Bloodlust

by Kramer, D. L.

  “What is it?” I asked him, not letting on that there was no way in hell I’d ever do anything with him. But just because I didn’t want him as a friend didn’t mean I wanted him as an enemy. Given his point that we did seem to live forever, that’s an awfully long time to be sworn enemies with someone.

  “Organization.”

  I turned to look at him with my clear eye. He hadn’t stuck around long enough before to find out if I’d truly been blinded in my other eye. No sense letting him know I hadn’t.

  “Organization of what?” I asked.

  “Of us!” he declared. “Of all of those like us, under one leader, who can look out for each of us. Who can keep track of who’s doing what and when and where. Someone who can make sure the new ones are taught how to use their new abilities.” He ran his fingers down Gianna’s shoulder again.

  I could tell by the look in his eyes and tone of his voice this was a speech he’d spent long hours practicing. I tried not to gag.

  “There aren’t enough of us,” I growled at him. “You’re wasting your time, just like you did in Cairo.” After a moment’s thought, I had to admit he was probably wasting more of it now than he did then.

  “Oh, but that’s where you’re wrong,” he lowered his voice slightly as Gianna laughed quietly. Her claws still clicked nervously. Aleksander leaned forward slightly, his eyes eager, hungry. Insane. “I’ve turned fifty so far this year alone. I’m building us an army, Mikhos. An army that will have the humans crying for mercy.”

  I stared at him. I had second thoughts about my wish for madness now, if that’s what it was going to do.

  “Are you out of your mind?” I asked him, my tone level, serious. “We won’t be able to live. They’ll hunt us down. You’ll expose us to the entire world, you idiot!” Part of me wanted to jump at him, to feel my claws tearing at his throat and flesh for his egotistical stupidity.

  Damned fool.

  There had certainly been those of us who had been discovered in the past. Some that were so overcome when they needed to feed that they lost all sense of control and exposed themselves to the world around them. Most confrontations like that ended badly for everyone involved.

  “They won’t even see us coming!” Aleksander continued. I could tell by the tone of his voice he was getting into full blown speech mode. Time to cut this off now before he started climbing the walls—literally.

  “Enough!” I cut him off sharply, my voice low and final. “There is a reason why we stay apart, why we don’t just run around infecting others.”

  “Don’t you like your power?” Gianna asked me, her tone still low and husky. She clicked her claws again. “Don’t you like being more than the mortals, to know none of them can stop you?”

  She was practically a cat in heat.

  It wasn’t an image I appreciated.

  I barely glanced at her. She reminded me of the ones who had some damned romantic notion in their heads about what we were. The women who huddled in their beds, with a bedside lamp on and their cats curled up next to them, reading books and turning page after page eagerly, thinking if they were in that heroine’s position, they’d be throwing themselves at the animal who was hunting them. Wishing their husband or boyfriend would pursue them like that and never being willing to give them the chance to try.

  I snorted.

  “So what?” I asked Aleksander. “Does she think she’s Carmilla and you’re going to turn into Frank Langella?” I motioned to Gianna. “You didn’t do very well telling her the reality of things if that’s the case.”

  Aleksander stared at me for a moment and I could tell he was seething below the surface. It was bad enough in his mind I was openly doubting and questioning him, but doing it in front of someone else was going to tear and shred at his ego. The fact that it was someone he obviously wanted to impress only made it worse in his mind. Then again, anything short of oooo’ing and aaaaah’ing would make it worse in his mind. I won’t even get into the bowing and scraping he’d really love to see.

  Luckily I wasn’t so easily impressed.

  “Explain to me,” I continued to him. “How you’re going to teach—what was it—fifty of them to hunt and survive?” I paused, realizing what he was doing now and why he’d come. “You think I’m going to help you teach them,” I said, tilting my head slightly. I felt my upper lip turning into a slight snarl, disgusted with him for thinking he could pull this off and disgusted with myself for taking so long to figure it out.

  “I was—hoping you would help,” Aleksander said finally, his voice controlled, but I could tell by his expression it was taking a serious effort. “You know how to be subtle. You know how to understand what happens within us. All your years of traveling have taught you more than most of us know. You could explain things, show them--”

  I held up one hand to him, then turned and went back to the sink and cleaning my brushes. “Stop before you embarrass yourself,” I told him. “We both know you’re not given to flattery and even when you try, it’s not sincere.” I turned to glance back at him. “I’ve known you too long.” I turned back to face them again, wishing they’d leave my studio and--more importantly--leave me alone.

  “That you have,” he conceded. I could hear him changing tactics yet again by the subtle shift to his tone. I didn’t buy his original speech, I didn’t buy his flattery, he was going to start getting desperate here soon. It might almost be worth it to watch. What was even more apparent was he was obviously convinced he needed my help.

  “We’re wasting our time,” Gianna stated, her claws clicking again. “He’s obviously not going to help us.”

  She’d clicked them forty five times now since coming through the window.

  I turned to look at her, still neither amused by nor impressed with her.

  “And I remember a time when children were seen and not heard,” I told her.

