Many Bloody Returns Part 9

"Too bad the Master had to leave town," Binky said. "You would have liked him."

As if I could ever like anybody called "the Master." If there was ever a phony name, that was it. I'd rather be called Carleton than "the Master." I'd have liked him about as much as I liked living in that broken-down old house, which is where Binky and I had gone after we left the party by the back door. I never knew much about what happened in my own house that night, and never tried to find out. I guess I didn't want to know. You probably think that's hard-hearted of me, since my sister was there and all, but she wasn't my sister anymore, not now that I'd been changed.

"I don't think he made any of them into vampires," Binky said. "He thinks it would be a bad idea to have too many of us around, and he prefers just to drink the blood."

I said I thought he was trying to break the G.o.ddam habit.

"He was," Binky said. "But living on mice and rabbits and stuff like that got pretty boring after a while, I guess."

Come to think of it, it was getting pretty boring to me, too. I mean, they were all right if you couldn't get anything else, but before long I was going to have to go for something bigger and more substantial. More nourishing.

"Even blood from a mouse beats that cafeteria chili, though, right?" Binky said.

"Yeah," I said, "I guess it does, at that."

All that was a long time ago. For the last few years Binky and I have been hanging out (a little more vampire humor there) under a bridge in Austin, Texas. When you're surrounded by thousands of Mexican free-tailed bats, n.o.body's going to notice you, not if you're a bat, too, even if you're a lot bigger than they are. Being bigger works out fine, since they don't try to push us around.

It's a pretty boring way to have to spend your time, though, to tell you the truth. Like I said at the beginning, being a vampire's not all capes and fangs and ripping times. When the highlight of your day is flying out from under a bridge and seeing how many tourists' mouths you can c.r.a.p into before they get wise and shut their mouths, you can be pretty sure you're not living the high life.

It's actually even worse than that. Bats have parasites. Maybe you didn't know that. Fleas, mites, ticks. They can be pretty irritating sometimes. I don't know how living on me affects them. I don't even care. All I know is that they make me itch.

I think about the old days now and then, and sometimes around her birthday I wonder if Kate survived her party, and if she did, whether she got married to one of her phony friends and had a bunch of kids who were just as phony as their parents. And I wonder if she ever thought about any of those crummy movies she used to like so much. They were pretty much to blame for the whole thing, after all.

"It's nearly sundown," Binky squeaked.

The children of the night, such music they make. You probably couldn't understand Binky even if you heard him, but I could.

"Time to give the tourists a thrill," he said. "I'll bet I can hit more open mouths this evening than you can!"

"Sure, Binky," I said.

"Some fun!" he said.

"Sure, Binky," I said. "Some fun."

There's nothing like being a teenage vampire. I should know. I've been one for forty-five years now, so I figured it was time to let the world know.

Maybe somebody will make a movie.

Twilight Kelley Armstrong Kelley Armstrong is the author of the Women of the Otherworld paranormal suspense series. A former computer programmer, she's now escaped her corporate cubicle, but she puts her old skills to work on her website at www.KelleyArmstrong.com.

Another life taken. Another year to live.

That is the bargain that rules our existence. We feed off blood, but for three hundred and sixty-four days a year, it is merely that: feeding. Yet on that last day-or sometime before the anniversary of our rebirth as vampires-we must drain the lifeblood of one person. Fail and we begin the rapid descent into death.

As I sipped white wine on the outdoor patio, I watched the steady stream of pa.s.sersby. Although there was a chill in the air-late autumn coming fast and sharp-the patio was crowded, no one willing to surrender the dream of summer quite yet. Leaves fluttering onto the tables were lauded as decorations. The scent of a distant wood fire was willfully mistaken for candles. The sun, almost gone despite the still early hour, only added romance to the meal. All embellishments to the night, not signs of impending winter.

I sipped my wine and watched night fall. At the next table, a lone businessman eyed me. He was the sort of man I often had the misfortune to attract: middle-aged and prosperous, laboring under the delusion that success and wealth were such irresistible lures that he could allow his waistband and jowls to thicken unchecked.

Under other circ.u.mstances, I might have returned the attention, let him lead me to some tawdry motel, then taken my dinner. He would survive, of course, waking weakened, blaming it on too much wine. A meal without guilt. Any man who took such a chance with a stranger-particularly when he bore a wedding band-deserved an occasional bout of morning-after discomfort.

He did not, however, deserve to serve as my annual kill. I can justify many things, but not that. Yet I found myself toying with the idea more than I should have, prodded by a niggling voice that told me I was already late.

I stared at the glow over the horizon. The sun had set on the anniversary of my rebirth, and I hadn't taken a life. Yet there was no need for panic. I would hardly explode into dust at midnight. I would weaken as I began the descent into death, but I could avoid that simply by fulfilling my bargain tonight.

I measured the darkness, deemed it enough for hunting, then laid a twenty on the table and left.

