First Fruits

by Amanda Carney

  “Tell me what to do. Please,” he said.

  With effort, I opened my eyes and removed the now sodden tissue, not bothering to see if my nose had stopped bleeding. I met his eyes and saw the uncertainty there. The fear. He thought I would find him abhorrent now. A monster. He thought I would be afraid.

  “I’m sorry for what happened to you,” I said.

  He blinked. “What do you mean?”

  Tears made hot trails down my cheeks. “I’m so sorry, Jesse. For everything. Everything.”

  I wasn’t apologizing for myself. I was apologizing for the tragedy that had been his life.

  He made a strangled noise and reached for my empty hand, curling it up tightly inside his. His eyes were pained. “You shouldn’t have had to see any of that,” he said. “Don’t ever think of it again. Do you hear me? Ever.”

  I would think of it every day for the rest of my life.

  “It’s not your fault,” I said. “It’s never been your fault.”

  He looked away and closed his eyes. I heard Felix sit down heavily in a nearby chair. And my heart ached for both of them.

  I took a deep, shaky breath and remembered what I needed to ask him. I already knew the answer. I’d seen it all in his memories. The teeth. The blood. The biting. But I needed to hear it from him. In his words. “There’s something I need to know.”

  Jesse met my gaze, expression unreadable. “Anything.”

  I searched his face. If I’d had the strength, I would have reached up and used my fingers to feel for the points I knew I’d find beneath the softness of his lips. Instead I just held his gaze.

  “What are you?”

  15

  Honey & Vinegar

  “Leave me,” Patrick said as he swept inside the cold storage room, his white silk robe fluttering behind him.

  The two guards stationed inside nodded and left without a word, the airlock door closing behind them with a hiss.

  He surveyed the empty room with his hands on his hips, frowning. The only sounds to be heard were the low hums of the refrigerators and the soft whisper of air coming through the overhead ventilation ducts. The draining table gleamed beneath the lights, its surface impeccably clean. Unused. The bottling station sat abandoned, empty glass vessels sitting in neat rows, waiting to be filled. There were no white coats silently going about their work. The room was utterly devoid of activity.

  Patrick scowled and walked to the farthest row of refrigerators. He stopped in front of a particular favorite, numbered 10C, running his fingers over the clinical lettering printed on the glass door.

  Weather

  1784

  He remembered the year vividly. The Revolutionary War had ended. The people were jubilant. Celebratory. Settling back into their old lives. They believed the worst was behind them. They were rebuilding a future.

  Patrick could still remember the thrill, the satisfaction, of tasting the death of their hope. Of swallowing their very dreams. Of being able to look into their eyes when he came for them in the dead of night and gorged on their blood in their own marriage beds.

  The irony. He smiled. In those days, the gifted ones were plentiful. And easier to obtain. They weren’t as reclusive.

  He leaned forward, pressing his palm against the cool glass. Only two bottles remained from that year, and they sat lonely and forlorn on the top shelf. The antique, dark-brown glass and leather tags looked like museum relics. They seemed so out of place against the pristine stainless steel backdrop of the cooler’s interior. He gazed at the scrawled inscription on one of the tags. The ink was barely legible anymore.

  Grace Agnes Ardall

  Aged twenty-five years, two weeks, six days

  Atmokinetic

  Closing his eyes, he remembered her fondly, as he did with all his special ones. She’d fought with brilliance, nearly pulverizing him with a lightning bolt at one point. He could still see her face in that moment, lit with the white-hot glow of electricity. Her blonde hair, torn from its braid, floating around her head like live wires. Her nightgown billowing around her pale legs. She’d been terrified and young and hadn’t yet mastered her ability to control the weather. But, oh, what a storm it’d been.

  Patrick sighed and opened his eyes, staring at the remaining blood that was black as oil beneath the dark glass of the bottle. Only mere ounces were left. Another drink, maybe two, and the lovely Grace Agnes would be a mere memory.

