Bloodlust

by Kramer, D. L.

  I should have just taken my things, paid and left.

  “Oh, Mr. Dorian,” Gayle smiled at me as she turned. A polite ‘oh, I recognize you’ type of smile. Not that I expected anyone to forget me once they’d seen me up close. At least she was trying to be polite. Sincerely, even.

  She still didn’t even flinch.

  The young man down the aisle, however, looked over at me, then scooted himself and his box a little further down away from me. I pretended to ignore him. I could practically taste his apprehension, though.

  “It was Gayle, correct?” I asked, trying to sound natural. It wasn’t easy. “I remember your name badge, at the hospital.” Hopefully that didn’t sound too awkward or creepy. Though I could do creepy really well if I wanted to.

  She smiled faintly and nodded, obviously impressed I’d both noted it and remembered. “Gayle Roberts,” she introduced herself.

  “I was on my way out, I noticed you were looking at art kits—“ I nodded to the display in front of her, forcing myself to stop shifting my weight from foot to foot. What in the hell was wrong with me? It was just another person. It’s not like the rest of my life hinged on this moment. Had it really been that long since I’d carried on a normal conversation with someone new? April had been the last and before her, it had been…

  Yes, I suppose it had been that long.

  “I’m trying to find something to occupy my two youngest grandsons,” she explained, nodding. “Working with babies every day, sometimes I’m not sure what the older kids like and I don’t see them often enough to know for sure.”

  “Do they draw or paint?” I asked her.

  She chuckled quietly. “The younger one likes to. As near as I can tell, the seven year old likes anything loud.”

  I nodded, turning my attention to the display and tilting my head to look at it with my clear eye. Now that was something I could concentrate on that wasn’t going to make me uncomfortable. Once again, art would be my sanctuary, even if it was only in ten dollar boxes of paint, balsa wood, modeling clay or plastic parts.

  “I’d probably suggest finger paints for the younger one,” I finally suggested. “Something messy that can be rinsed off fairly easily. Just put a drop cloth under him. And I’d go with clay or a model kit for the older one. Probably a car or plane. Something he can play with after he builds it.”

  She smiled at me and nodded. “Thank you,” she said. She looked the display over again, then selected two kits from it before turning to me. “What brings you in here? This seems an odd place to run into you.”

  I held up my tubes of paint and the couple of brushes I’d convinced myself I absolutely needed. “Actually I’m on their preferred customer list. They tell me they’re going to name their next shop after me.” I’d actually made a joke! With someone I’d only spoken to once before! Now I was sure the world was going to end soon.

  Gayle laughed politely, though I suspect there might have been a hint of honest amusement in there.

  “So you paint?” she asked me, leaving the aisle and walking to the front with me.

  I nodded. “It’s the artistic expression of the moment.”

  “I have to admit, I’m honestly curious who treated your burn injuries, I wouldn’t think you’d have the dexterity or flexibility to do something like that.” She paused. “Unless you’re left handed.”

  “Ambidextrous, actually,” I told her.

  “Really?” she asked, setting her things on the counter. The young man there greeted her, then glanced at me and I felt him pull back some. I kept my head low, hiding the worst of my scars from him.

  “Add those to mine,” I instructed him, my voice a bit more of a growl, as I handed him my paint and brushes. I’ll admit I did occasionally use that for the intimidation factor. I was a bit surprised when Gayle glanced at me, obviously picking up the change in my tone.

  “You don’t have to do that—“ Gayle began.

  “I know,” I nodded to her. “Consider it my contribution to keeping you sane with your grandkids so you can keep Dawn alive and healthy while things get sorted.”

  “Thank you,” she said after a moment, obviously considering continuing to argue with me over it. “She’s doing very well, by the way.”

  I pulled out my wallet and handed the cashier some cash. I preferred living off cash. It wasn’t traceable and easier to just move on that way. I really wasn’t worried about anyone trying to pick my pocket.

