A Quick Bite

by Lynsay Sands

  Lissianna stayed completely still as her teeth did their work, sucking the blood up and into her system. The liquid was cold, which she wasn’t used to, but it was also much quicker than an IV would have been. Within moments, Thomas had fed her three bags. He had her keep her eyes closed until he’d disposed of them.

  Lissianna opened her eyes as he walked back from tossing them in the garbage can behind the bar and smiled widely. “Have I told you you’re my favorite cousin lately?”

  Thomas grinned. “Stop, you’ll make me blush.”

  Laughing, Lissianna stood and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” He patted her on the back, then stepped away and headed for the door. “I’m to bed.”

  “I’m just going to check on Greg, then I’m heading to bed, too.”

  “I thought you might,” he acknowledged. “Good night.”

  “Night.”

  Chapter 9

  It was the click of the door that woke him. Opening his eyes, Greg stared at the dark ceiling, then turned his head to peer around the shadowed room. The bathroom light was on, the door cracked open, keeping the room from being completely dark.

  He recognized Lissianna as she approached the bed, and was immediately fully awake. She looked uncertain of her welcome, and he couldn’t blame her. Greg had been less than pleased to find himself dragged back last night and had been rather voluble about it. She’d probably been told that. Thomas had come in and tried to talk to him at some point, but he hadn’t been in a receptive mood, and the man had given up and left him alone to continue his ranting until he fell into an exhausted sleep.

  “You must hate me.”

  Greg stilled at that comment and peered at her with surprise. “Why would I hate you? You aren’t the one who keeps bringing me here. In fact, you set me free.”

  “Yes, but it’s my phobia that got you into this in the first place,” she pointed out.

  “That’s hardly your fault. No one chooses to have a phobia,” he said mildly, then peered at her, his thoughts moving to what she was. A vampire. Her arrival and first words had driven that fact from his mind, but now he confronted it. The beautiful blonde, with silver-blue eyes who had kissed him and caressed him and given him the hickey that wasn’t a hickey was a vampire.

  Greg could hardly believe he was thinking these things. He was a psychologist, for God’s sake. If a patient had walked into his office and announced that they’d been bitten by a vampire, he’d have diagnosed them as delusional, or paranoid delusional or any number of other things that all translated to nuts. Yet, here he lay, positive he had somehow been dragged into a nest of vampires.

  Despite his thoughts along those lines, Greg hadn’t been sure that’s what he was dealing with until Martine’s and Marguerite’s appearance at his door. No woman he knew should have been able to force his door open as Marguerite had. Then the way he’d suddenly found himself calm and walking into the living room was telling. But the real clincher was what Marguerite had said when Martine had spotted and drawn her attention to the Vampire/Not Vampire list on the coffee table. Lissianna’s mother had paled, looked unhappy, and said, “He knows what we are. That explains why it is even harder to control him. Now what do we do?”

  “Well,” Martine had said slowly. “I took a look inside his brain, Marguerite, and he really—”

  Greg hadn’t caught any more of their conversation. Martine had stood and urged Marguerite several feet away to speak in hushed tones. The interesting thing was that the moment Martine had stopped touching him and moved away, Greg had found himself free of the compulsion to remain seated on the couch. His mind was his own again and had immediately filled with panicked thoughts of what he should do: flee, call the police, or ask the million and one questions that were suddenly crowding his mind about these beings. Greg had found himself torn in two. Half of him was scared silly, the other half was curious as hell.

  Before he could decide which half to proceed with, the women had straightened, and Martine was back at his side, taking his arm once more. Greg had found himself claimed by a new compulsion. He’d walked out of the apartment with the two women, ridden down in the elevator, walked out of the building, and seated himself calmly in the very same van Lissianna and her cousins had used to transport him home. This time he’d settled himself on the first of the two bench seats in the back of the van. Martine had sat beside him for the ride back to the house. Once here, he’d walked inside and straight up to the same bedroom, once again allowing himself to be tied down.

