Blood Wager (Blood Destiny #1)

by Connie Suttle

  Blood Wager

  Blood Destiny, book 1

  By Connie Suttle

  Blood Wager, e-edition, copyright © 2009 by Connie Suttle

  This e-book is a work of fiction. Names, characters and incidents portrayed within its digital pages are purely fictitious and a product of the author's often warped imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental, so don't get your hopes up.

  For Walter, who always believed in me, and for Joe and Denise, who steadfastly read every word. Thanks!

  Chapter 1

  Two vampires walk into a bar. Sounds like a joke, doesn't it? It is. A gloriously heartbreaking joke—on me. The punchline for that joke will be delivered in the form of a sentence, but not one that might end with laughter. No, this sentence will determine whether I live or not. If I were to bet honestly, my money would be on the latter. My mistake? Walking into a bar. Four glasses of wine and poof, I was vampire. Now, wedged tightly in a corner of a nine-by-nine cell lined with steel and titanium, I wait for a punchline to conclude my life. But I'm starting near the end and not the beginning. Let's go with that. The beginning. The thing that led to this pivotal scene in my life. The event that snatched away my heartbeat and sent me running into darkness.

  * * *

  I never drink. Never. But I did that evening. The bartender had taken one look at my red nose and blotchy, tear-stained face before setting a napkin in front of me. "What can I get for you?" His voice was low and kind.

  "I don't drink," I sniffled. "What do you recommend?" The bar closest to the hospital was the one I'd chosen. Some of the medical facility's personnel were regulars; I'd passed a doctor I recognized on the way in. This place was nicer than most of the bars closer to home—I saw that right away. It boasted polished wood floors and upholstered barstools neatly lined up along the bar. Tall, round wooden tables dotted the remainder of the floor and prints of western scenes hung against walls painted a forest green. Several people were already seated comfortably and drinking, although it was barely six.

  "Let's start you off with a glass of wine," the bartender offered a sympathetic smile and selected a bottle of white from a fridge below the bar. "This is a Riesling and those are usually a little sweet. You might like it," he informed me as he uncorked and poured. I watched a few bubbles rise in the crystal glass as I impatiently wiped away another tear. Lifting the wineglass, I gulped down half its contents right away. "Hey, now, let's slow down a little," the bartender cautioned. Nodding my head at his words, I set the glass on the bar, my hand shaking a little. I kept my eyes down, attempting to get myself under control.

  It was early January, which is generally Oklahoma's worst time of the year, weather-wise. A light snow was threatening to blow in, bringing sub-freezing temperatures with it. Night was coming early too, along with the heavy cloud cover and I shivered every time someone walked into the bar. I'd chosen the seat directly in front of the door but I wasn't about to move. It was easier just to sit there, I think, huddling into my misery and hoping wine would dull its sharp edges. Pushing my empty glass toward the bartender, I silently asked for a refill.

  "What's your name?" The bartender set my third glass of wine in front of me.

  "Lissa," I gave a half-hiccup, half-sob.

  "Is that short for Melissa?" he asked gently. "I'm Warren by the way."

  "No, Warren." I wiped a stray tear off my face with the heel of a hand. Warren handed over a fresh cocktail napkin since I'd run out of tissues. "My father had a terrible sense of humor," I added, accepting the paper square gratefully. "He named me Lissa Beth." The napkin scratched raw skin when I wiped my face with it.

  "Maybe he did have a terrible sense of humor," Warren agreed, looking up as the door opened behind me. "I'll be back," he said. After a few seconds, I heard him asking the new arrivals what they wanted. I turned to look; I couldn't help myself. Two men were now seated at one of the round tables off to the side. Warren was taking their order when one of his customers turned toward me, stopping my breath for a moment. Images of black-as-sin hair, exotic features and a Latin background washed over me. Dark eyes narrowed in contempt as the man studied me, his eyes meeting mine for the briefest of moments. A smile quirked at lips that might be both sensuous and cruel. Turning back to my drink, I shivered again and it wasn't because the door had opened.

