Bloodlust

by Kramer, D. L.

  “Venom,” she said. “It kills the flesh around it and eats away at them slowly, sometimes over days.” She paused, studying the dark line in her claws. “I would imagine it’s a horrible way to die.”

  I swallowed. I was suddenly very glad I was on Marcella’s good side. I made a note to stay there no matter what it took. I wished I’d told her not to tell me.

  “Let me see your claws,” she ordered.

  I moved my tea cup out of the way and extended them on my left hand. Mine were a bit longer than hers and thicker, but not quite as yellow. The inner edges and points were just as sharp, however. Growing them out sharp took practice and skill and usually a couple of feeding cycles to really grasp the basics. You could often gauge how long ago someone had been infected by their claws.

  Our claws didn’t grow out from our fingernails. That would have been far too thin and brittle to be of any real use to us. It was more like they hid under them. When we extended them, they came out from under the nail, as thick as our fingertips and anchored securely to the bones. Kind of like a cat. If you wanted to de-claw one of us, you’d have to cut our fingers off, just like de-clawing a cat. We could control how far out they grew, as well as the shape to some extent and eventually the edge.

  Marcella studied my claws for a minute, then nodded. “He was old, the one who bit you,” she finally stated. “You’ve got the vein beginning to show in them.” She tapped a faint translucent spot towards the base of one claw that came about half an inch up. She looked back at me, studying me with narrowed eyes. “You smelled old when I found you, that’s why I went looking for you. I wondered what another old one was doing there.” She paused for a moment and when she spoke again, I could almost make out the emotion in her voice. “I thought for a moment it might be my grandfather.”

  I looked from my claws up to her face as I retracted them back again. “You’re saying I’m going to develop that?” I motioned to her hand and the black line running along each claw.

  “Yes.” She gave another odd flex to her fingertips and the venom drained back down again before she retracted her claws. “And that’s why Aleksander is cautious around you now. And probably why he wants your support. When you two fought last time, he barely escaped and he knows it. He may not realize what you have in you, Mikhos, but he knows it’s something that sets you apart, I’d guarantee it. Having you on his side and seeming under his control would give his little altar to himself immense weight with this army he’s trying to build.” She shifted her weight slightly in the chair. Though whether to be ready to get up or just get more comfortable, I couldn’t tell. I wasn’t sure how she knew that’s why Aleksander was doing what he was, but it felt right.

  And quite honestly, sometimes Marcella just knew things.

  I let out a slow breath, not even aware I’d been holding it. Certain things fell into place now. Looks, his tone of voice, his body language. My muscles slowly tightened as a deep anger started to burn in me. How dare he think he could use me? He wanted my help to teach his army because he knew he lacked the skills to do it himself. He didn’t realize those he’d infected would be even worse off than he was.

  Our fight had been vicious and left me with the scarring that had turned my eye white and nearly split my skull open. I’d left him with a fair share of injuries as well, however, including a ring of scars around his heart from where I’d nearly gotten hold of it to tear it out and kill him.

  As my mind turned over all of this, Marcella stood and went to stir her sauce again.

  “The one who infected Aleksander was only about the age I am now,” I said out loud, my mind working things over. “And given that Aleksander is only about fifty years older than me…” I considered the time and what I knew about us. “The real differences won’t show up for at least another couple of centuries.”

  Marcella nodded, setting the spoon down again and coming back over to the table. “For now, you’re pretty fairly matched. Though you’re able to do some things better than he can. You fight better, faster. You’re better at predicting what your opponent will do, so you can be ready for it.” She motioned to my paintings over in my work area. “Your eye for detail sets you apart. You see the tiny things anyone else would miss. You notice when a muscle flexes or relaxes, you notice when posture changes, even if it’s just subconsciously in a fight. That’s why he can’t beat you.”

  I nodded, my head still working things over.

  “Can I ask what happened to your grandfather without being hurt?” I asked her.

  She nodded slowly.

  “He stayed with me,” she replied. “He helped me through the changes, teaching me what he knew, showing me what to do.” She fell quiet again. I sipped my tea, waiting for her to continue. “After a few years, he left. He couldn’t stand seeing what he’d done to me, so he left. I never saw him again.”

  I reached over and set my hand next to her arm. I didn’t need to touch her; she was as uncomfortable with physical contact as I was. But she’d know what the gesture meant. Understanding. Compassion. Support.

  After a moment, she nodded, a sense of finality in the motion. She stood up from her chair, deliberately pushing it back under the table, then picked up her headscarf and unfolded it. She smoothed it lightly on the table before putting it over her hair and tying it at the back of her neck.

  “You call this a curse, Mikhos,” she said to me. “And call us monsters. I suppose in a sense it is and we are.” She paused, her eyes pinned on me again. “I have Rosie. She gives me something to fight for and a reason to be. I think you need this baby. Maybe you won’t fight what’s inside you so much if you have someone else to fight for.” She picked up her shawl and draped it over her arm. “Enjoy your dinner. It would be good over penne.”

  She walked to the door and let herself out. After she closed the door behind her, I heard the lock click again and had to smile to myself.