  Greg hadn’t begun shouting and struggling until they’d finished tying him, and Martine had released his arm. His thoughts had been his own again at once, and he’d been frustrated and furious to find himself tied to that bed again. Greg had ranted and raved at them, but the women had simply ignored him and walked away. That hadn’t stopped him, though; he’d continued bellowing at the top of his lungs until he was hoarse before falling silent.

  He was feeling much calmer this morning. Greg suspected he should be terrified or something, but he found it kind of hard to work up any fear of Lissianna…Or any of her cousins for that matter. It was hard to be scared of people you’ve seen in their pajamas. Baby dolls and Spider-Man PJs just weren’t fear-inspiring. He would reserve his judgment on Martine and Marguerite. For some reason, he found both of them a tad more intimidating.

  “So,” he said finally, “you all look pretty good for dead people.”

  Lissianna blinked, obviously shocked at his words. Not as shocked as he was, Greg couldn’t believe he’d said that. God! He was such a smooth talker. No wonder his family thought he needed help finding women.

  “We aren’t dead,” Lissianna said, and Greg stopped mentally kicking himself in the butt for his stupidity to peer at her blankly.

  “But you’re vampires. Nosferatu. The undead…” He blinked at his own words, then said, “Oh, yes, I see. You are the undead.” Before Lissianna could confirm or deny that, he asked, “Now that you’ve bitten me, will I become a vampire, too? Or am I just at the Renfield type stage where I’ll start eating bugs?”

  “You haven’t turned into a vampire, and no, you won’t suddenly have an unexplainable urge to eat bugs,” Lissianna assured him patiently.

  “That’s good. I hate bugs. Truth is, I have a phobia about them.”

  She blinked in surprise. “You treat phobias, and you have one?”

  He shrugged, looking chagrined. “It’s the old saw, a plumber has leaky pipes, the accountant’s always late with his taxes…”

  “And the phobia expert has a phobia of his own,” she finished with amusement, then added solemnly, “We’re not dead, Greg.”

  Greg raised his eyebrows. “So, you’re vampires, but not dead or even undead?”

  “Right, though I wouldn’t use the term vampire around Mother, she hates it,” Lissianna informed him. “Most of the older vampires do.”

  “Why? It’s what you are, isn’t it?” he asked.

  She hesitated, then explained, “Vampire is a mortal term. We didn’t choose it. Besides, the word carries a lot of unpleasant connotations…Dracula, demon-faced beings.” She shrugged.

  “So you aren’t demons, that’s good to know,” he said wryly, then asked, “How old are you?”

  Lissianna was silent so long, he didn’t think she was going to answer, then she sat down on the side of the bed, peered at her hands, pursed her lips, and admitted, “I was born in 1798.”

  Greg lay perfectly still, his mind boggling—1798? Dear God, she was two hundred and two, that made her old, he realized, and wryly recalled worrying that she might think he was too old for her? Shaking his head, he asked, “But you aren’t dead?”

  “No,” she said firmly.

  Greg frowned and pointed out, “But according to all the books and movies, vampires are dead.”

  “According to a lot of books and movies, psychologists and psychiatrists are psycho killers,” she responded. “Think Dres
sed to Kill or Silence of the Lambs.”

  “Touché,” he said with amusement.

  They were both silent for a minute, then Lissianna said, “As with everything, the tales of our kind have been corrupted over the centuries.”

  Greg considered that briefly, then asked, “How corrupted are the tales? Are you cursed and soulless?”

  She smiled with real amusement. “No, we aren’t cursed, we aren’t soulless, and garlic and religious symbols have no effect on us.”

  “But you drink blood?”

  “We need blood to survive,” she admitted.

  “This is crazy,” Greg said aloud, his mind rebelling at accepting the unacceptable. “Vampires, living forever, feeding on blood…It’s fiction, a myth, legend.”

  “Most legends and myths are based on some truth,” she said calmly.

