BloodCon

by S. Coop

  Startled, Morgan gawked at the owner of that all-too-familiar voice, her fangs protruding as she hissed at the unwanted visitor. “Pony! Why are you here?”

  “I was hungry.” The cute young female vampire wiped a smear of blood from her chin as she knelt over Dex’s lifeless body, a puddle of blood forming a halo around his head. “And is that any way to greet your little sis?” Pony giggled like a cheerful schoolgirl after receiving a rose from her crush. “I just wanted to see how you were doing. I miss you!”

  Morgan sighed. Pony was only sixteen when she was turned and dressed and acted like a Japanese anime character with wild ponytails, black wedge shoes, an electric blue and pink top, and ripped jeans.

  “Don’t fuck with me, Pony!” Morgan spat. “Marcus sent you to watch me, didn’t he?”

  “Well, he wants to know if you’ve taken care of your little ‘problem’ yet, but I already know the answer to that one. I can sense him. Gee, I wonder if he’s cute!” She giggled loudly. “This guy was delish.”

  “Tell him I will take care of it. Now get out!” Morgan positioned herself between Pony and the stairway leading to Lasandro.

  “I wanna see him, please?” Pony begged, puffing out her lips and stomping one foot to the floor.

  “No more warnings, Pony! Get out!”

  “But I just got here, sis.”

  Morgan lunged at Pony, but Pony sensed her attack and kicked Dex’s dead lifeless body at Morgan, knocking her to the ground when it plowed into her knees.

  Pony giggled hysterically. “I don’t want him anymore. He’s boring me! No conversation skills.” She bolted over the couch and out the front door before Morgan had a chance to strike back.

  Morgan knew Pony wouldn’t give up that easy. She had always been nothing but trouble, and everything was a joke to her, even life and death. “Lasandro!” Morgan flew up the stairs. “Lasandro!” She screamed again as she tore the door off its hinges.

  She was too late.

  Pony was already on the balcony ready to make her attack.

  Lasandro looked at Morgan’s panic-stricken face. Is she that upset about what I’d done to that broad? I’m supposed to feed, right?

  “Behind you!” Morgan cried.

  Lasandro turned toward the window just in time to see a black wedge shoe coming at him at record speed.

  Morgan rose in the air for her attack when she saw Lasandro duck and counter Pony’s kick. He put one swift fist into Pony’s chest and knocked her hard against the wall, a cloud of plaster billowing around her.

  Morgan was amazed at Lasandro’s strength and his ability to avoid Pony’s attack. Though Morgan was older than Pony, Pony had always been much faster than she ever had been or would be. They weren’t the only ones surprised. Lasandro looked at both of his hands. It was as if he could feel the power pulsating through his body.

  Pony hopped up on the dresser and pouted, rubbing her neck. “You’re no fun. Morgan. You made a meanie! I don’t want to play with you, anymore.” She dashed off the dresser and was in front of Lasandro in half a second.

  Lasandro threw up his hands. “Back for seconds?”

  Pony shook her head. “No.”

  Lasandro studied Pony. She can’t be a day over sixteen. Her eyes were like glowing magenta, and she had chubby cheeks.

  “I can see why you won’t kill him. He’s a cutie, this one is!” She turned to Morgan and waved her finger back in forth. “Daddy’s not going to be happy to hear of this. I can’t wait to see him tear you limb from limb. Ahahahahahha! Sayonara, sister!” Pony cackled, flew through the doors to balcony, and jumped into the night, disappearing as fast as she had appeared.

  “What the hell was that and who the hell was that?” Lasandro asked. “And what was she talking about when she said you won’t kill me?”

  “We have to leave,” Morgan said. “Pack your things and meet me downstairs.”

  “Morgan, Talk to me, damn it!” Lasandro protested.

  “Pack your things. Now.” Morgan left the room.

  As Lasandro packed, he cursed under his breath. She’s not telling me everything. Strange vampires are showing up and attacking me on a regular basis, one old, and one young enough to be planning her prom date. I need answers, and Morgan damn well better give them to me. I have the right to know.