  He scowled again. In a whirl of white silk, he turned and continued down the line. By the time he’d reached the front rows, he was in a foul mood. The oldest and rarest vintages were rapidly dwindling. And several coolers meant for new stock were completely empty. Those that did contain bottles didn’t have nearly enough for his liking. And there hadn’t been a new delivery in days. He could remember when this room was a blur of activity. When not a day went by when there wasn’t a body on the table and the scent of fresh, sweet blood in the air.

  His patience was wearing thin.

  With a snarl, he tore open the door to 1A, grabbed the first bottle, and pulled it out. As the condensation from the open door billowed around him, he rubbed his thumb over the modern label.

  Roderick Joseph Young

  Aged twenty-five years, one day

  Werewolf

  Flipping the swing-top cap, the rubber gasket releasing with a suctioning noise, he brought the open bottle to his nose and breathed deep, closing his eyes as the intoxicating scent filled his nostrils. He swayed on his feet, and his body began trembling in anticipation. There was nothing quite like the taste of werewolf. It was gamey, yes, but it was positively wild. Alive with flavor and burning across the tongue like wildfire. It was thick and sticky and tasted like nature herself. Untamed.

  He played his tongue around the rim of the bottle first, teasing, dipping, and tasting the vapor wafting from the blood inside. A quiet whimper escaped him and echoed down the bottle’s neck. His knees went weak, and he leaned back against the glass shelves of the cooler, causing the other bottles to clink against each other. Unable to resist any longer, he tilted the bottle and allowed himself a small sip, groaning open-mouthed as the nectar slid down his throat. It was cold and glutinous from the refrigerator, but it was exquisite nonetheless.

  Yes, he thought. This was the one he would take back to his chambers tonight.

  Lowering the bottle, he opened his eyes and lovingly replaced the stopper. His erection pushed at the white silk of his pants. Perhaps he would call on one of his children to enjoy the flavor of Roderick with him. It wasn’t something he normally allowed, but he found himself in a sharing mood.

  He looked up as the door to the room slid open with a whisper and Bane walked in, eyes lingering briefly on the bottle in Patrick’s hand before meeting his gaze.

  “Sire,” Bane said, bowing slightly. “I’m sorry to disturb you.”

  Patrick stepped away from the cooler and closed the door. He was happy to note that Bane’s manners had been restored. “You’re forgiven,” he said. “What brings you to me, my son?”

  Bane swallowed, the tattoos on his neck working. He hesitated. “I have disturbing news about Jesse.”

  At the mention of his eldest son, Patrick stiffened. Even he had begun to grow suspicious of Jesse’s prolonged absence. And though Felix’s unexpected visit yesterday had delighted him, it had done nothing to assuage his concerns.

  Yet none of this excused Bane’s disobedience.

  “Have you now?” Patrick asked, cradling the bottle as one would an infant.

  “Yes.” Bane looked contrite. “And I accept whatever punishment you deem necessary. But please, Sire, hear what I have to say first.”

  Patrick eyed him, pleased to see that today he wore a clean, white cotton shirt instead of his usual ragged attire. It had even been ironed. It reminded him of something Jesse would wear. He wondered if this had been intentional. “Did you interfere with his work directly to obtain this information?”

  “No. I never even saw him.”
/>
  He didn’t appear to be lying, but Bane was good at many things, including deceit. “Go on.”

  Bane breathed a visible sigh of relief and stepped forward. “I have a witness who claims the girl considers him her boyfriend. That she loves him.” He paused, letting that sink in. “She also said Jesse appears equally fascinated. And that they spend time together. More than necessary. More than enough for him to have established reasonable cause for her disappearance.”

  Patrick’s eye twitched as he absorbed the news. It wasn’t unheard of for one of his sons to employ such tactics during a job, but he had to admit it wasn’t Jesse’s normal approach. Jesse utilized lust, not love. As Bane knew, however, different situations called for different tools. “And from whom did you gather this information?” Patrick asked in a sweet voice.

  “Another waitress.”

  Patrick caressed the bottle with a slow hand. “And how did you persuade her to be so forthcoming? Did you fuck her?”

  Bane watched Patrick’s hand. “Yes. She was very accommodating.”

  Patrick smiled. “I’m sure she was. Tell me, did you please her?”

  Licking his lips, Bane said, “Yes.”