  Next time I saw her I’d have to ask her when she’d made herself a key to my studio.

  I tend to bury myself in my work after I’ve been involved in any deaths, but for some reason, this time I didn’t feel that need. I gave a lot of thought to what Marcella had said to me and some of it made sense. Some of it was going to take more thought.

  Some of it was going to take a lot more thought.

  I’d been watching the news and keeping occasional contact with the social worker at the hospital. No one had come forward to claim April’s body in the week since she died. I knew it wasn’t my responsibility, but yet I still felt responsible. I had hoped the police would be able to find a relative who might be able to take her home, wherever home was. But then again, I’m sure they felt one homeless teen killed by two punks in a mugging didn’t warrant their highest priority. They spent so much time working on the details, sometimes they forgot the person. And by necessity, some people weren’t as important as others.

  April had looked past my scars and appearance and wanted to know the person. Her faith in humanity had been her hope for the future, even when life had so obviously slammed doors in her face.

  I’d already contacted my lawyer about the custody case for Dawn. I’d confessed I was still having misgivings, but I wanted to keep on top of the situation and make sure whatever decision was made, it was in the baby’s best interest. It took exactly two more phone calls for him to arrange for April to receive a burial and headstone in one of the cemeteries in town. At least she wouldn’t be buried in a pauper’s grave and if family ever came looking for her, they’d find her listed in the cemetery’s records. I felt that regardless of what happened with Dawn, I could make sure April wasn’t lost and forgotten.

  I’d had it pointed out to me that she’d very possibly been using a fake name, but somehow I doubted it. She hadn’t struck me as being that underhanded or devious. And I’d had a lot of time to figure out underhanded and devious.

  I was working on my painting, but not completely absorbing myself in it. I was using the time to contemplate what to
do about Aleksander. I didn’t expect him to realize he had two missing for a bit yet; I doubted he took daily roll call. I was a bit troubled by not having noticed the second one there, but knew it wasn’t completely unusual, especially where he hadn’t been infected that long ago. And I had been fairly well focused on the one I’d been following.

  The way I saw it, I had three real options. First, I could keep hunting down his followers one at a time until I reached the top. Second, I could go straight for the top and take on Aleksander then worry about everyone else. Or third I could hope he’d entrust me with more information, then figure out how to take his little scheme apart so it couldn’t be rebuilt again.

  I could see problems with all three. The first one would take me quite a while and eventually there would be a body I couldn’t get rid of or someone was going to see the fight. The second was likely to be just as messy, if not more so. I had no doubt Aleksander’s minions would take offense to me trying to kill their leader. And the third, well, I just didn’t want to spend that much time around him.

  I absolutely hate it when I have to choose between options I just don’t like.

  One thing I did know, however, is I wasn’t going to do this entire thing alone. Sometimes, no matter how much you dislike the idea, you have to ask for help. Or at least have someone around who knows what you’re doing so if it goes wrong, they can clean up the mess.

  I wasn’t sure about asking Marcella. Since our discussion the other day, I suspected she would want a few days alone. It wasn’t unheard of her for her to open up that way, but it didn’t happen very often. It took a great deal of effort for her to trust someone with bits from her past. I suppose it meant a lot that she had told me as much as she had.

  No, I wasn’t going to involve Marcella until I had no other choice. Which left me with Rosie. Yeah, this was going to go well.

  Chapter Eight

  Trust

  My father was born in Hungary, early in the nineteenth century. The summer he reached his seventeenth year, his mother died after a long illness. He lost his father a little less than a year after that, some say because he simply couldn’t live without his wife who he’d long said was the love of his life. My father decided shortly after that there were too many memories and he wanted to get away from them and find his own way. So he sold their little shop and most of their belongings, took what few things he kept for himself and set out into the world.

  He eventually found himself in England and had taken a job working the docks loading and unloading ships. The daughter of one of the foremen brought her father his supper one day and my father caught a glimpse of her walking into the office. He told me from that day on, he had one purpose to his life and a goal: he had to meet that young woman and get her to marry him.

  To my mother’s credit, she kept the poor man dangling for almost a year and a half. Teasing him, flirting a bit here and there. Stopping to visit, then pretending she had to hurry on her way just when their conversation started to get interesting.

  My father did everything he could to try to prove himself both to her and to my grandfather. He worked extra hours, came to work even when he felt under the weather, found a tutor to help his reading and math skills so he could move up in the company. And he doted on my mother and took all of her teasing in stride.

  They married almost four years to the day from when he’d first set eyes on her. I was born almost two years later and was their only child. My grandfather had some misgivings about my father’s sincerity and one of the ways my father chose to show his dedication to my mother and his new life was to take their last name. That was how I’d ended up with a Hungarian given name and English surname. My father told me once Mikhos had been my paternal grandfather’s name and it was how he wanted to remember him.

  My parents died before my fortieth year. Their deaths were about two years apart, both dying of illnesses. I’m sure thinking they’d lost their only son contributed. I went to their graves after the funerals to ask them to forgive me.