A bell tolled ten. Two hours left. I chastised myself for being so dramatic. I loathe vampires given to theatrics-those who have read too many horror novels and labor under the delusion that that's how they're supposed to behave. I despise any sign of it in myself and yet, under the circ.u.mstances, perhaps it could be forgiven.

In all the years that came before this, I had never reached this date without fulfilling my obligation. I had chosen this vampiric life and would not risk losing it through carelessness.

Only once had I ever neared my rebirth day, and then only due to circ.u.mstances beyond my control. It had been 1867...or perhaps 1869. I'd been hunting for my annual victim when I'd found myself tossed into a Hungarian prison. I hadn't been caught at my kill-I'd never made so amateurish a mistake even when I'd been an amateur.

The prison sojourn had been Aaron's fault, as such things usually were. We'd been hunting my victim when he'd come across a n.o.bleman whipping a servant in the street. Naturally, Aaron couldn't leave well enough alone. In the ensuing confusion of the brawl, I'd been rousted with him and thrown into a pest-infested cell that wouldn't pa.s.s any modern health code.

Aaron had worked himself into a full-frothing frenzy, seeing my rebirth anniversary only days away while I languished in prison, waiting for justice that seemed unlikely to come swiftly. I hadn't been concerned. When one partakes of Aaron's company, one learns to expect such inconveniences. While he plotted, schemed, and swore he'd get us out on time, I simply waited. There was time yet and no need to panic until panic was warranted.

The day before my rebirth anniversary, as I'd begun to suspect that a more strenuous course of action might be required, we'd been released. I'd compensated for the trouble and delay by taking the life of a prison guard who'd enjoyed his work far more than was necessary.

This year, my only excuse for not taking a victim yet was that I hadn't gotten around to it. As for why, I was somewhat...baffled. I am nothing if not conscientious about my obligations. Yet, this year, delays had arisen, and somehow I'd been content to watch the days slip past and tell myself I would get around to it, as if it was no more momentous than a missed salon appointment.

The week had pa.s.sed and I'd been unable to work up any sense of urgency until today, and even now, it was only an oddly cerebral concern. No matter. I would take care of it tonight.

As I walked, an old drunkard drew my gaze. I watched him totter into the shadows of an alley and thought: "There's a possibility...." Perhaps I could get this ch.o.r.e over with sooner than expected. I could be quite finicky-refusing to feed off sleeping vagrants-yet as my annual kill, this one was a choice I could make.

Every vampire deals with our "bargain" in the way that best suits his temperament and capacity for guilt and remorse. I cull from the edges-the sick, the elderly, those already nearing their end. I do not fool myself into thinking this is a just choice. There's no way to know whether that cancer-wracked woman might have been on the brink of remission or if that elderly man had been enjoying his last days to the fullest. I make the choice because it is one I can live with.

This old drunkard would do. As I watched him, I felt the gnawing in the pit of my stomach, telling me I'd already waited too long.

I should follow him into that alley, and get this over with. I wanted to get it over with-there was no question of that, no possibility I was conflicted on this point. Other vampires may struggle with our bargain. I do not.

Yet even as I visualized myself following the drunk into the alley, my legs didn't follow through. I stood there, watching him disappear into the darkness. Then I moved on.

A block farther, a crowd poured from a movie theater. As it pa.s.sed, its life force enveloped me. I wasn't hungry, yet I could still feel that tingle of antic.i.p.ation, of hunger. I could smell their blood, hear the rush of it through their veins. The scent and sound of life.

Twenty steps later, and they were still pa.s.sing, an endless stream of humanity disgorged by a packed theater. How many seats were inside? Three hundred, three fifty? As many years as had pa.s.sed since my rebirth?

One life per year. It seems so moderate a price...until you looked back and realized you could fill a movie theater with your victims. A sobering thought, even for one not inclined to dwell on such things. No matter. There wouldn't be hundreds more. Not from this vampire.

Contrary to legend, our gift of longevity comes with an expiry date. Mine was drawing near. I'd felt the signs, the disconnect from the world, a growing disinterest in all around me. For me, that was nothing new. I'd long since learned to keep my distance from a world that changed while I didn't.

After some struggle with denial, I'd accepted that I had begun the decline toward death. But it would be slow, and I still had years left, decades even. Or I would if I could get past this silly bout of ennui and make my rebirth kill.

As the crowd dwindled, I looked over my shoulder to watch them go and considered taking a life from them. A random kill. I'd done it once before, more than a century ago, during a particularly bleak time when I hadn't been able to rouse enough feeling to care. Yet later I'd regretted it, having let myself indulge my darkest inclinations simply because I'd been in a dark place myself. Unacceptable. I wouldn't do it again.

