Bloodlust

by Kramer, D. L.

  You walk among them as a monster and they will treat you as a leper.

  It was enough to make one cynical.

  And lonely.

  I was sure there were some who were naturally loners, who didn’t mind having to lose that everyday contact with humanity. But for me, it had been torture.

  “That’s why I came to ask your advice,” I said to Marcella. “I know you raised at least one of your children after you were infected.”

  She was quiet for a moment and I caught the flicker in her expression. It was a painful memory for her, something she didn’t talk about. She picked at my sore spots, though, so hers were fair game. It was a twisted rule we lived by, but it served our purposes.

  “You’ll need help,” she finally said. “Rosie, maybe Nicholas--someone who can watch the baby when you need to feed. Your work as an artist should cover any questions anyone else might have.”

  Nicholas was Rosie’s husband and though he knew what Marcella and I were, he didn’t talk about it. Both Marcella and I could smell his apprehension around us, though.

  There were those who thought they wanted to be like us. Who found the notion romantic or enticing. Then there were those who wanted it for the power. More than once I’d been stalked by some black-clad teenager wearing studs and leather begging me to “turn” him or her.

  Those were the ones I was more than happy to scare away.

  I had never infected anyone. I always made sure they were dead. Marcella had admitted to me once that she’d infected a lover, believing him when he’d said he wanted to be with her forever. Once he’d discovered the truth of what we were, however, he had left her. The last she’d heard of him, he’d banished himself somewhere that he couldn’t hurt anyone.

  It was another one of those sore spots.

  The sort that would have her try to nail something to you when you brought it up.

  “You know Rosie would love to help with a baby,” Marcella added, her voice somewhat gentler. “Since her last miscarriage, she and Nicholas have been having problems.”

  While Marcella’s other descendants hadn’t ever seemed to have trouble carrying on her family line, Rosie and her husband had lost four babies now before she could get to the second trimester. Each one had been harder and harder on them, which earned them my full sympathy.

  I nodded. “I’d hate to ask her and bring up more trouble for her, though.”

  Marcella moved with lightning speed, a blur even to me. One hand lashed out, smacking me up the side of my head and making my ear feel like it was going to explode.

  “When I tell you it won’t be a problem, it won’t be a problem,” she stated, her accent growing heavier as she settled herself back into her chair while I rubbed my ear.

  I started to mutter a curse under my breath, then stopped myself, not wanting to get hit again. I couldn’t guarantee she wouldn’t bring her claws out for a second swing.

  “That wasn’t necessary!” I told her, frowning and feeling that instinctual reaction to danger welling up in me. I had to force it down before it started more trouble than I wanted to deal with where Marcella was concerned.

  I knew my abilities and I knew what I was capable of doing. Humans for the most part stood no chance against me or any of my kind. We were faster, stronger, more vicious and had no ability to reason when we were fully enraged.

  And I knew if Marcella were ever fully enraged, I wouldn’t stand a chance against her.

  I’m sure you’ve heard the saying about hell and scorned women. They’ve got nothing on Marcella when she’s decided she’s angry with you.

  I took a moment to compose myself.

  “Do you think I can do this?” I asked her finally, getting back to the reason why I’d come.

  “That’s entirely up to you, Mikhos,” she said after watching me for a long time. “You know the risks. But you also know you have friends who’ll help.” It didn’t surprise me she went back to the subject so readily. She didn’t hold grudges and kept things businesslike.

  More of that animal mentality we all seemed to have. She was Alpha female and when needed would remind whoever of that fact, then go back to what she was doing.

  I paused for a moment. “Are you saying you’re my friend?” I asked her.

  “No more than you’re mine,” she returned, her accent still heavy. “But Rosie seems to like you for some reason.”

  “For some reason,” I repeated, biting back the comment that it was probably because I wasn’t nearly as bitter as her grandmother.

  Marcella paused and I could tell she was concentrating on something else for a moment. “When will you know if they’ll let you keep her?”

  I shrugged. “It depends on the courts. I already have a lawyer, I was going to call him tomorrow morning after I’ve had time to think about everything.”

  “Art must be paying pretty well if you’ve got a lawyer on retainer.”

  “Actually, he’s the one who handles my copyright work when someone tries to infringe on it. But I’m sure if he can’t handle a simple guardianship case, he knows someone who can.”

  Marcella nodded. “You have another problem,” she stated.

  “Oh?” Like I needed anything else.

  “Aleksander is in the area.”

  There aren’t many things she could have said that would make my blood run cold, but that was one of them.

  Chapter Four

  Aleksander

  I tried to find the one who infected me. After I realized what I’d become, I looked for him. I understood why he’d attacked me, knowing the state he’d been in and how he’d been unable to resist. I also understood if Phillip hadn’t shown up when he did, I wouldn’t have survived.

  And I wouldn’t be what I am.

  I’ve asked myself many times if it would have been better to be that man’s victim or to become like him. I still ask myself that. One of these days maybe I’ll even come up with an answer.