  Greg eyes widened in alarm. “What about werewolves and stuff?”

  “Oh well, you’re a psychologist,” she said with amusement. “Surely you studied lycanthropy?”

  “It’s a psychosis where the patient has delusions that they’re a wolf.”

  “There you are then.”

  What did that mean? Greg wondered. He didn’t really believe in such things as werewolves, but then he hadn’t believed in vampires before either. This whole business had really turned his belief system on its ear. He didn’t know what to think.

  “I’m sorry about biting you.”

  Lissianna’s voice drew him back from his thoughts, which was probably a good thing. He could drive himself crazy with the ideas running through his head. Next he’d believe in fairies and pixies.

  “It was a mistake,” she added quietly. “When I saw you tied to the bed with a bow around your neck I thought you were my birthday gift…which you were. I just didn’t realize you were to treat my phobia. I assumed you were…a special treat.”

  “A special treat?” Greg echoed her delicate phrasing with disbelief. “Don’t you mean you thought I was dinner?”

  She grimaced and had the grace to flush guiltily, and Greg was sorry he’d said that. He wasn’t really angry at her for biting him. It was difficult to be angry about something he’d enjoyed so much, and Greg had enjoyed it. Just recalling it was enough to make him harden.

  “So, you’re a vampire with hemaphobia,” he said to change the subject.

  “Ridiculous, isn’t it?” she muttered with self-disgust. “I know that I shouldn’t fear blood, that there’s nothing to fear, but…”

  “Phobias aren’t rational. I have a client who’s six feet tall and weighs two hundred pounds who’s absolutely terrified of teeny-tiny spiders. Phobias are definitely not rational,” he assured her, then another thought occurred to him, and he asked, “What about sunlight?”

  “Sunlight?” she asked uncertainly.

  “According to legend, sunlight destroys vampires,” he pointed out.

  “Oh, well…” She hesitated, then told him, “It does the same damage to our bodies as it does to you, but it’s a little more dangerous to us because our bodies use up blood at an accelerated rate to repair the damage…which, in turn, dehydrates us and means we have to feed more. In the old days, we avoided sunlight like the plague to prevent having to feed more often. Feeding was a dangerous business back then. It could lead to discovery.”

  “And now?”

  “Now, most of us use blood banks for feeding, but many still avoid the sun out of habit, or for convenience sake. Walking around carting coolers of blood to replenish with can be a pain.”

  Greg nodded in understanding. “If you aren’t cursed or dead, what are you?”

  Lissianna considered the matter for a moment, then said, “It would probably be easiest to understand if I explained from the start.”

  “Please.” Last night he’d been furious at finding himself here again against his wishes, or more specifically, without being given a choice, but now…well, if the truth were to be known, Greg was curious. Intellectually speaking, this was all terribly fascinating. It was like discovering there was a Santa. Well, sort of.

  “You’ve heard of Atlantis?”

  It wasn’t really a question, but Greg grunted a “yes” despite being a tad confused by what the mythical land could have to do with vampires. “The lost civilization, Plato, Poseidon, Creita. A paradise with wealthy people who displeased Zeus by becoming greedy,” he recalled from his courses at university. “Zeus punished them by gathering all the gods together and wiping them out.”

  “That’s what the books say,” Lissianna agreed with a hint of amusement.

  “What does the mythical Atlantis have to do with your being a vampire?”

  “Atlantis is no more a myth than vampires are,” she announced. “It was a very advanced race, and just before the fall, scientists there developed a sort of nano.”

  “Those tiny little computer thingies?” Greg asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “I don’t pretend to understand it all. I’ve never really found science that interesting. My brother, Bastien, could explain this all more clearly, but basically, they combined the nanotechnology with some sort of bio something or other—”

  “Bioengineering?” he asked.

  “Something like that,” she allowed. “They combined the two technologies to create microscopic nanos that could be shot into the bloodstream, where they would live and replicate.”