  She growled and moved in the same instant, spinning and lashing out towards me, her claws spread and deadly sharp, like a cat thinking it was going to knock a sparrow from a feeder.

  Now that was amusing.

  Before she’d even had a chance to come within inches of me, my own claws were out and I’d twisted out of her way. Moving with an almost blinding speed, I shifted my weight with my momentum. I swung my leg around, easily knocking her feet from under her. Aleksander barked her name as I landed on her. I easily pinned her and pushed my claws from one hand deeply into her neck, the blood surging around them. I could smell the thick bitter tang to it and feel the sticky warmth of it over my fingers. She struggled under my weight but was unable to get away from me. She screamed in frustration and anger.

  Still amusing.

  Why she’d even thought she stood half a chance of succeeding was well beyond me. Unless Aleksander had been acting like his usual self and only telling them the parts that were convenient for making him appear all that much better.

  “One twist and you find out how easy it is to kill one of us if you know what you’re doing,” I pointed out to her, sinking my claws further into each side of her neck.

  “I think she’s learned her lesson, Mikhos,” Aleksander said, his tone level, controlled. Good, he remembered. “Now she undoubtedly sees why I wanted your help and that there’s a significant amount you can teach.”

  I gave one last squeeze on her neck, getting another scream for it, before releasing her. I stood up and stepped back, taking a rag from the counter to wipe her blood from my claws and fingers before retracting them as Aleksander helped her to her feet. She clutched her neck, glaring at me and growling each time she exhaled.

  “Go feed your pet,” I told Aleksander. “She’s practically drooling.” I could see the wounds in her neck starting to heal, the blood flow almost stopped and the edges smoothing before they grew closed again. The red streaks of blood down her shoulders and front of her chest made for a wonderful contrast to her top and pale skin.

  Aleksander considered Gianna for a moment before nodding to me. �
��We’ll discuss this more when the time is more appropriate,” he said. “Perhaps when she’s not in a feeding cycle.”

  “I doubt it,” I said, my tone dismissing him. “But you’re more than welcome to try.”

  I didn’t bother walking them to the door, but I did go lock it again after they’d gone. I wasn’t too concerned about being in any danger. Gianna was no threat to me and Aleksander wasn’t going to attack me so long as he felt he could convince me to help him.

  Like I said, amusing.

  Chapter Five

  Misconceptions

  I kept to myself for the next couple of days, not going out unless I needed to. During the time, I made fair progress on my painting, my mind only wandering as I considered what parts to work on next.

  It was those damned wanderings that were going to be my undoing, I just knew it.

  Yes, I was still caught in turmoil over what to do about the baby.

  It was during those moments, however, when I realized there were things I could do, to show at least some respect for April’s short life and what she had wanted to trust me with when she realized she couldn’t do it herself.

  Lily’s Water.

  She had mentioned the painting, saying she’d had a print of it and it had been her favorite. I knew exactly where to find my original painting.

  Part of the fun of being a temperamental artist meant I could make my own rules regarding my work. I licensed out reprints to reputable companies and there were very high quality official reprints of my pieces that were sold to collectors. But I was stingy. I very, very rarely sold an original work.

  I preferred to put them in collections and place them in shows at assorted galleries. I had seen too many artists lose favorite pieces into private collections where they were rarely seen by anyone again. The fact that I did sell so few original works meant that those I had were highly valued and it also meant that when I did decide to sell another one, it brought outstanding prices.

  It felt like a relief to have finally made at least some decision. Even us monsters needed goals and direction at times. Otherwise our existences would be quite torturous. I usually debated and argued with myself for months on end before finally deciding whether or not to sell a painting. The fact that this one came to me so easily both disturbed me and felt right.

  Try reconciling that one with your own mind.

  I finished the last touches on the leaves I had been working on for the last hour and cleaned up my workspace. Taking my coat and hat, I left the studio and made my way to the south side of town.

  The afternoon was warm, with a slight breeze. I could smell the food carts from several blocks away, near the business district and hear the steady, overlapping bartering of the vendors and customers. It reminded me I hadn’t eaten anything that day yet, but food didn’t seem all that important to me right now. I kept my hat pulled low as I walked, not wanting to frighten anyone, besides not wanting to draw attention to myself.

  The warehouse where I stored my paintings was fairly new and highly secure and climate controlled. They catered to those with valuable collections and who demanded a certain level of discretion.

  You can damn well bet they charged appropriately, too.

  It took me nearly ten minutes just to get past the front desk and security check there before I could make my way down to the lower level where I’d rented space. Finally reaching my storage area, I unlocked it and rolled up the solid metal door. Inside, narrow wooden crates were lined up along one side, while the other side was a combination of tubes, smaller crates and flat leather portfolios. I could see clearly with just the security lights and the familiar scents of oil, wood, canvas, linen and leather were like old friends.

  Basically, they were.

  Is it odd that I could even smell the differences in the paints?

  I walked in, running one finger along the crates on the bottom of the shelves on the left. The eighth one in from the end, with the knotted wood near the top of the side and the one nail that had been put in just a little off center.

