Lust for Life

by Jeri Smith-Ready

  I keep my face impassive. Does she mean “after my daughter raised the zombies who spread the disease that killed you”? Or does she mean “after you staked my husband”?

  “I know you had nothing to do with Tina’s wayward behavior.” That’s a lie—I don’t know that, and in fact I suspect the opposite. “How is she, by the way?”

  “Penitent.” Anca heads for the cashier and I follow. “She’d like to see you and your friend Lori.”

  “I didn’t know she was allowed visitors.”

  “Short, supervised visits are permitted.”

  We fall silent as we pay for our drinks. No need for the cashier to hear any more than she already has.

  Heading for an open table next to the wall, I stay a step ahead of Anca so I can sit facing the door. She looks disappointed when I take that seat.

  “Do you think I should go see Tina?” I have no intention of doing so, and I’m sure Lori feels the same way, but I want Anca to keep talking about Project Blood Leash in an oblique, nonthreatening way that doesn’t implicate herself. And by doing so, maybe she’ll implicate herself.

  Anca pats the top of her foam with the bowl of her spoon, testing its thickness. “It would mean a lot to her. She never intended to hurt anyone.”

  “Maybe not explicitly, but raising the dead? Tends to have negative consequences. Which you as a necromancer would probably know.”

  “My work is strictly limited to speaking with the dead, not bringing them back to life. It is against the laws of God and nature for a human like me to undo death.”

  But it’s okay for vampires, I guess.

  Anca continues. “Tina was distraught when the Control assigned her to Enforcement instead of letting her join us in the Immanence Corps. And angry that her father and I couldn’t pull strings to give her the placement she wanted. But she is mundane, and IC is only for those with paranormal abilities.”

  “Which can be faked.” By psychic-hotline workers, for instance, or my parents and their “faith healing.”

  “They can be faked to fool civilians, but not the IC.”

  “Do you have supernatural detection tools? Like a wand you wave through someone’s aura or whatnot? If it beeps a happy tune, they’re paranormal, but if it buzzes, they’re mundane?”

  Anca laughs. “I wish we did. It would make our jobs so much easier.” Her smile fades. “Tina’s anger, I think, was what drove her to speak so awfully of her father.”

  “That, and she got a reduced sentence for being so cooperative.” She’s not the only one. Rumor has it that Anca herself threw her late husband under the bus, so to speak, to protect her own hide. “Do you think she told the truth?”

  “Sadly, yes.” Anca sips her cappuccino, staring through the wall next to us as if it’s a window. “Stefan always hated the demon inside, as he called his vampire aspect. I think he thought if he could control other vampires, he could control the monster within.”

  I remember Petrea telling me how his maker took him home after he turned him, how they slaughtered Petrea’s own parents, wife, and daughter. How he staked his own maker and barely survived. Assuming all that was true—a vampire never tells the complete story of his turning—I could understand his self-hatred. But it doesn’t excuse creating zombies to use as guinea pigs for vampire-control methods.

  I voice my sympathy to lead her on. “After what happened when he was turned, I could see why he’d want a way to corral rogue vampires. They’re dangerous, not just to humans, but to our whole way of life. They risk getting us discovered with their reckless behavior.” That sounded a little too party line–ish, so I add a personal touch. “I was almost killed by one.”

  “I heard, and that Agent McAllister was suspended for protecting you.” She puts her hand over mine. “No one doubts that he did the right thing. But the Control has its first precept for a reason. We’ve moved beyond what we once were: a band of bloodthirsty vampire hunters, obsessed with ridding the earth of the undead scourge.”

  Not even a crack in her façade, if that’s what it is. I come at the subject from a different angle. “Colonel Lanham has a tough job keeping us vampires in line. I think he gets in trouble for being too sympathetic. Which is a weird word to use to describe an emotional robot like him.”

  She gives a gentle laugh. “You don’t know him the way I do.” Her voice is almost tender. “There’s much beneath the surface with that man.”

  Huh. “Do you know him well?”