  He walked downstairs and almost tripped over a mutilated, contorted body. Hmm. He doesn’t look too good. He must not have pleased Morgan. “Date gone wrong?”

  “I didn’t do that, I swear,” Morgan assured him.

  “Okay, ‘Marly’,” he quipped. It was hard for him to believe her now that he knew she was keeping secrets. “Everything in moderation, right?” he muttered as they walked out of the front door.

  Even the truth.

  Chapter Eight

  Silence Ain’t Golden

  Morgan and Lasandro had hopped from place to place for almost two weeks when they landed in Moonlight Shores. Moving frequently was nothing new to Lasandro, but he was getting wary of the whole routine. Not only were they running from dangerous vampires, but Morgan also hadn’t told him anything else. The days passed, and his frustration grew. He found himself withdrawing from her. Even though he had to stay with his Maker, she couldn’t make him like her.

  When they arrived at the house in Moonlight Shores, he met an African American woman with legs for days. Her wild brown curls cascaded over big almond shaped eyes, which held sparkly yellowish-brown pupils. Lasandro had never seen eyes that color before. Morgan told Lasandro that her name was Bianca and that she was a longtime acquaintance of hers.

  Something else I didn’t know, Lasandro thought.

  “How have you been, Bianca?” Morgan asked.

  Bianca gazed at Lasandro then back at Morgan, a smirk playing across her glossy lips, “Apparently, not as good as you’ve been. Damn, girl. Nice catch.”

  Morgan plopped down on a white leather sectional. “An unintentional catch.”

  “Tell me about it,” Lasandro said, sitting on a matching white leather recliner.

  “Hush,” Morgan said.

  “Hushing, mistress,” Lasandro said.

  “When you called me, you seemed to be in a hurry,” Bianca said. “What’s going on? Is everything okay?”

  Morgan sighed. “It’s Marcus.”

  Bianca’s face twisted in distaste at the mention of his name. Her hatred for Marcus was a common thread they shared. “Him again? What happened this time? I thought he had moved on.”

  “It’s a long story, Bianca, and I will fill you in as soon as I can, but—”

  “No she won’t,” Lasandro interrupted. “She’s great at withholding information.”

  “I told you to hush,” Morgan said.

  “Hushing, mistress.”

  “Bianca, I promise to explain all that,” Morgan said while giving Lasandro some serious side eye, “but first, I need you to take care of something for me. You know my house in Rolling Plains?

  “Um, yes,” Bianca replied.

  “Well, something happened and I need you to call in that cleaner you use. Torch it.” Morgan wrung her hands. She hated asking Bianca for these types of favors, but Bianca was the only one she could trust.

  Bianca crinkled her brow. “Did you …”

  “Honest, it wasn’t me, it was—”

  “It was Pony,” Lasandro interrupted.

  “When I say hush, I expect you to hush!” Morgan whined.

  “So I hush loudly, damn,” Lasandro said. “That Pony, she tore up Morgan’s date like a food processor.”

  Bianca glanced at Lasandro, thinking of her own history with the young vampire. “Pony! Why am I not surprised? She still has no self-control!

  Morgan nodded. “Or table manners.”

  “She practically ate the guy,” Lasandro said.

  “I will not tell you again,” Morgan spat.

  “And I will not remain silent,” Lasandro said.

  Morgan sighed and shook her head. “I can’t get
him to obey me. He’s such a child.”

  “That you made, baby,” Lasandro said. “Don’t forget that.”

  “How can I?” Morgan moaned. “You remind me every damn day.”

  “And night.” Lasandro grinned. “Um, sorry, Bianca. But my Maker hasn’t been telling me the entire truth, and I’m just a little miffed about it.”

  “I can see that,” Bianca said. “How … bad is the body?”

  “Parts of him look like ground beef,” Lasandro said. “And parts of him look like lunch meat, the kind you get from a deli. Pony sliced and diced his ass.”

  Morgan groaned. “And she would have killed you if I wasn’t there.”

  “Please,” Lasandro said. “I didn’t see you do anything. I was the one who jacked her into the wall.”