  "That gentleman over there wants to buy you a drink," Warren was back and holding up the bottle of wine.

  "No, Warren," I gestured for him to set the bottle down. "Tell the gentleman thank you but no," I said as firmly as I could. "I don't think a woman should accept a drink from a stranger on the same day her husband died, do you?" I lifted my wineglass and drained it. "I'll pay for the next round myself." Numbness clouded my brain after a fourth glass of wine so I sat there, waiting for my head to clear a little before attempting to make my way outside. While I waited, I caught snatches of conversation between the one who'd offered to buy my drink and his companion.

  "I say seven days," one of them said.

  "Nine," the other countered. I had no idea what they were discussing. At the time, I didn't really care. As it turns out, I wish I had known what they were talking about and I wish I had cared. I have no idea if it might have changed anything, but at least I would have known.

  Chapter 2

  Cold air served to wake me up a little as I sat inside my car. The small parking lot was filling up around me as night deepened, cloudy and moonless. Holding keys in my hand, I eventually recalled that placing one of them in the ignition would make the car start. My Honda was ten years old and dated, but still ran like a top. With Don's illnesses over the years, I hadn't been able to afford a new one. Yes, I know I should have been thinking about funeral arrangements and calling friends and relatives, but I wanted one final bit of space for myself—a suspension between what was real and what I wished were real before dealing with any of it. We had no children but Don had a brother. Both sets of parents were dead and we'd lost contact with most of the cousins and other family. Sighing, I slipped the key into the ignition on the third try. Honestly, I intended to close my eyes for a bit before trying to drive home. My car would warm up after a while and it wouldn't hurt to let it sit and idle while I sobered up. I was too drunk to drive right then and I knew it.

  I sat there, blinking stupidly as the locked metal door of my car was torn away as easily as a tissue is lifted from a box. Mutely I listened while it clattered across the hard surface of the parking lot. A tall form crouched down beside me and dark eyes found mine. I was staring at the man who'd offered to buy my drink and his smile was just as cruel as I'd imagined it might be. Lifting a hand to rub my eyes, I desperately fought to convince myself that reality had not just shifted and I truly wasn't seeing what I imagined I was seeing. That brief glimpse of the impossible, trailed by the slightest moment of self-delusion, was the last thing I remembered before I died.

  * * *

  Concrete is cold in winter. Icy cold when the temperature falls to twenty-three degrees, even if you are inside. And I was inside. It was dark, too; I knew that somehow, although my vision was perfectly clear. I found myself in some sort of cellar or basement warehouse, I couldn't tell which. There were plenty of boxes and crates surrounding me, stacked up here and there within walls formed of cinderblocks painted black. The funny thing? I knew it was cold. Bone-freezing cold. That didn't seem to matter. I didn't even have a goose bump as I sat up and looked around. I'd been left in the floor, wherever I was. Rising easily, I made a full turn to get my bearings. My prison couldn't have been more than a twelve by twelve square, and an old desk with newspapers stacked atop its dusty surface sat nearby, amid a pile of boxes. Wonderin
g if the newspapers were recent, I navigated the clutter to take a look. The paper on top was printed five days after Don was removed from life support—January ninth. I had no idea if that was today, yesterday or ten years ago. Don't get me wrong, my mind was perfectly clear. I merely had no memories past getting into my car after drinking four glasses of wine. As my first-ever drinking binge, it sucked.

  Now, I had no idea where I was, no idea how I'd gotten there and no idea how to get out. There weren't any windows and I couldn't see a door anywhere. Setting the newspaper down, I noticed a cocktail napkin lying nearby that someone had written on. Lifting it up, I began to read. Horrified is a tame word to me now. Any thesaurus has an alternative listing of words one might use and all of them are woefully deficient. I'd read that napkin—over and over—and still the words petrified me. I recalled hearing something about curing phobias once, where at times the sufferer is flooded or immersed in whatever it is they fear. Nothing might cure what I felt after reading words carelessly scrawled across a stained paper napkin.