  “I don’t understand what that has to do with—”

  “These nanos were programmed to repair tissue,” Lissianna interrupted. “They were meant to be medical aids, to help heal people who were seriously wounded or ill.”

  Greg arched an eyebrow. “And they worked?”

  “Oh yes. They worked better than anyone had expected. Once in the body, they not only repaired damaged tissue, they destroyed any sort of infection and even regenerated dead or dying tissue.”

  “Ah,” Greg said, suddenly understanding why she was telling him about Atlantis. “And these nanos are how you live so long and stay so young.”

  “Yes. It was an unexpected side effect. They were programmed to self-destruct once the damage in the body had been repaired, but—”

  “The body is constantly under attack from sunlight, pollution, and simple aging,” Greg finished for her.

  “Yes.” She smiled with pleasure at his understanding. “So long as there is damage to repair, the nanos will live and create others of their kind, using blood from the bloodstream. And there is always damage to repair.”

  Greg closed his eyes, his mind whirling with the knowledge she’d just given him. It raised as many questions as it answered. “What about the blood? Your…er…feeding, I mean? Is that because the nanos use the blood?”

  “Yes. They use it both to fuel themselves and to make the repairs. The more damage, the more blood is needed. But even with just the damage from day-to-day living, the body can’t supply enough blood to satisfy them.”

  “So you have to drink blood to feed the nanos,” he reasoned.

  “Yes. Drink it or take transfusions.”

  “Transfusions?” he echoed, pleased to hear such a common word in this conversation. “So it’s really rather like hemophilia? Sort of a blood disorder…” Then he paused, and added wryly, “Except for the fact that you’re all from an ancient, but scientifically advanced, race of people.” He paused as a thought confused him. “But you were born just a little more than two hundred years ago. You aren’t from Atlantis yourself. Is it passed from mother to child?”

  “It was passed to me through my mother,” Lissianna admitted. “But my mother wasn’t born with it.”

  “Your father?” he queried, and realized he hadn’t asked how old Jean Claude Argeneau had been when he died just a couple years ago. “How old was your father?”

  “He, his twin brother, and their parents were amongst those who fled Atlantis when it fell. Aunt Martine was born a couple hundred years later.”

  Her father and his family had fled Atlantis when it fell, he considered sil
ently. When had that been? He wasn’t sure. Certainly before Roman times, before the birth of Christ…Dear God, it didn’t bear thinking about.

  “My father introduced the nanos to my mother when they were married,” Lissianna added when his silence continued.

  Greg gave a start at this news. “So anyone could…”

  “You don’t have to be born one,” she admitted softly when he paused. “They were introduced to the blood intravenously to start with and still can be.”

  “And the blood doesn’t necessarily have to be consumed,” he said, his mind going back to that point. He didn’t know why. Maybe because it made them seem less alien when he thought of it as a blood disorder like hemophilia.

  “Yes, but it’s somewhat time-consuming in comparison to proper feeding,” she explained. “Think of the difference between downing a pint of water rather than waiting for a pint of saline to drip into a body using an IV.”

  “I suppose that was inconvenient for you when the others could just down a pint and go,” he said, struggling to understand.

  “It wasn’t that it was all that inconvenient,” she said quietly. “Mother used to wait until I was in bed for the day before bringing in the blood and IV. I fed while I slept. It wasn’t really inconvenient at all, but…” She hesitated, then admitted, “It made me feel like a dependent child, as vulnerable as baby birds who need their mothers to digest the worm and feed it to them. I was dependent.”

  “And now you aren’t?” he asked.

  “Now I feed myself,” she said with quiet pride, then admitted a tad wryly, “Not always well, but I feed.”

  “If you’re hemaphobic, how do you feed?”

  She sighd. “Greg, I don’t think—”

  “How?” he insisted, though he thought he already knew the answer. If she fainted at the sight of blood, then the only option open to her—without someone’s setting her up with an IV—was for her to bite as she had done with him.

  “The old-fashioned way,” she finally admitted.