  I’d be lying to say some days I don’t think it would have been better to die that night. Even knowing it would have been a horrible death. At least it would have ended then. Though I suppose if I allowed myself a moment to delve into my philosophies, I could say that I did die that night. It just took me a long time to realize it.

  Unfortunately, I never found him. Or, perhaps, fortunately would be more accurate. I’m still not sure what I’d have said to him if I had. Perhaps I’d have just wanted to know why he ran off. Knowing now what I do, I know he’d have been able to kill both Phillip and myself that night. Even Phillip being armed with his cleaver would have been little more than an annoyance to him. I never did figure out what he growled before running off. Perhaps just frustration and anguish. Perhaps cursing that part of himself that was still human and making him see himself as weak. Perhaps so overcome by the animal, he could do nothing more than growl.

  What I did find, though, while searching for him, were others like me. I found them as I traveled; most any big city had at least a few of us—that whole being able to hide in the masses. Even though we tended to be solitary creatures, knowing where to find others was a comfort. Marcella was one of them I found. Aleksander was another.

  There was no real order to us, but most of us respected the old ones like Marcella. Their knowledge and experience could be of great benefit.

  Sometimes I even listened to them.

  Not that I was contrary by nature, but there was just a certain amount I liked to figure out and do on my own. I suppose I’d always had an artist’s heart and it just came bleeding out as I dealt with myself. It was by Marcella’s experience, however, that I did know we could be killed by beheading. The trick was convincing one of us to let you cut off our head.

  That’s right, I spent a decade trying to kill myself, found a way, then decided not to go through with it.

  We’re a temperamental species, too. Did I forget to mention that?

  I left Marcella’s after visiting for a few more minutes with Rosie. I didn’t menti
on the reason for my visit to her; I knew Marcella would when the time was right. I made my way home, making sure I’d locked my doors securely behind me once I was inside.

  Yes, I know, you don’t have to say it. But it made me feel better.

  I couldn’t help but wonder how my life had turned so upside down in so short of a time. What had been a fairly routine existence, with as little upheaval as possible had suddenly become anything but. If I’d been more inclined to think that way, I’d think the universe was out to get me.

  Thankfully, philosophy didn’t always have to mean paranoia.

  I left my coat and hat by the door, hanging in their usual spots on the coat rack just inside the entry. I spent a few minutes puttering around my studio, checking some of the details on my painting, making note of which colors were blending how I wanted and which ones still needed more touching up until I’d be happy with them. I made a quick count of my tubes of paint, making sure they were all in order how I liked them, lined up along the bottom of the old wooden box I stored them in. It made it a lot easier to work once I had an image in my head if I didn’t have to hunt for a specific color or brush.

  And no, I don’t expect you to understand unless you’re the same way yourself.

  I wasn’t always like this. I don’t recall my need to count things until after I’d been infected. I first noticed it when I was walking home one night and realized I’d counted every step I’d taken all the way there. It had been there since then, though it seemed to come and go depending on my stress level. And the myth about throwing a handful of rice to distract us so you can escape while we count the grains? It doesn’t work that way, just so you know.

  Getting everything in order, I picked up my palette and sorted through my brushes looking for the one I wanted before going back to work on my painting.

  It was easy to lose track of time when I was painting. I’ve seen artists who blotch paint here and there and call it leaves, then blotch some more on and call them bushes or fields of flowers.

  As for myself, my art had recently evolved into what they called hyper-realistic painting.

  Look it up if you don’t know what it is, I’m not going to go into technical details here. However, like most hyperrealism artists, I used photos for reference, but unlike them, I painted scenes from my imagination, including key elements from the photos for whatever it was I was trying to capture. Most I’d met took photos and tried to recapture the image as exactly as possible in a painting.

  I worked on my painting for a good three hours before I realized how much time had passed. I’d been working on the shading on the rose bushes, trying to get one section near the bottom to look just right. I took a few minutes to sort through my brushes, dropping the ones I was done with into the jar of turpentine, then stretching my back. I glanced at the clock, noting the late afternoon hour. I wouldn’t be able to work like this with a baby, I realized. I looked around at my work area. There was no part of this area that was safe for a baby or toddler. Oil paints, chemicals, brushes, drying canvases and a whole host of other things that could hurt a child.

  I sighed, torn about what to do about April’s baby. There was apparently no other family and part of me truly dreaded simply allowing the baby to disappear into the system. Wherever April had come from, she had taken it to her grave with her. Though I was sure the baby could be adopted out fairly quickly once the legal hurdles were cleared, there were always plenty of families who wanted the babies.

  And I was, after all, “disabled”.

  I snorted.

  My attention was pulled from my thoughts by a knock at the door. I paused, sniffing the air. It wasn’t either of the detectives who’d been here the other day. Nor was it the social services person I’d spoken to earlier. After a moment, I sighed, recognizing the faint scent.

  I debated not answering it, but knew it would be pointless. Walking to the door, I opened it, tilting my head and keeping my expression neutral.

  “Hello, Aleksander,” I greeted him, careful to keep my voice level.