  "I agree to pay Sergio Velenci one million pounds if the female takes less than nine days to fully turn." They'd wagered my life. I didn't learn until later just how serious that wager truly was. A signature was beneath the agreement, written in beautiful, old-world script—Edward Desmarais.

  Those lengthy, needle-sharp teeth I'd imagined while sitting in my car? I hadn't imagined them. They'd belonged to a vampire. I laughed humorlessly. The movies and television shows? They had it all wrong. Those weren't fangs they were showing us. Those were ridiculous compared to the real thing. While pondering how long it had been since my attackers left me in my makeshift prison, another thought wriggled its way into my brain. If they were betting on how long it would take me to become vampire, what were they planning to do with me afterward?

  Scrambling off my perch on the edge of the desk, I placed the napkin as close to its original position as I could before straightening the newspapers. I'd leafed through them briefly and they'd gotten scattered a little. No, I can't say why I bothered. Perhaps it was to give myself a little time to think, and I was thinking now. Desperately. Furiously. Whatever their ultimate purpose, I had no desire to meet up with either vampire. Ever. That decision made, I went in search of a way out.

  If I hadn't smelled the scent of garbage, I would never have found the door. It was designed to blend in with the rest of the wall and nearly undetectable. I followed the scent instead, sensing a slight bit of air sifting through a crack between a wall and the nearly invisible portal. I couldn't locate a handle, a knob or anything else that might be used to open it. If it hadn't been for my desperation, I might have remained rooted in that spot, waiting for Edward and Sergio to return. If I had, I'd have met my final death right then.

  Instead, I whimpered and clawed at the crevice with my fingers, not expecting anything to come of it. Surprisingly, bits of concrete were crumbling away in my hands. I stared at my fingers in amazement; they'd grown so strong I could tear into cinderblocks as easily as if I were digging into soft earth. As soon as I had a large enough hole hollowed out, I placed one hand around the edge of the thick door and yanked. It flew behind me at least ten feet and the noise it made as it landed offended my ears and made me cringe. Dust clouded around the severed door and I think a couple of crates were crushed beneath its weight when it fell. Beyond the empty doorway were narrow stone steps leading up and to the outside. I climbed them swiftly, bursting through another door and into a cold, crisp night.

  The garbage I'd smelled was overflowing a metal bin behind a nearby Asian restaurant. Someone was shouting in Vietnamese inside the restaurant kitchen. Another voice shouted back. Time to get the hell out of there. I jogged down the adjoining alley for several yards, thinking while I ran that I hadn't been able to run anywhere in a very long time. My age, my weight and my lack of exercise had seen to that. After coming to the end of the alleyway, I cautiously stepped around the last building, hoping to find an address or a street sign that would tell me where I was. I found both.

  Downtown Oklahoma City was where I stood, at the corner of Mickey Mantle Drive and Flaming Lips Alley. If I hadn't been so dazed and frightened, I might have held onto the nearby lamppost and laughed myself silly. Flaming Lips Alley was named after the Oklahoma band that had made a name (and an alley) for themselves.

  Even so, I was still too close to the cellar I'd just escaped so I jogged a little farther until I reached Reno Avenue. I knew where I was, then. I wasn't looking forward to walking the remaining ten miles to my house in Midwest City, but I didn't have a choice. I had no money, no purse and no cell phone; nothing belonging to me had been left inside the cellar. A search for those things had yielded no results while I explored my little cave. My vampires had taken them. Amusing, I know, calling them my vampires. I had no idea if they were anyone's vampires, other than their own. A thought hit me as I jogged the ten-mile trek to my house, dodging traffic at times and running across lawns at others—if Edward and Sergio had my purse, then they had my license and a lot of other things. They knew where I lived.

  The back door into my garage was now hanging on its hinges, but I didn’t take time to worry over the damage I'd caused. The exercise I'd gotten on the way home had made me thirsty—extremely thirsty. I blasted into the house like a hurricane and nearly tore the door off the fridge getting it open. Ripping into the carton of orange juice, I swallowed a mouthful and immediately became ill. I was coughing up orange juice—the sticky, orange liquid was pouring from my throat and nostrils as my body rejected it. And while that usually burns, it really burned now. After rinsing my mouth out with water when I coughed up the last of the OJ, (I was careful not to swallow any of the water) I sat down miserably on the living room sofa, grabbed the remote and turned on the television.