  “I’m hoping things work out for the best, whatever that may be.” I handed her the bag with her things and took my own from the cashier with my change.

  “You’re still not sure what you’re going to do?” she asked as we walked to the front door.

  I shook my head slowly. “Even if I decide my life can handle a baby,” I replied. “There are still things I need to take care of to make sure things are safe to have her around.” I didn’t go into detail. I was certain she’d figure it was a matter of ‘baby-proofing’ where I lived and making sure there was enough time to take care of a baby.

  Gayle nodded her head as if she understood. Nurses were almost as good at that as priests. I wondered if it was something they taught them in school.

  “Thank you again,” she said outside, pulling her jacket closer around her and zipping it up about a third of the way. “You should come visit Dawn again. It’ll help her get used to you.”

  I paused, the idea making me both terrified and anxious. “Yes,” I agreed. “I’ll try to make time for that.”

  Maybe I could squeeze that in between hunting newly infected followers of Aleksander’s and hunting Aleksander himself. Maybe next Wednesday.

  “Have a good day,” I nodded to her, adjusted my hat and coat, then turned and walked down the street. I was vaguely aware of her lack of footsteps for several seconds as I walked away and could feel her watching me. Curious. Intrigued. Still not afraid. Finally, I heard her walking away in the opposite direction, then the change in the sound of her footsteps as she crossed the street.

  I hadn’t gone more than three blocks when I picked up a familiar scent.

  Now I couldn’t help but be amused. She thought she was going to track me like prey.

  I tucked my bag from the art shop into my coat pocket as I turned down a side street. A few people passed on the main road, mostly in cars, as few people wanted to be out walking if it was going to rain again. Before I’d gone five feet, I jumped onto the fire escape of a nearby building, then again up to the roof. I walked along, jumping from building to building and seeing if she could keep up.

  Four blocks later, I went back to look for her. Finding her looking warily around the entrance to an alley by the second block. I shifted my coat around me and jumped down, landing next to her. My boots made a solid thud on the pavement since I hadn’t even tried to be quiet.

  I was still amused when she actually startled.

  “You’re not doing very well at this,” I observed, tilting my head to look at her with my clear eye from under the brim of my hat.

  “Where did you go?” Gianna asked, her voice still husky. At first I’d thought she was doing it on purpose, but now it seemed it was her natural voice. She had a faint accent I hadn’t noticed before that I couldn’t quite place. Perhaps French. I somehow doubted she’d come from France itself, so I was willing to bet French Canadian. She just didn’t have that European feel to her.

  I shrugged. “If you can’t keep up, why should I tell you?” I looked around, as if making a show of wanting to know if anyone else was there. I already knew we were alone. “Where is Aleksander?”

  I figured it couldn’t hurt to ask. Maybe I’d be lucky and she’d tell me.

  “If you don’t already know, why should I tell you?” she shot back.

  I barely contained my grin. “Because he wants you to find me. But I’m not likely to cooperate with you. So you tell me, or you lose me again and have to go and admit to him that I got away.” I don’t know why she amused me so much. Perhaps it w
as that she thought she had a handle on everything it meant to be one of us. Perhaps it was simply because she reminded me of someone who was positive they knew everything when deep down they had no clue. Those of us who do have a clue—even a slight one—really do enjoy taunting those who don’t. It’s even better when we get to see firsthand as they realize they had no idea what was going on the entire time.

  I would imagine most parents feel that way when discussing life with their teenagers.

  Her indecision was as heavy in the air as the feeling of coming rain. Apparently I’d put her in quite a quandary with that one. I knew Aleksander well enough to know he’d have whichever flunky he could out running his errands. Now what his interest in me during the day was, I could only guess. He knew where my studio was, so it’s not like I was trying to hide from him. Maybe he was hoping to find a routine to my days. Or figure out if I was in contact with anyone who might threaten or help his plans.