  Bianca blinked. “You … got the best of Pony?”

  “She’s a lightweight,” Lasandro said.

  Bianca shook her head. “That lightweight was only toying with you. She let you hit her.”

  “So,” Morgan said, “can you take care of my problem?”

  “I understand,” Bianca said. “It will be done.” She gave Morgan a quick hug. “Be careful.”

  “I will,” Morgan said.

  After Bianca left the house, Lasandro explored the beachfront home to get a feel for the place that was home for the moment. He didn’t say anything to Morgan when he passed her.

  “Oh, so now you’re quiet,” Morgan said.

  “Maybe it’s because I don’t like moving for the seventh time in fourteen days,” Lasandro said. “I’m a bit tired of it, you know? Almost as tired as not knowing the complete truth. You have any truth you want to tell?”

  Morgan turned away.

  “Didn’t think so.”

  This house was much different than the last, a rundown ranch. It was a beachfront modern-contemporary type home. The beach was mere feet away from the back door, and the backyard was literally the beach. You could step outside and land right in sand. From what he could see, there were two stories. The furniture was minimal; most of it white with a pop of color added with pillows and rugs. There was a generous amount of artwork hanging on the walls, and a grand piano sulked there, seemingly out of place with its stark, black wood.

  Lasandro liked the simplicity of the place. He found a bathroom upstairs and stopped to wash his face. No thanks to Morgan, I now know she has a good friend. He also knew that Morgan’s friend was not completely human. He picked up a different scent from her. Not bad, just different. He couldn’t put his finger on it.

  He stared at himself in the mirror for a good while and studied his appearance as it was and always would be for the rest of time. It wasn’t that he hated being a vampire, because he had begun to accept it. He hated being kept out of the loop. He hated feeling like a child who was constantly following Morgan around. He was clueless about most things, and Morgan’s lack of communication regarding these matters was infuriating. He had given her the silent treatment for two weeks whenever they had been alone, and she still would tell him nothing new.

  As Lasandro pondered his existence and his very uncertain future, he heard music coming from the piano downstairs. That was something else he didn’t know about her—that she could play piano. He remembered how much his mother loved music, and the sound of the piano reminded him of his mothers’ love for him. She would drag him to the theater to hear the latest musical or concert that was in town. Later he found out from an old family friend that she had given up going to music school because she had gotten pregnant with him. He thought about the sacrifices she made for him and why she had to die the way she did.

  In a blink he found himself standing next to Morgan as she played, taking in the smooth melodic sounds with profound sadness in his heart. He didn’t know what she was playing, but he knew it was beautiful. He watched as her hands effortlessly stroked the keys.

  His eyes traveled from her fingers up the length of her torso and finally arrived at her face. He could see the passion she felt. She’s so beautiful, he thought. Deep down he hated ignoring her, but it was only to teach her a lesson. As it seemed that lesson was not working; she had won. He decided to break his silence.

  “I didn’t know you played,” he said.

  Morgan stopped and raised her eyebrows. “There are many things you don’t know about me. Come sit down, and I will teach you how to play something.”

  Lasandro sat by her, and they spent the rest of the evening side by side at the piano. Lasandro soon learned that he was a terrible piano player, his thick fingers hitting all the wrong keys often.

  And that was all he learned that evening.

  

  The next evening Lasandro felt well rested because he was finally able to put his concerns on hold long enough to get some shut-eye. He figured he had been “dead to the world” for far too long, and decided to put the home’s art room to use. Painting had always put him at ease in the past, so he set up an easel and went to work. As a product of the state, he was bounced from foster home to foster home, and learning how to paint was one good thing he managed to learn in the process. He thought back to one foster home in particular and smiled.

  Good times …

  Gabriel and Celeste Wenford were by far the best foster parents he had ever had, not because they doted on him, but because they were real. Lasandro was about twelve years old and much too jaded for his age. Fakes and phonies had already tossed him around like a ragdoll. The Wenford’s were a breath of fresh air and took him as a gesture of goodwill. Gabriel, a playboy and a starving artist, would paint by day and frequent bars by night. He called it “looking for inspiration,” although Celeste, a trust fund baby who was usually so doped up on Valium that she stayed in her room listening to music, would say otherwise.