  The news anchor was expounding on something he thought important enough to do an editorial over and then asking viewers to send e-mails with their opinions before getting back to the news. Staring in disbelief, I gaped at a photo of myself; it was flashed there on the television screen while the female anchor was discussing my disappearance six days earlier. The most recent newspaper I'd seen in the cellar was from the day before, which meant that Ed and Serge had been visiting me every night. There'd been a newspaper purchased and left on the desk for each day I'd been gone. The vampires hadn't arrived before I'd wakened—there was no current newspaper. They could have gotten there shortly after my escape, though. That thought had me motivated right away.

  Upending the top drawer of my dresser in the bedroom, I peeled off the envelope taped to the bottom and then grabbed an empty purse out of the closet. I wanted to take a shower but figured I was living on borrowed time as it was. A comb and brush followed the envelope into my purse as I spared a glance at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, receiving the second largest shock of the evening. The face I now wore? I didn't recognize it. Vampirism had restored my youth, but that wasn't the biggest surprise. I'd never had the facial features the mirror reflected as I stared at my image in amazement. My clothing? It hung off me. I just hadn't taken the time to look at any of it. Nothing in my closet would fit me now. The last thought that went through my mind before I grabbed a coat out of the closet and hauled ass out of there, was that I'd just put paid to the theory that vampires don't cast a reflection.

  Don's car hadn't been driven in a month, probably. I couldn't remember when I'd last started or driven the thing. It was red and ancient—a 1959 Cadillac with fins and everything. My husband had loved that car. I kept trying to get him to sell it and buy something a little more reliable and fuel friendly, but he'd ignored me. One of my favorite phrases when I teased him about it, was, "Donald Workman does what Donald Workman wants to do." He'd laugh and do exactly that.

  "Come on, you eccentric behemoth," I begged, trying to get the Cadillac's motor to turn over. It finally did start and I apologized silently for not allowing it to warm up a little before shoving it into gear and backing out of the g
arage. I was still so thirsty I thought I might go crazy as I hit the button on the garage door opener, closing down the door and mutely bidding my house and my life goodbye.

  Where do you go to find a blood donor? There wasn't any way I wanted to prey on some of the homeless population and with the weather as cold as it was, they probably needed everything they had. My thirst warred with my fear of killing someone if I did drink from them. I'd experimentally rolled down the window while driving through a twenty-four-hour pharmacy parking lot at one point. I heard—actually heard—the blood rushing through the veins of the woman who'd passed close to the car. The tires of the Cadillac left marks on the pavement as I screeched out of there.

  Time was my enemy as well. The bank clock proclaimed that it was four-thirty and dawn would be coming soon. Were all the vampire stories true? Was I going to fry if I didn't find a deep, dark place to hide during the day? Where was the fucking manual for new vampires? I drove past a bar—it was a dive located on a remote corner in the southeastern part of Oklahoma City, boasting only one light pole to illuminate the parking lot. The bar was closed but there were still two cars in the lot. I found out why a few seconds later. I'd shown up just in time for the local dealer to pass off a baggie of drugs. It was marijuana; I could smell it when I rolled down the window.

  Is that frightening? I could smell it? I also smelled the deodorant on the teen buying and the stale, pungent body odor of the one selling. I was out of the Cadillac so fast I must have been a blur because I caught both of them unaware and had fangs sunk into the neck of the dealer before the teenager could even squeak.

  A second squeak caused me to look up as I dropped the dealer, who fell to the ground with a bemused smile on his face. At least he was still alive. The teenager was backing away from me though, his baggie of weed clutched tightly in his hand and a horrified expression on his face. I'd gotten enough to drink, however. "Go home!" I shouted at the boy as he took another step backward. He turned and ran, leaving his car behind. The dealer was still sitting there on the cold, blacktopped surface of the parking lot, a look of worship on his face as he gazed up at me.