  I made a show of taking my pocket watch out and looking at it, then tucking it back into my trouser pocket. I decided I missed the days when casual vests were fashionable for anyone other than angst-ridden poets and bikers. “Time’s almost up,” I told her. “I’m a busy man and can’t stand here and wait all day.” There was a brief pause in the air, almost unnoticeable, then a few light drops of rain began falling. I could smell more on the way and knew it would be picking up in the next few minutes. I adjusted the brim of my hat and collar on my cloak to keep the rain from getting to me.

  “Wait—“ She started, then paused again, still obviously torn about what to do. Tsk, tsk, such indecision in someone who thinks so highly of themselves just wasn’t attractive. I debated telling her she better get inside before the rain ruined her wig.

  “Aleksander,” I prompted her, beginning to walk away.

  “He’ll come find you when he’s ready to,” she told me, her tone telling me she’d made her decision. She wasn’t going to risk betraying his location to me and making him angry with her.

  Love could make people do some odd things.

  Infatuation could make them do even odder things. Some were illegal in a fair number of countries.

  “I’m sure he will,” I said over my shoulder. Without looking back again, I jumped to a second floor window, my claws out instantly to grasp the brick, then I jumped once more to the roof. I retracted my claws as I broke into a run, jumping easily across the spaces between buildings and losing Gianna within three blocks.

  So much for Aleksander teaching her to hunt. I doubted she could track anyone more than a block or two.

  Yes, I debated doubling back to find her and taunt her some more.

  Age sometimes has nothing to do with maturity.

  I did do a fair bit of weaving, however, making sure I crossed my own path more than a few times, just to make sure she was completely thrown off my scent. I didn’t want to risk her finding out about Rosie and Nicholas.

  I made it to Marcella’s shop about lunch time. I jumped to the ground about a block before, making my way the remainder of the distance like someone normal.

  It was nice to pretend, at least.

  The table from out front had been taken inside, because of the rain, I was sure. The door was closed, but the hand-carved “Open” sign hung in the window to the right. Even with the damp air and closed door, I could smell the incense and oiled wood. How many times had this shop been my haven when I struggled with some aspect of my life? More than I could count, that was certain. There was always something special here, something that just felt old and familiar. Perhaps it was the old world feel it had to it. Nothing shiny or modern here in the displays. Nothing neatly organized or categorized aside from similar books being near each other. You could spend all day looking in the corners and nooks and keep finding something different. Perhaps a bag of stones here, a bundle of herbs there, a box of gemstone trinkets up on that shelf, a handful of intricately painted seashells on this one.

  I’d overheard an old man in the shop once tell Rosie the shop had “good spirits” and I had to agree as I pulled open the door, setting the bells tied to the handle to jingling.

  Patchouli. I hadn’t been positive outside, but now I was. They were burning patchouli incense at the moment and had burned something else earlier. Perhaps nag champa.

  A man and woman were looking at books along the far wall while a boy of about twelve sat in one of the chairs looking bored. I could tell all three were together; they all smelled of the same laundry detergent. At least they were clean, which was more than I could say for some of the customers they got on occasion.

  “Hey, Michael,” Nicholas greeted me from the counter where he was pricing small leather pouches. I felt that moment of fear in him again, just as I felt him try to suppress it. He always reacted the same way around Marcella as well and I suppose it was natural. It made me wonder yet again why Gayle never seemed to have that reaction around me. Most people did just from my appearance. Nicholas did because he knew what we were.

  Nicholas was five or six years older than Rosie. The two had met here in the shop when she had only been about seventeen and was learning how to run it from Marcella after her father had died suddenly of a heart attack. Nicholas had been rather insistent about dating her, even with their age difference. It had taken him some time to get into Marcella’s good graces, but I’d seen that play out enough times to know she’d eventually give him a chance. She was willing to tolerate him so long as Rosie was happy.

