was so much easier said than done. His failures were unforgivable.

  He went to take another drink but found his arm too unsteady to tip the bottle back. He started to lean forward to set it on the table. His back barely lifted from the couch cushions before sinking back into them.

  "Fuck," he grunted. His lids grew heavy and his head began to spin.

  Angel.

  His head slumped forward, and the spinning vortex moved to envelop his entire body. Darkness slowly consumed him. Starting with his extremities, it inched up his arms and legs, devouring tiny bits of his flesh little by little until his head floated in a black sea.

  Angel.

  The darkness inked up his cheeks, over the ba
ck of his head and down his forehead.

  Save me.

  * * * *

  Darus' entire demeanor changed the moment he stepped through Luxure's front door. Any hint of insecurity was wiped clean, replaced by the arrogant cockiness he was known for. Angel wasn't surprised by the abrupt shift. What did surprise her was Slade's reaction when he caught sight of him.

  In the middle of deftly mixing drinks with only one arm, Slade abandoned the activity and approached the other man. His expression was serious but respectful. He held out his hand. Sangs didn't normally shake hands—it didn't fit with the vampire image—but Darus accepted the gesture, although he seemed a bit startled by it.

  "Thank you," Slade said. "For Kate."

  "Yeah, well…" Darus glanced at the redhead sitting on the nearby barstool. His lips twitched like he wanted to say something to her but the only words that came from his mouth were directed at the bartender. "Think you can make a Moscow Mule with that gimp arm of yours?"

  With a grin, Slade released his hand and briefly clasped his shoulder before returning behind the bar. "I can still spit in it too," he said over his shoulder.

  "Good. If you didn't, I'd think I was in a bar where the drinks don't taste like piss."

  "That can also be arranged."

  Satisfied Darus no longer needed her support, Angel joined Kate at the bar. She was so preoccupied with running into Armand or Julia—neither of whom were there—she hadn't prepared herself for an encounter with Kate.

  Angel's guilt was palpable as she approached the younger woman. Although Kate's light blue eyes were somewhat reserved, they were not angry.

  "I'm very sorry to hear about Melanie," Angel said quietly. "And I'm so relieved to see you are well." When pain and guilt flashed across Kate's face, Angel concentrated on exuding the most soothing energy she could muster. A difficult task with her own remorse so dense, but she managed somehow. "And I am so sorry about…" For a moment she lost her capacity for words. She swallowed to recover the one stuck in her throat. "…Lohr. I regret summoning you. I didn't … if I hadn't…" She smiled feebly. "There is no excuse. Please accept my sincerest apologies."