  “We’ve worked together since we joined the Control. We were in the same Indoc class.” She holds the corners of the sugar container with her immaculately manicured thumb and forefinger, but takes nothing from it. “There was a time when Winston and I thought we might . . .”

  I hold my breath. Her and Colonel Lanham? No wonder he hated Colonel Petrea so much. Or maybe I’m assuming.

  I keep forgetting that, as a vampire, I can smell a human lie. “You and Lanham were involved?”

  Her heart rate increases, but the flush of her face tells me it’s from embarrassment or excitement, not deception. “We were. We thought we might marry, but we were young and stupid.”

  “Stupid? But you were both human. You worked in the same field, so there’d be no lying about your work. If you were both unattached—”

  Her eyes shift to the side. Oh.

  “Was Lanham married?”

  “He never married anything but his job.” Her eyes soften as she sighs.

  “Were you already married to Colonel Petrea?”

  “Not married, but we’d been engaged. I dated Winston while Stefan and I were, er . . .”

  “On a break?”

  “Yes. My relationship with Stefan was tempestuous, to say the least. I suppose that’s typical of human-vampire romances. Eventually I went back to him and we married, then adopted Tina, since obviously we couldn’t have our own children.”

  To me, that was one of the bonuses of getting engaged to a vampire. But one’s mileage may vary.

  “Anyway”—she seems eager to change the subject—“how are you enjoying your Contemporary Awareness course?”

  “It’s fascinating stuff. I can’t wait to learn all about ‘digital video discs’ and how to join ‘the Myspace.’ ” I employ liberal use of air quotes.

  She laughs. “Sounds like you have your own ideas on how CAD should be run.”

  “I do, but they’ll never listen to a vampire. I’m inherently unhip. They were my first choice of assignment, along with the Anonymity Department.”

  “I think you’ll love Immanence Corps,” Anca says. “It will never be dull.”

  “After all I’ve been through, I’d be okay with dull.”

  She shakes her head, making the waves of dyed dark-red hair dance about her face. “I’ve read your record. Your life has been full of adventure, always in motion.”

  I appreciate her use of the present perfect tense “has been” instead of the simple past “was” to describe my life. Despite the change, it does feel like one life interrupted by a moment of death, rather than two lives.

  “Just the words ‘Immanence Corps’ open doors around here.” She surveys the rest of the cafeteria with a mixture of disdain and amusement. “You’ll see. They fear us.”

  I notice no one has taken seats at any of the adjacent tables. Is it her reputation or the indigo patch on her shoulder?

  “I wonder if you might be able to help me.” I take a sip of coffee to give her a chance to respond.

  “Of course! Anything for a fellow IC-er.”

  “See, that’s the thing. I think there are elements within the Corps that aren’t happy about my abilities. When I was originally assigned to IC, I was human. I was anti-magic.”

  “And now you’re not either. I don’t see why anyone should have a problem with you. No offense, but you’re just a vampire.”

  I sense no unease about her, no deception. The only people who know I’ve undone magic with the power of my mind since I became a vampire are those who w
ere there when I killed her husband.

  “There are rumors,” I state simply.

  She sighs, her eyes drooping. “I was once a conduit for rumors. I had my ear to the ground, as they say. But after Project Blood Leash, I hear nothing. No one trusts me. No one!” Anca gestures with her spoon, unwittingly flicking foam into her hair. “I am not my daughter or my husband. To me, necromancy is a sacred duty. We owe it to the dead to let them speak.”

  Her words give me an idea. If I can get her and Kashmir in the same place, I can see if they know each other.

  “Speaking of the dead, what are you doing the night of November twenty-second?”

  17

  Bargain

  “Hey, guys, thanks for coming.”

  I resist the urge to laugh at Jeremy’s words as Shane and I glide into his dimly lit living room. I should be thanking him, not the other way around. But it would offend him to say so.

  For a bachelor pad, Jeremy’s new studio apartment is big on style, even if that style could be described as Arabian Nights meets Underworld. In the far corner, his queen-size bed is surrounded by a cascade of draperies of a nearly black crimson, suspended by a single fixture in the ceiling above the center of the bed.