  Nodding, Patrick walked over until he stood before him. “And do you want to please me, my son?”

  Bane’s lust bloomed in the air between them. “Always.”

  Eying the crisp shirt, Patrick ran his fingers down the buttons. “Is that why you wore this?”

  “Yes.”

  He let his hand drop. “Stay with me in my chambers tonight. We will discuss your punishment.”

  Bane’s nostrils flared as he picked up on Patrick’s own arousal. “I would be honored, Sire.”

  Patrick nodded, thinking of the silver stud nestled in the tip of Bane’s tongue. Though garish, body piercings did have their benefit, he supposed. “It would be appropriate to thank me now.”

  Bane sank to his knees as if he’d been awaiting the command.

  Patrick gazed down at him and decided his punishment could begin now after all. “You know what to do.”

  Bane blinked, his temper flaring as quickly as his lust had a moment before. “Why? Why can’t you just be happy with my goddamned face?”

  He touched Bane’s cheekbone. “Because only you can give me the thing I can never truly have. Now do it.”

  Bane appeared only marginally mollified. Patrick knew that while his words had stroked his son’s ego, what he was demanding was a bitter, bitter pill. One that gave Patrick immense pleasure when forcing it down Bane’s throat.

  Patrick eyed him. “Would you rather I choose another to accompany me to my bed tonight?”

  Bane glared for a long moment and then spoke through gritted teeth. “No. I’ll do it.”

  The submission had Patrick’s member throbbing, and he reached down to cup himself. “I’m waiting.”

  Bane closed his eyes and then, beneath Patrick’s rapt gaze, transformed into the image of Jesse. Gone was the scarred lip and glinting piercings. The icy-blue gaze. The spiky, blond hair. They were replaced by Jesse’s fine features. Jesse’s silken black hair and penetrating green eyes. Jesse’s strong jaw with a hint of dark stubble. Those ever-lowered brows.

  And that mouth. That firm, fuckable mouth.

  Patrick stroked himself over his pants, biting his bottom lip. Jesse himself may never be willing to kneel before him, cock in throat, but this . . . this was almost as good. The sight of him was so real it made Patrick ache with longing.

  Bane stared up at him from Jesse’s face, humiliation burning in the depths of his gaze. “Better?”

  The sound of Bane’s voice momentarily startled Patrick from his admirations. He frowned. “His voice. Not yours.”

  Bane’s nostrils flared and his shoulders stiffened, but he obliged. In Jesse’s smooth timbre, he asked, “Shall I disrespect you like he does too?”

  Patrick backhanded him. He said nothing. He didn’t have to.

  Avoiding Patrick’s gaze, Bane said, “Forgive me.”

  “Did you lie when you said you wished to please me?”

  “You know I didn’t.”

  “Then please me with a willing tongue, not a jealous one.”

  Jesse, for that’s who he was now, finally looked back up at him. “My tongue is yours to command.”

  Patrick’s mouth parted in anticipation. “Then use it how you do best.”

  Bane licked his lips. “May I?”

  “Of course.”

  Reaching out, he untied the string of Patrick’s silk pants and reverently pulled them down until they pooled at his feet. Jesse’s gaze was hot and unblinking as he reached out with a trembling hand and grasped Patrick’s cock, squeezing tight, just like he knew his sire liked. Jerking from the contact, Patrick growled his approval, and Jesse leaned in to run his tongue thoroughly around the head. His tongue that still bore Bane’s gleaming silver ball-piercing at its tip. So enraptured was Patrick, he didn’t bother telling him to eliminate the non-Jesse accoutrement.

  “Yes,” Patrick breathed and watched with a fascinated gaze as Jesse took him fully into his mouth with aching slowness, his strong lips sliding hot and slick and tight, taking him deep. A savoring moan came from Jesse’s throat and vibrated around Patrick, making his balls tighten. Patrick’s head fell back in ecstasy as he allowed his son to work him, slow and skillful.

  Perhaps he would consider lessening the remaining punishment he had in mind. After all, one did catch more flies with honey than vinegar.

  ***

  “Vampire,” I repeated, a forkful of cold pancake poised at my lips.

