Teams Part 4

Thompson paid no attention, needing that bit of relief, small as it was, even when the desk sergeant hit the station alarm. Half a decade troopers seemed to materialize around him, and he heard the sergeant order him restrained.

When they grabbed him and tried to force his arms down behind his back, though, he started fighting. IntelDiv had some nasty moves picked up from combat techniques developed by a couple of decade cultures; he'd decked three of his a.s.sailants before reinforcements arrived and took him down, handcuffing him and confining him to a padded holding cell.

An indeterminate, almost painfully frustrating amount of time later, he felt some relief and slumped to the padded floor; a Kin was approaching. Whoever it was stopped, perhaps at the desk, then he sensed anxiety, and the Kin started moving again. Not long after, Enna Kaufman was at the door of his cell, opening it and entering. She knelt beside him.

"Jase, what's wrong?"

Her nearness calmed him; Thompson breathed deeply, his tension easing.

"I wish to Chaos I knew! I d.a.m.nsure didn't bargain for anything like this when I wanted you to feed on me."

"Neither did I, or I wouldn't have." She removed the handcuffs, then stroked the wounds on his throat; he relaxed. "I can feel what you want, Jase, but I can't do anything about it; I fed off you last night, so you have another nine days before any Kin will touch you again."

"I . . . don't think I'll last another nine hours, much less nine days.

Chaos, Enna, what do I have to do?"

"I don't know. Prince knows, I'd help you if I could!"

The Count was having a night as restless as Thompson's. Finally, not long after he'd been put in the holding cell, she got out of bed-- carefully, so she wouldn't disturb the Donor she'd mated with--and went into her living area to call Security. "Is anything wrong?" she demanded as soon as the desk sergeant appeared on her screen.

"Not really, my Lady," the desk sergeant replied. "Captain Thompson came in a few minutes ago looking for Chief Kaufman, but she's out on patrol, so I told him he could wait. But he was scratching his throat, drawing blood, and he wouldn't stop--I had to order him restrained.

He's handcuffed and in the holding cell till she gets back. He's trying to climb the walls, but at least he can't hurt himself."

The Count frowned. That was a peculiar reaction to an attempted Change, even to one she and Kaufman had known would be unsuccessful-- but it did explain the feeling of strain she sensed. Perhaps the attempt had had some effect after all; though it certainly hadn't made him into a Kin, he was reacting as strongly as if it had. "Call me when Chief Kaufman arrives. I want to see for myself exactly what is happening."

"Yes, my Lady."

The Count switched off and dressed, thinking. It had never seemed reasonable to her that ten percent of susceptibles didn't react except to become Donors of a cla.s.s that was unusual, but didn't require most to be susceptible or go through Change. There had never been evidence of more than a difference in degree, however--or not until now, perhaps. Thompson's reaction might indicate a difference in kind, a Change to . . . what? Something that would complement the Kin Change?

It was half an hour before the desk sergeant called to report that Kaufman had come in, but when she did, the Count lost no time getting to Security and the holding cell. She arrived as Kaufman was using a damp cloth to gently wipe blood from scratches on Thompson's neck.

She felt immediate sympathy for the Marine; reading him told her that he was in pain, as well as under the terrible strain she'd felt in him earlier. She had sensed that strain before, she realized now, though far less intensely: in some of the others who hadn't--or apparently hadn't--Changed, near the end of the ten days that separated their allowable Donations. That irritability and anxiety had been attributed to a natural desire to Donate as often as they could, but now the Count was beginning to think it might be a physiological need as real as a Kin's need for blood. Thompson certainly hadn't had time to miss Donating to that degree, not with Kaufman having taken him the day before. "Captain," she said gently.

The face that turned to her held desperation and sudden hope. "Y . . .

yes, my Lady?"

"Did you dream tonight?"

"Huh?" Thompson was startled at the question, but he nodded. "Yes--a dragon wearing a crown. An Oriental dragon. He . . . approves of me."

"The Dragon Prince," Kaufman said softly. "The one who used the virus to make us what we are. He always appears to a new Kin."

"But never, to the best of anyone's knowledge, to anyone else." The Count swore briefly, though only to herself. They had never thought to ask the supposedly-unChanged ones about their dreams, and they--or at least she!--should have. It was stupid to think Change had to bring about a visible change; she could only excuse herself by pleading the press of other problems that had claimed her attention since Kins began appearing. "Your desire to feed Kins is more than simple desire now, Captain; I can tell that. It is a physical requirement." She turned to her Chief of Detectives. "He needs you."

"But it's only been a day," Kaufman said.

The detective chief's heart wasn't in her objection; the Count nodded.

"The law will have to be changed to accommodate Captain Thompson and the other . . ." What was a good word for them? They weren't Kins, though they were of the--the Kindred, yes.

Thompson chuckled harshly. "Call me a Bloodmate, my Lady. I give blood, and I d.a.m.nsure feel like Enna's mate."

The Count nodded, raising an eyebrow. "Appropriate; very well. Care for your Bloodmate, Enna."

Kaufman didn't have to be told twice; she took Thompson into her arms and nuzzled his throat, breaking the skin to sip but not piercing his carotid. Thompson relaxed, his irritable frustration easing, and he felt his consort's satisfaction at that. There was far more to his need than her gentle sipping; he was responding to her physically as well, knew she felt it, and luxuriated in her answering caress. There was no such thing, he realized dreamily, as a casual liaison between Kin and Bloodmate; he was free to accept her love-making, as well as her feeding.

"But not in a detention cell," Kaufman murmured against her Bloodmate's throat. He might be too far gone to care, but she had no intention of taking him on the floor, no matter how well padded it might be. She picked him up, sensing the Count's approval, and carried him to the duty officer's apartment.

Thompson was content to wait; for now, the promise of her delicate fangs, the strength of the body he would nourish, were enough. She would make love to him, and when he peaked, she would sate her fierce hunger in their shared ecstasy. She would care for him, yes . . .

The Count watched them leave, pleased. She had hoped for an ex-E-Team leader turned Kin as Liaison Officer, though she would have settled for whatever benefit a team-full of Donors might bring; now she had something beyond her most optimistic hopes. She would give Kaufman and Thompson time for--she grinned to herself--a honeymoon. While they were indulging in each other, she would name the Kindred--Kins and Bloodmates alike--as the System's local n.o.bility. And then she would designate the pair of them as Liaison. Thompson had lost his team, yes, but he had gained at least as much in the way of companionship and more in physical satisfaction; he would be fine. And what a team those two would make!

END