  “The drapes set off the bedroom area from the living room,” he points out. “Plus it keeps out the sun so I can sleep during the day.”

  Jeremy’s show runs from three to six a.m. every other morning, so he keeps a nocturnal schedule. He’s also practicing for the day he thinks he’s going to be a vampire.

  “Neat.” I check out the coal-black living room furniture and the two-by-three framed print of Edvard Munch’s The Scream between the windows. “What does Lea think of this place? She seems so girl-next-door-y.”

  “She thinks it’s cool. She gets me, even though she’s nothing like me.”

  “Do you get her?”

  “Trying.” Jeremy points the stereo remote at the receiver. As the music clicks on, I hear Shane sigh with disapproval.

  “Is this that band without guitars?” he asks Jeremy.

  “One of them.” Jeremy sets down the remote, not offering to turn off Keane’s Under the Iron Sea. The opening track, “Atlantic,” used to remind me of Shane before I was a vampire, when I worried he would grow “old” alone after I died. Now I worry he’ll grow old alone while I’m still alive.

  I set my bag on the counter. “Jer, I’ve been dying to see your new ink. Can you show us now?”

  “Yeah, it’s small, not much shading, so it’s healed already.” He joins us in the kitchen and heads for the stove, where the light by the exhaust fan is switched on.

  Jeremy removes his glasses, then tugs off his My Chemical Romance black-sleeved white raglan shirt. “I got the tattoo for you, but I guess it’ll help Deirdre, too, if you’re okay with sharing me.”

  I don’t answer, because I’m not okay with it. But we can discuss that later.

  Jeremy puts his arm under the light, revealing a dark blue line on his inner forearm. My mouth waters as I realize the line traces the vein we like to sink our teeth into.

  An arrow points to the middle of the line, along with two words in a bold, narrow typeface: BITE HERE.

  “Aww, that’s really sweet.” I have an overwhelming urge to buy him an ice cream cone.

  “It’s in your favorite font.”

  “I have a favorite font?” I peer at the tattoo again, then gasp.

  “Haettenschweiler!” we shout together in an exaggerated German accent, then laugh like goofballs. I don’t know if I’ve ever actually used that typeface, but I could never resist the urge to say it loud and commandingly, Colonel Klink style.

  “What did your tattoo artist think of it?”

  “Amber wanted to know why I didn’t want it on my neck. I had to explain the whole air embolism thing, which of course made me dizzy, so I had to lie down.”

  “I know, right? It still queases me out. Did she think you were talking about real vampires?”

  He rolls his eyes as he shakes his head. “I might as well have been asking for unicorn-related body art. Don’t worry, she thinks the vampire thing is just a gimmick I’m into. I mean, look at me.”

  True. Jeremy has that break-me-I’m-emo aura about him.

  Shane examines the new tattoo, which blends in nicely with his arm’s other designs. “It looks healed, but we always wait a month just to be safe. You hydrated?”

  “Come on, I’ve done this a hundred times.” To placate Shane, Jeremy grabs a blue Gatorade from the fridge.

  The sight of the bottle flashes me back to my own death. Spencer gave me the same drink before Monroe drained me, so that I’d be easier to bite. The fever from the chicken pox had sucked the fluids from my body like a Shop-Vac.

  Shane comes to my side. “Ciara, you okay?”

  I jerk my head to look up at him. “Yeah, why?”

  “You went completely still there for a second, like you’d had a short circuit.”

  “Just zoning out.”

  Shane’s hand lightly brushes the back of my shoulders in a comforting gesture that in my worst moments feels like pity.

  Jeremy goes to the sink and cranks up the hot water. I notice something for the first time. “How come you don’t have any tattoos on your back? Isn’t that where most people start?”

  “Never saw the point.” He scrubs his arm to help prevent infection, the steam rising around him. “Why should I put them where I can’t see them?”

  “Other people could see them.”

  “I don’t get inked for other people. I do it for myself. That’s what separates me from the poseurs.” He rinses and dries his arm with a fresh tea towel from the drawer.

  “Ready?” Shane says from the living room area.