  Aleksander was older than I was, but not nearly as old as Marcella. I wasn’t even sure where he was originally from, though I’d met him in Germany. He had a faint accent, but it seemed to change just enough to keep anyone from being absolutely sure where it was from. I suspected he did it on purpose just for that reason. He was tall, though not as tall as me and slightly heavier. We probably weighed about the same, but that was just a guess. I suppose if someone scrunched me down a few inches, it might make up for the difference in our builds. He’d had thinning blonde hair when I first met him well over a century ago and I noticed he hadn’t lost much more since then. His eyes were light colored, something of a gray-blue with just the faintest red ring to them and he carried himself with an air of superiority. His skin was more pale than sallow and I recognized the faint dusting of makeup over it, no doubt trying to make himself look more normal.

  Remember I mentioned there were those who wanted to become this for the power?

  Yeah. He was one of those. He enjoyed this life.

  Bastard.

  “Hello, Mikhos,” he smiled at me, brushing past me as he invited himself into my studio. “I hope the last decade has kept you well?” He dressed in what I knew had to be absurdly expensive clothes. From the gold buttons on his shirt to his leather trousers to his highly polished boots. Arrogant bastard.

  I closed the door, debating throwing out my claws now just to warn him against starting any trouble.

  “It’s Michael now,” I pointed out, following him into the main room. “Mikhos stayed in Hungary.” I’d known some of us who changed identities every few years, constantly moving to keep anyone from figuring out who or what they were. Still others kept their name and simply lived a quiet life under the radar of society. I had chosen to use variations of my name, adapting it as needed to fit in with wherever I was living. Mikhos had become Mikhail, which had become Miguel, which had become Michel, which had become Mikael and had finally become Michael.

  He chuckled. “You and your name changes,” he rolled his eyes. So far as I knew, he had kept his birth name.

  “I’m busy right now, did you need something? I somewhat doubt this is a social visit.” I walked past him and back to my work area, taking the jar with the brushes to the sink to clean them.

  “Still holding a grudge?” he asked, his tone amused.

  I turned to look at him with my white eye, not responding. I didn’t need to.

  “Still holding a grudge,” he nodded, stating the obvious.

  I told you we did that.

  “I’m working my way west,” he continued after a minute of watching me. “Making contact with…others.”

  “Picking fights, you mean,” I corrected him.

  “Not at all, those were the days of my youth. I have grander schemes afoot now.”

  I turned to look at him again, waiting for him to continue. I didn’t like the way he said that and felt the hairs on the back of my neck itching to stand up in caution.

  Aleksander always had something brewing. Usually something elaborate and annoying that he dreamed up to try to convince the rest of us he was as wonderful as he said he was. A few would jump on his train from time to time, but after so long they’d grow weary of it and jump back off again.

  That was when I heard it. A faint scraping and shifting of weight outside my main window. I turned on Aleksander, a low growl in my throat even as I felt my claws slowly extending. He had double-crossed me before and I had no intentions of letting him do it again.

  “Calm down,” he told me, his tone quieter, more cautious. It was nice to know he remembered I could give back as good as I got. “It’s just someone I’m traveling with.” He walked to the window, unlatching it and pushing it open. Almost immediately, a woman dropped in, her gaze almost feral. She dressed entirely in black, her thick blonde hair pulled into a single ponytail in front of one shoulder. My eye for detail quickly noted it was a wig, although a very expensi
ve and well made one. Tight black trousers and a black corset top left almost nothing to the imagination. She regarded me warily, her fingers twitching slightly, making her claws click together. She seemed awkward, almost uncomfortable in her own skin. “Mikhos, this is Gianna. Gianna, this is the ‘friend’ I mentioned to you.”

  I hate it when I can hear the quotation marks in someone’s words that way.

  “What is this?” I demanded.

  “She was turned two winters past,” he said, coming to stand next to her, his fingers brushing along her shoulder. She leaned into his touch, her eyes still watching me, moving from my feet to my head, pausing at my scars. I saw the slight flinch in her eyes and felt her pull back slightly inside.

  By the way his fingers lingered on her shoulder, I was suddenly very glad we couldn’t reproduce.

  “And what are you doing with her?” I asked.

  “He’s teaching me to hunt,” she said, her voice husky, with just a bit of snarl to it. I caught the faint black specks in her saliva as she licked her lips.

  “Don’t even think about it,” I warned her, not impressed. Why was it people always thought the quiet, moody artist wasn’t going to put up a fight? Aleksander had thought that once. I wondered if he still had all the scars I’d left him with last time I’d seen him.

  “We’re not here to let her practice on you,” Aleksander assured me. “I know better. Besides, there are more than enough mortals here to keep her busy.”

  “Promoting yourself to a god now?” I asked, noting his words.

  “Well, they are mortal and we do live forever,” he pointed out.

  “Unless someone manages to rip your head off,” I returned. “Or drive a stake through your heart.”

  “Neither of which I’m too concerned with,” he told me. “Now, about my scheme, I’d very much like to have you involved.”