  Not surprisingly, they didn’t answer me. I hadn’t really expected them to, but some small part of me had hoped for one of those peaceful feelings or a calm warmness you hear people mention. But there was nothing. Only two burial plots, each with a carved headstone. At least they could stay by each others’ sides for eternity. I knew by then I wasn’t going to be joining them any time soon, if at all.

  That was about the same time I stopped praying and shortly afterwards that I stopped thinking there might be a god. Crises of faith may be difficult to get through, but you can discover some profound things about yourself through them. Perhaps that’s why god inflicts them on people.

  Now that’s all I needed to have to think about.

  During my time spent traveling, I made a point of going to Hungary and found the shop that had belonged to my grandparents. I made a few inquiries and found the cemetery where they were buried as well. I paid my respects to grandparents I had never known and went on my way. It was the last time I’d been in a cemetery.

  Until now.

  I watched from a distance, sheltered by a large oak tree, as a couple of workers marked out where to dig for April’s grave. There had been a light sprinkle of rain that morning. The trees still dripped with water and the scent of rain still lingered in the air. The sky was filled with just enough clouds to make you think it might not be finished raining yet. I kept my hat pulled low over my face and the collar on my coat pulled up, hiding as much of myself as possible.

  I really didn’t like cemeteries.

  But I wanted to see where April would be laid to rest. Dawn would need to know where her mother was.

  I watched for a few more minutes, making note of landmarks around the area and where the closest gates were. When I finally left, I tried to make myself decide where to go next. Part of me wanted to go back to my studio and paint. I also wanted to go talk to Rosie and Nicholas. And I wanted to go poke around looking for Aleksander. I also debated just packing everything up and moving somewhere new.

  Yes, I know, you can’t run from problems. But you can sure as hell try. I had to remind myself then that running from my problems was how I’d met Marcella. Who knew what I’d find the next time I tried it.

  That pretty much made me decide not to pursue that last option.

  As I walked away from the cemetery, I decided to combine some errands with going to visit Rosie and Nicholas. I stopped by a couple of art stores, picking up some more tubes of paint I was running low on. Then spent a good twenty minutes looking at brushes. I’m convinced an artist can never have enough good brushes. It seems there’s always one out there with a slightly different shape or size that I don’t have yet. I’d imagine bakers and cooks were the same way with pans and kitchen gadgetry. Or carpenters with tools.

  And besides, I never knew when my art might take a different direction and I’d need entirely different tools.

  Justifying things to yourself can be so much fun.

  I was on my way to the front to pay when I caught a glimpse of someone familiar down another of the aisles. I paused, recognizing the nurse from the hospital as she looked through children's’ art kits. I could hear that faint noise from her chest again whenever she breathed. Just a flutter, I wasn’t sure if a doctor would even be able to hear it in an exam.

  This was one of the drawbacks. Knowing something was wrong with someone and having no way of telling them without exposing yourself or having them think you were just flat out insane. Sometimes you got lucky and they thought you were psychic, which risked exposing you even further.

  We’re special that way.

  Gayle. I remembered her name from her name tag.

  She was no longer dressed in work clothes and was wearing a slim pair of jeans, a blouse with a slender belt and had a long, silky scarf around the back of her neck, the ends hanging down to just short of the bottom of her blouse and a light wool jacket that came to her hips. I admit I did pause for a moment to appreciate her form. Simp
ly for the artistic quality and the color combinations. Honest.

  Her hair was still pinned up and held with a mother of pearl clasp, with a few strands that had come loose and were hanging by her ear. Without the harsh fluorescent lights from the hospital, I could see far more of the brown than the grey.

  More of that artistic observation.

  Some observations are just more detailed than others.

  I stayed carefully out of view as she turned to the young man stocking shelves further down the aisle.

  “Excuse me, do you know which of these might be best for young boys, about four and seven years old?”

  The young man thought for a moment, then stood and came over to help her. He pointed out a few of the different kits with the same half interest most people have when they’re working at a job to pay bills and not really because they enjoy it. Personally, I thought his recommendations were entirely wrong without knowing more of what interested the people they were for. Not everyone is going to get interested in watercolors. Most parents simply preferred those for their children because they were easier to clean up. I debated just going up to the front and paying for my things and leaving, but something in my gut told me to stay. Perhaps it was because I enjoyed art so much I wanted to encourage it in others. Perhaps I actually wanted to talk to someone else. Now that was an odd thought.

  I moved down to the other end of the aisle, coming around by the endcap as she went back to looking at the art kits, obviously not sure if the young man’s recommendations had been correct. The young man went back to his shelf-stocking without even glancing back at her.

  “Not that I’d speak for most young boys, but I remember from my own childhood, the more hands-on I could be with something, the more I liked it.” I finally convinced myself to speak, trying not to growl too much. It was harder than I’d thought it would be. I still wasn’t used to all of this interaction with others, even though in the last week I swear I’d spoken to more people than I had in the previous year. I felt somewhat like a pre-teen boy at his first school dance who caught a girl looking at him. I became vaguely aware of my palms being sweaty.