  “Ready!” Jeremy hops over the back of the sofa and onto the cushions like a little kid about to get a birthday present. For a moment I think of how our birthdays are so close together, how this past May he turned twenty-seven. I didn’t and never will.

  Shane folds a clean, threadbare towel and inserts it between Jeremy’s right arm and the sofa cushion beneath. “Ciara, you want to try on your own without me coaching you?”

  My stomach flutters as I sit on the floor next to the couch. “It’s hard to see in here.”

  Shane sits beside me. “Some donors prefer to leave the lights off completely, so you have to learn to bite without your eyes. Use smell and touch. Those are a predator’s best senses.”

  “Right.” I look at Jeremy’s position, leaned up against the throw pillow at the end of the couch, then make sure his arm is even with the cushion.

  I close my eyes and run my nose along the length of his forearm. When I smell the place where his blood is closest to his skin, I use my tongue, pinpointing the curve of the vein.

  “Don’t be shy,” Jeremy says. “You can’t hurt me. I mean, you can, but I like it.”

  I glance at Shane, who shrugs. “Listen to him, Ciara. The donor is always right.”

  I press Jeremy’s arm to my lips and sink my fangs, puncturing the smooth, cool skin.

  His body seizes, and through the pounding of blood in my ears, I hear him cry out in what sounds like a mix of agony and ecstasy. The noise makes me want to tear deeper, rip muscle from bone, but I hold on to my control. My other hand grips the bottom of the sofa until I hear wood splinter. I force my fingers apart—all of them—dropping his arm.

  Taking that as an invitation, Shane dips his head forward and drinks his fill. I watch Jeremy’s face as his blood becomes part of us. He gazes at the ceiling like he’s watching an angel descend from heaven. He could be in a medieval painting, if it weren’t for the piercings and bleached hair.

  When Shane moves back to let me drink again, his eyes burn into mine with an unmistakable lust. I keep my gaze locked with his as I slake my thirst.

  I understand now. This need for blood is about more than just survival. It’s about living. And I desperately want to, um, live with Shane. Maybe in the car r
ight here in Jeremy’s parking lot.

  “That’s enough,” Shane says finally. My thirst agrees. It’s quiet now, ready to sleep while my other appetites take over.

  Though he’s shown me a dozen times before, Shane goes through the aftercare procedures again. “First, gauze.” He tears off the pad’s white cover, his hands looking steadier than mine feel. “Since he washed up beforehand, we don’t need iodine. Our saliva has no bacteria.”

  Right. Nothing lives inside us.

  Jeremy is still staring at the ceiling, but his expression has changed. A tear trickles from the corner of one eye.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask him.

  He wipes away the tear with a knuckle. “I miss Jim.”

  “Sorry, I forgot to tie you up and torture you first.” My harsh words reflect my bitter hurt.

  “You were fine. I guess I expected to feel some kind of bond between us, like what I had with Jim from the start. This felt good but not . . . sacred.”

  “Understandable.” Shane checks the gauze to see if Jeremy’s stopped bleeding, then opens a butterfly bandage. “You never forget your first. You got some vitamins with iron?”

  “I know the drill by now,” Jeremy snaps, then takes a sip from his Gatorade bottle.

  While Shane carries the bloodstained towel and gauze pads to the kitchen for disposal, I smooth out the splintered wood along the bottom of the couch. It’s just a hairline crack, no permanent damage.

  Jeremy’s phone rings on the coffee table behind me. I give it to him, noticing the number on the caller ID. “Deirdre.”

  Jeremy thumbs the screen and puts the phone to his ear. “Hey.”

  Shane seizes the remote and shuts off the music. He gestures to Jeremy with his thumb straight up, then points to his own ear. Jeremy nods and raises the volume on his cell phone.

  “Slow down,” he says shakily. “What do you want?”

  “It’s been two weeks,” Deirdre answers. “I’m thirsty.”

  “Sorry, I just fed Ciara.”

  “What!? I thought you were mine now.”

  “Uh, no, I never said—”

  “You saved my life!” Her voice is clogged with tears, and probably rum.