  Nicholas wasn’t nearly as tall as me, only reaching a little over my shoulder in height. He was starting to go from a slender build to a ‘settled in his thirties’ weight gain. His brown hair was always combed to the side and worn fairly short. He didn’t put as much effort into his clothes as Rosie did hers, usually wearing baggy trousers and t-shirts with assorted obnoxious pictures or logos on them.

  “Nicholas,” I greeted him. “I don’t suppose Rosie and Marcella are around?”

  “Upstairs,” he nodded toward the short hallway leading to the stairs. “They were looking for a box of photo albums or something, I think.”

  Great. I wanted to talk to Rosie, but not necessarily with Marcella there.

  “I’d hate to interrupt that, I think I’ll just look around a bit down here.”

  Nicholas chuckled. “You’re just afraid they’ll put you to work helping.”

  I nodded and turned to look over the rows of music on the shelves to my left. I felt, rather than saw, the glances from the couple there, though they tried to be polite and not stare as they went back to their shopping. The boy, however, kept giving me horrified looks and inched his way further back on his chair and sat a bit more tensely. I pretended like I couldn’t hear their whispers as they wondered what had happened to me.

  “Mikhos! Get up here!” Marcella’s voice came from the stairs, her accent telling me she didn’t want to be argued with.

  “Busted,” Nicholas said, grinning again.

  “I should have known better,” I agreed. I turned to head upstairs, pausing to look at the boy on the chair with my white eye for just a second before going down the hall. I felt his heart jump as he recoiled some. Maybe that would teach him not to stare. By his age he should have a full set of basic manners.

  At the top of the stairs, I could hear Rosie and Marcella’s voices from the room to the left. I pushed open the door slowly, not wanting to hit either of them if they were standing near it. The room wasn’t one Marcella used for much in the way of living quarters, most of her personal belongings were in the rooms to the right of the hall and the rear. This one was mostly storage of family items, with a number of pieces of unused furniture set along the far wall with assorted boxes and bags stacked on top. Even though it was all storage items, it was easy to note there wasn’t a speck of dust on anything. Marcella wouldn’t allow it. I sometimes wondered just how many hours a week she spent cleaning. It was probably a good thing her living area was only above the shop and nothing larger.

  Ros
ie was standing on a chair, looking at something on a shelf in a closet. Several small boxes were already scattered on the floor while Marcella stood nearby, her hands on her hips.

  “Well, this looks like a lot of fun,” I commented, coming into the room.

  Marcella narrowed her eyes at me. “Would you tell her to get off that chair and stop arguing with me?”

  “Oh, no,” I shook my head, taking a slight step back. “I’m not getting in between anything like that.” I had figured out that lesson a long, long time ago. Never get in the middle of an argument or fight with Marcella. Never. Never. Never. I could chant that to myself for hours just to make sure I had it firmly planted in my head.

  “Mikhos Donovan Dorian,” Marcella turned fully to face me and I dare say she was almost glaring.

  If I didn’t know she could catch me, I’d have run from the room.

  “Rosie, listen to your grandmother,” I said almost automatically. You have to love it when those survival instincts kick into action. It was reassuring to know mine were fully intact.

  “I’m just checking this box,” Rosie said, her tone telling me they’d been arguing over this for a while. I was sure Marcella was just being overprotective. This didn’t bode well for what I wanted to talk to Rosie about.

  “What are you looking for?” I asked.

  “The photo album from when I was a baby,” Rosie said.

  “That’s the only one with pictures of her mother in it,” Marcella explained. “She’s got it in her head that she wants to see them.”

  Rosie’s mother had died in an auto accident when Rosie was about five years old. She almost never mentioned her mother and I doubted she had many memories of her at all aside from the few photos Marcella had kept for her. Rosie’s father had never remarried and he’d always seemed a bit lost after losing his wife. I know for a fact Marcella and Rosie were what had kept him getting up in the mornings.