I wrenched my gaze from the dispersing crowd. This was ridiculous. I was no angst-ridden cinema vampire, bemoaning the choices she'd made in life. I was no flighty youngster, easily distracted from duty, abhorring responsibility. I was Ca.s.sandra DuCharme, senior vampire delegate to the interracial council. If any vampire had come to me with this problem-"I'm having trouble making my annual kill"-I'd have shown her the sharp side of my tongue, hauled her into the alley with that drunk, and told her, as Aaron might say, to "p.i.s.s or get off the pot."

I turned around and headed back to the alley.

I'd gone only a few steps when I picked up a sense of the drunkard. Excitement swept through me. I closed my eyes and smiled. That was more like it.

The quickening accelerated as I slid into the shadows. My stride smoothed out, each step taken with care, rolling heel to toe, making no sound.

That sense of my prey grew stronger with each step, telling me he was near. I could see a recessed emergency exit a dozen feet ahead. A shoe protruded from the darkness. I crept forward until I spotted a dark form crumpled inside.

The rush of his blood vibrated through the air. My canines lengthened and I allowed myself one shudder of antic.i.p.ation, then shook it off and focused on the sound of his breathing.

A gust whipped along the alley, scattering candy wrappers and leaflets, and the stink of alcohol washed over me. I caught the extra notes in his breathing-the deep, almost determined rhythm. Pa.s.sed out drunk. He'd probably stumbled into the first semi sheltered place he'd seen and collapsed.

That would make it easier.

Still, I hesitated, telling myself I needed to be sure. But the rhythm of his breathing stayed steady. He was clearly asleep and

unlikely to awake even if I bounded over there and shouted in his ear.

So what was I waiting for? I should be in that doorway already, reveling in the luck of finding so easy a victim.

I shook the lead from my bones and crossed the alley.

The drunkard wore an army jacket, a real one if I was any judge. I resisted the fanciful urge to speculate, to imagine him as some

sh.e.l.l-shocked soldier turned to drink by the horrors of war. More likely, he'd bought the jacket at a thrift shop. Or stolen it.

His hair was matted, so filthy it was impossible to tell the original color. Above the scraggly beard, though, his face was unlined.

Younger than I'd first imagined. Significantly younger.

That gave me pause, but while he was not the old drunkard I'd first imagined, he was certainly no healthy young man. I could

sense disease and wasting, most likely cirrhosis. Not my ideal target, but he would do.

And yet...

Almost before I realized it, I was striding toward the road.

He wasn't right. I was succ.u.mbing to panic, and that was unnecessary, even dangerous. If I made the wrong choice, I'd regret it.

Better to let the pressure of this ominous date pa.s.s and find a better choice tomorrow.

I slid into the park and stepped off the path. The ground was hard, so I could walk swiftly and silently.

As I stepped from the wooded patch, my exit startled two young men huddled together. Their gazes tripped over me, eyes glittering under the shadows of their hoods, like jackals spotting easy prey. I met the stronger one's gaze. He broke first, grumbling deep in his throat. Then he shuffled back and waved his friend away as he muttered some excuse for moving on.

I watched them go, considering...then dismissing.

It was easy to separate one victim from a group. Not nearly so simple when the "group" consisted of only two people. As the young men disappeared, I resumed my silent trek across the park.

My goal lay twenty paces away. Had I not sensed him, I likely would have pa.s.sed by. He'd ignored a park bench under the light and instead had stretched along the top of a raised garden, hidden under the bushes and amidst the dying flowers.

He lay on his back with his eyes closed. His face was peaceful, relaxed. A handsome face, broad and tanned. He had thick blond hair and the healthy vitality of a young man in his prime. A big man, too, tall and solid, his muscular arms crossed behind his head, his slim hips and long denim-clad legs ending in work boots crossed at the ankles.

I circled north to sneak up behind his head. He lay completely motionless, even his chest still, not rising and falling with the slow rhythm of breathing. I crossed the last few feet between us and stopped just behind his head. Then I leaned over.

His eyes opened. Deep brown eyes, the color of rich earth. He snarled a yawn.

"'Bout time, Ca.s.s," he said. "Couple of punks been circling to see if I'm still conscious. Another few minutes, and I'd have had to teach them to let sleeping vamps lie."

"Shall I go away then? Let you have your fun?"

Aaron grinned. "Nah. They come back? We can both have fun." He heaved his legs over the side of the garden wall and sat up, shaking off sleep. Then, catching a glimpse of my face, his grin dropped into a frown. "You didn't do it, did you?"

"I couldn't find anyone."

"Couldn't find-?" He pushed to his feet, towering over me. "G.o.dd.a.m.n it, what are you playing at? First you let it go until the last minute, then you 'can't find anyone'?"

I checked my watch. "It's not the last minute. I still have ten left. I trust that if I explode at midnight, you'll be kind enough to

sweep up the bits. I would like to be scattered over the Atlantic but, if you're pressed for time, the Charleston River will do."

He glowered at me. "A hundred and twenty years together, and you never got within a week of your rebirth day without making your kill."

"Hungary. 1867."

"Sixty-eight. And I don't see any bars this time. So what was your excuse?"