  I slid the crate out, the weight familiar to me immediately. It was one of my larger paintings, almost three feet high and two feet wide. I’d chosen that size on purpose for it, knowing it would translate exactly to a poster-sized print. Yes, sometimes I was forced to consider the economic impact of things. It grated against everything being an artist stood for, but was a necessity of life.

  Even artists liked to eat real food occasionally.

  I set the crate outside the doorway as I closed and locked the door again, then picked it up and carried it back upstairs with me as I headed to my next destination. I wasn’t too worried about someone trying to steal it from me. If they managed to get it away from me and survive long enough to escape, then I could guarantee they’d earned it.

  Over the years since I’d been infected, I’d had to come to certain terms within myself of both what I was and what I could be. I had struggled a great number of times to balance the animal and the humanity. During my more introspective moments, I could accept the animal so long as he stayed at bay and only came out when I released him to feed. Other times, I wanted nothing to do with him and those were the times I’d nearly found myself in trouble. For some reason, I got the feeling that he didn’t really like to be ignored and wanted to be acknowledged as a part of me.

  Marcella’s guidance had been invaluable to me at those times. She’d always seemed to understand the struggle, but had accepted who and what she was and had let it transform her into a mix of the two. I had seen her do things no others like us could do. She could do more than just impose her will on someone by blowing on them and seemed able to know what someone was thinking before they did. While we all had the same basic abilities, I’d noticed they seemed stronger in some than others. Marcella could keep someone from remembering her for well over an hour, whereas I was limited to a few minutes. Mine allowed me to slip a few blocks away from them. Hers allowed her to find the nearest taxi and be very nearly out of town.

  Like her ability to only bring out a single claw. But like her claws, whenever I asked her about it, she gave me the same answer: you have to accept it to fine tune it.

  What none of it changed, however, was that I still despised what I was. I hated hunting other humans, just as I hated the bloodlust a feeding cycle put me into. I hated seeing someone standing on a street corner waiting for a taxi and wondering if in a few months they would be my next victim.

  And I hated myself for even caring about it.

  I was still rambling about in my head when I reached the church on twenty fifth. The white roof was bright in the late afternoon sun and a few people from the shelter next door were milling about in the parking lot between the two buildings, probably hoping to get an early place in line for dinner.

  I slipped inside the church without attracting too much notice. Most people stayed out of my way anyway, their unconscious avoidance of danger trying to keep them a safe distance from me.

  I could smell the melting wax from the candles on the far side of the room and glanced over that way. About a third of the candles were lit, some sputtering as they ran out of wick and wax to burn. I looked around the rest of the area as I debated removing my hat, but then decided to leave it. If some higher being didn’t like it, we’d discuss it later.

  Near the front of the church, picking up papers from one of the pews, I spotted the same priest I had spoken with earlier. I walked up the aisle toward him, stopping a few feet back and setting the crate down next to me. I was sure by now a normal person would have been exhausted from carrying it that far, but ‘normal’ wasn’t a word that had been associated with me for a very long time.

  “Hello, again,” he greeted me, nodding his head. He didn’t flinch too much. And he remembered me. Bonus points for him.

  “Father,” I returned his nod and did my best not to growl too much. I really should try to talk out loud more, then maybe my voice wouldn’t sound so coarse.

  Oh, that�
��s right, I rarely had anyone to talk to.

  And only insane people talk to themselves, right?

  “I was wondering if I might speak to you in private?” I continued after a moment. “I have…a proposal of sorts.”

  He studied me for a minute and I could tell he was weighing my words with my appearance and our last brief meeting. If I were him, I’d have probably run screaming from the room at that point.

  “We can speak over here,” he said, motioning to a door off to the side. He led the way over as I picked up the crate and followed him.

  Now if you’ve never seen a storage crate for a painting, it’s not something that’s terribly thick. It’s mostly width and height. So it wasn’t all that awkward to be carrying. Though in retrospect, I think I could have gone with something shorter than three feet for the height.

  The room he led me to was an average sized office. Nothing too large, but not to small either. It could probably accommodate four or five people comfortably to talk. I leaned the crate against one of the chairs and moved a bit to the side.

  "What can I do for you?" the priest asked.

  "I suppose first a formal introduction might be in order," I said, trying very hard to sound sincere and tilting my head slightly to look at him with my clear eye. "I hope you'll forgive my manners, but my scars can be somewhat alarming, so I don't tend to take off my hat or coat."

  He nodded his head like he understood, but I suspect he was just being polite. Priests are very good at polite. And they try very hard to be good at understanding.

  "My name is Michael Dorian, I'm an artist of sorts and I would like to make an anonymous donation to the church and shelter here on the condition the piece be auctioned and the proceeds be used for an outreach program for teens."

  There, I'd said it. I'd gotten it all out without giving myself a second to reconsider. It had been easier than I'd expected.

  He raised his eyebrows in surprise. "That's very generous of you," he said. "I suppose you're right and introductions are in order. I'm Father Mallory." He nodded at the crate. "Is that the painting?"