  Jesse nodded, watching me from his chair, his knee bouncing. Felix smirked. My nose had finally stopped bleeding, and I was sitting with my legs tucked under me on the leather couch. The plate of food on my lap had long since lost its warmth. Again. Not that I cared. I was hungry enough to eat flour right out of the bag.

  I glanced at him. “But you’re not undead. You breathe and eat. Sunlight doesn’t incinerate you.”

  “Most of what you’ve heard is untrue.”

  “We have fangs,” Felix added. “Doesn’t mean we’re not still flesh and blood. We’re the same as you, just different.”

  “Okay,” I said, taking the bite and immediately going for another.

  Felix laughed quietly and shook his head, drawing on his cigar.

  Jesse studied me. “You’re taking this surprisingly well.”

  I paused from cutting into the scrambled eggs. “I’ve been different my whole life. This isn’t that big a leap.”

  “And she’s seen it, Jess,” Felix said, cigar bobbing in his mouth. “In your head. Hard to deny that kind of proof.”

  I had seen it. I knew Jesse in ways now that were so close it frightened me. There was an intimacy about it that was almost too much. Too deep. But it made the fact that he was something other than human easier to absorb. To have seen the worst parts of him. To have felt his struggle. His pain. The only thing I could possibly do was believe.

  Jesse looked pained. “I don’t ever want you to do that again. To anyone.”

  I almost laughed. “Don’t worry, I don’t ever want to do it again.”

  “It’s dangerous.” He raked his fingers through his hair. “Frankly, it scared the hell out of me. I thought it was killing you.”

  Felix nodded. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  I had. A long time ago. And when I let them, the memories still haunted me.

  “Do you realize how rare it is to have two abilities?” Jesse asked me.

  I thought about it a moment, biting into a crisp piece of bacon. It was bizarre to be discussing my abilities so openly. I was so used to holding it in. Keeping the secret. I’d never known anyone like me. I’d been alone as long as I could remember. “I’ve never really considered it.”

  Felix leaned forward in his chair. “It’s unheard of. You’re incredible.”

  Blushing, I looked down at my plate and focused on my food.
>
  “And it puts you at even more risk than before. If Patrick knew . . .” Jesse sighed and leaned back, pulling his hands down his face.

  At the mention of Patrick, I put my plate down, appetite gone. Crossing my arms tightly over my chest, I cleared my throat. “He wants me because of my blood?”

  Jesse dropped his hands and let his elbows rest on his knees. His eyes were tired. “Yes. And he’ll stop at nothing to have you.”

  I swallowed, thinking of the room I’d seen in Jesse’s memory so many times. I could see the glass bottles so clearly. The names. All people with gifts. Some like mine. Others I’d never even heard of. And though I’d never known any of them, I felt a sort of melancholy kinship. It made my heart ache. “Why is my blood any better than anyone else’s?”

  Felix spoke up. “Nobody really knows. Different chemicals. Different genes.” He shrugged. “It’s a mystery.”

  “And each ability tastes unique,” Jesse said. “It’s part of the appeal. When you’ve lived as long as Patrick has, you either go insane from the monotony or find something that holds your interest.”

  The notion of killing people to alleviate boredom was enough to make me feel nauseous. I brought my fingers to my throat to ease the sensation and took a deep breath. “How old is he, exactly?”

  Jesse glanced at the floor. “Old.”

  “Another mystery,” Felix said. “But I’m guessing at least a thousand years. Maybe more.”

  I could only stare.

  He laughed. “I know.”

  I looked at both of them in turn. “How old are you?”

  Jesse hesitated. “I was born in 1683.”

  Doing the math in my head, my lips parted as I tried to absorb that he was over three hundred years old.

  “Like a fine wine,” Felix said, the shiny silver of his expensive watch flashing as he raised his cigar. “We only get better with age.”

  Jesse snorted. “I was twenty-nine.”

  “When you were . . . turned?” I asked.

  He nodded.

  “Twenty-six,” Felix said, gazing at the floor as if remembering.

  Though it wasn’t my memory, I thought back to that night I now knew so well. “You both still lived at home.”