  They didn’t prepare meals and pretend to be a family, although there was plenty of food in the home. Lasandro had everything any twelve-year-old would need, except attention. He was okay with that, because he was used to doing his own thing anyway. He skipped school a lot to go see what Derrick and the guys were up to.

  One night Gabriel called Lasandro to his art room. Lasandro had never been in there before. The room was astonishing and not in a good way. It was a disaster filled with crumpled papers and half-used canvases. The Cure’s “Love Song” blared from the stereo.

  “You’ll have to excuse the mess,” Gabriel said while slicking back his dirty blond hair. He found an unused canvas and plopped it on one of the three easels lined up in the center of the room. “Today, you will learn to paint.” Gabriel pointed to a naked woman resting on a brown leather chaise near the wall.

  The woman giggled and waved at Lasandro with one hand while clasping a brandy-filled chalice in the other. He could see that she had no qualms about being naked in front of him. He could understand why. She had a beautiful figure. She had perky breasts and was waxed from head to toe. Her long black curly hair stopped just short of the jaunty peaks.

  “The perfect specimen,” Gabriel touted as he squeezed various oil paints onto a tattered palette. He handed Lasandro a paintbrush, and the lesson began.

  Gabriel realized that Lasandro was a natural, and over the next month, Lasandro feigned a stomachache so that he could miss school and paint instead. The Wenfords didn’t much care. He remembered Celeste saying that painting “soothed his soul” and would cure him of any ailment.

  When word of Lasandro’s excessive absences got back to Social Services, however, Lasandro was promptly removed and placed back in a group home where no one cared about him at all. He didn’t know what became of the Wenfords. Rumor was that they had broken up, Celeste moved back in with her parents, and Gabriel moved back East.

  Lasandro felt Morgan’s presence.

  “Hey, you,” Morgan said while entering the small intimate room. She had on a tank top with some cute boy shorts, and Lasandro took in her curves as she approached.

  “I didn’t know you could paint,” Morgan said. “I never t
ook you for the artsy type.”

  Lasandro glanced at Morgan and gave her a quick wink and a grin, “There are many things you don’t know about me as well.”

  “Touché,” Morgan quipped. She continued to watch him work and saw how meticulous he was with his brush strokes. “What is it going to be?”

  “It actually depends on what my mind settles on. So you’ll just have to wait and see.” Lasandro gave her a quick glance. “How is it that you’re not telling me how to do this? I mean, you’ve been around forever, right? Don’t you paint?”

  “I have never had a talent to paint.” She chuckled. “I would be lucky if I could pull off stick individuals.”

  Lasandro laughed. “I love the way you talk. Sometimes. When you talk. I think you mean stick figures.”

  “Are they not the same things?” Morgan asked.

  Lasandro extended a hand to her, “Here, sit here and I will teach you.”

  Morgan looked at his hand and cautiously took it. “I hope I’m a better student than you were last night.”

  Lasandro brought her in front of him, sat him between his legs, gave her the brush, and guided her hand to make strokes on the canvas. “Just by seeing someone’s work, you know it was made by that specific person. Everyone has their own style, and it usually shows. Just relax. You don’t want to overwork the canvas.”

  They continued to paint, and their bodies became closer and closer. Morgan could feel Lasandro’s growing length behind her, and her flesh stirred.

  Lasandro leaned in even closer. Her scent was intoxicating. Her hair smelled of lavender, and the blistering heat inside of him rose hotter and hotter. He gently took the brush from her hand and placed it on the palette. Then he squeezed her body against his, wrapping his arm around her waist, inhaling her scent while placing soft kisses on her shoulder blade. She had such a radiant tone to her skin, and he felt her warming to his advances, wanting and needing it.

  Her skin cooled, and she jerked away. “Lasandro, we can’t do this,” she whispered.

  Not again! Lasandro thought. How can she just turn herself off like that? “I forgot, Marly. You only screw degenerate strangers from dive bars. You’re such a tease!”