After some struggle with denial, I'd accepted that I had begun the decline toward death. But it would be slow, and I still had years left, decades even. Or, I would, if I could get past this silly bout of ennui and make my rebirth kill.
As the crowd dwindled, I looked over my shoulder to watch them go and considered taking a life from them. A random kill. I'd done it once before, more than a century ago, during a particularly bleak time when I hadn't been able to rouse enough feeling to care. Yet later I'd regretted it, having let myself indulge my darkest inclinations simply because I'd been in a dark place myself. Unacceptable. I wouldn't do it again.
I wrenched my gaze from the dispersing crowd. This was ridiculous. I was no angst-ridden cinema vampire, bemoaning the choice she'd made in life. I was no flighty youngster, easily distracted from duty, abhorring responsibility. I was Cassandra DuCharme, senior vampire delegate to the interracial council. If any vampire had come to me with this problem—"I'm having trouble making my annual kill"—I'd have shown her the sharp side of my tongue, hauled her into the alley with that drunk and told her, as Aaron might say, to "piss or get off the pot."
I turned around and headed back to the alley.
I'd gone only a few steps when I picked up a sense of the drunkard. Excitement swept through me. I closed my eyes and smiled. That was more like it.
The quickening accelerated as I slid into the shadows. My stride smoothed out, each step taken with care, rolling heel to toe, making no sound.
That sense of my prey grew stronger with each step, telling me he was near. I could see a recessed emergency exit a dozen feet ahead. A shoe protruded from the darkness. I crept forward until I spotted a dark form crumpled inside.
The rush of his blood vibrated through the air. My canines lengthened and I allowed myself one shudder of anticipation, then shook it off and focused on the sound of his breathing.
A gust whipped along the alley, scattering candy wrappers and leaflets, and the stink of alcohol washed over me. I caught the extra notes in his breathing—the deep, almost determined rhythm. Passed out drunk. He'd probably stumbled into the first semi-sheltered place he'd seen and collapsed.
That would make it easier.
Still, I hesitated, telling myself I needed to be sure. But the rhythm of his breathing stayed steady. He was clearly asleep and unlikely to awake even if I bounded over there and shouted in his ear.
So what was I waiting for? I should be in that doorway already, reveling in the luck of finding so easy a victim.
I shook the lead from my bones and crossed the alley.
The drunkard wore an army jacket, a real one if I was any judge. I resisted the fanciful urge to speculate, to imagine him as some shell-shocked soldier turned to drink by the horrors of war. More likely, he'd bought the jacket at a thrift shop. Or stolen it.
His hair was matted, so filthy it was impossible to tell the original color. Above the scraggly beard, though, his face was unlined. Younger than I'd first imagined. Significantly younger.
That gave me pause, but while he was not the old drunkard I'd first imagined, he was certainly no healthy young man. I could sense disease and wasting, most likely cirrhosis. Not my ideal target, but he would do.
And yet. . .
Almost before I realized it, I was striding toward the road.
He wasn't right. I was succumbing to that panic, and that was unnecessary, even dangerous. If I made the wrong choice, I'd regret it. Better to let the pressure of this ominous date pass and find a better choice tomorrow.
I slid into the park and stepped off the path. The ground was hard, so I could walk swiftly and silently.
As I stepped from the wooded patch, my exit startled two young men huddled together. Their gazes tripped over me, eyes glittering under the shadows of their hoods, like jackals spotting easy prey. I met the stronger one's gaze. He broke first, grumbling deep in his throat. Then he shuffled back and waved his friend away as he muttered some excuse for moving on.
I watched them go, considering. . . then dismissing.
It was easy to separate one victim from a group. Not nearly so simple when the "group" consisted of only two people. As the young men disappeared, I resumed my silent trek across the park.
My goal lay twenty paces away. Had I not sensed him, I likely would have passed by. He'd ignored a park bench under the light and instead had stretched out upon the top of a raised garden, hidden under the bushes and amidst the dying flowers.
He lay on his back with his eyes closed. His face was peaceful, relaxed. A handsome face, broad and tanned. He had thick blond hair and the healthy vitality of a young man in his prime. A big man, too, tall and solid, his muscular arms crossed behind his head, his slim hips and long denim-clad legs ending in work boots crossed at the ankles.
I circled north to sneak up behind his head. He lay completely motionless, even his chest was still, not rising and falling with the slow rhythm of breathing. I crossed the last few feet between us and stopped just behind his head. Then I leaned over.
His eyes opened. Deep brown eyes, the color of rich earth. He snarled a yawn.
"'Bout time, Cass," he said. "Couple of punks been circling to see if I'm still conscious. Another few minutes, and I'd have had to teach them to let sleeping vamps lie."
"Shall I go away then? Let you have your fun?"
Aaron grinned. "Nah. They come back? We can both have fun." He heaved his legs over the side of the garden wall, and sat up, shaking off sleep. Then, catching a glimpse of my face, his grin dropped into a frown. "You didn't do it, did you?"
"I couldn't find anyone."
"Couldn't find—?" He pushed to his feet, towering over me. "Goddamn it, what are you playing at? First you let it go until the last minute, then you 'can't find anyone'?"
I checked my watch. "It's not the last minute. I still have ten left. I trust that if I explode at midnight, you'll be kind enough to sweep up the bits. I would like to be scattered over the Atlantic but, if you're pressed for time, the Charleston River will do."
He glowered at me. "A hundred and twenty years together, and you never got within a week of your rebirth day without making your kill."
"Hungary. 1867."
"Sixty-eight. And I don't see any bars this time. So what was your excuse?"
"Among others, I was busy researching that council matter Paige brought to my attention. I admit I let things creep up on me this year, and a century ago that would never have happened, but while we were apart, I changed—"
"Bullshit. You never change. Except to get more imperious, more pigheaded and more cranky."
"The word is 'crankier.'"
He muttered a few more descriptors under his breath. I started down the path.
"You'd better be going off to find someone," he called after me.
"No, I'm heading home to bed. I'm tired."
"Tired?" He strode up beside me. "You don't get tired. You're—"
He stopped, mouth closing so fast his teeth clicked.
"The word is 'dying,'" I said. "And, while that is true, and it is equally true that my recent inability to sleep is a symptom of that, tonight I am, indeed, tired."
"Because you're late for your kill. You can't pull this shit, Cassandra, not in your condition."
I gave an unladylike snort and kept walking.
His fingers closed around my arm. "Let's go find those punks. Have some fun." A broad, boyish grin. "I think one has a gun. Been a long time since I got shot."
"Another day."
"A hunt then."
"I'm not hungry."
"Well, I am. Maybe you couldn't find someone suitable, but I can. I know what you look for. We'll hunt together. I'll get a snack; you'll get another year. Fair enough?"
He tried to grin, but I could see a hint of panic behind his eyes. I felt an answering prickle of worry, but told myself I was being ridiculous. I'd simply had too much on my mind lately. I was tired and easily distracted. I needed to snap out of this embarrassi
ng lethargy and make this kill, and I would do so tomorrow, once Aaron had gone back to Atlanta.
"It's not the end of the world—or my world—if I don't take a life tonight, Aaron. You've been late yourself, when you couldn't find someone suitable. I haven't—and perhaps I'd simply like to know what that's like." I touched his arm. "At my age, new experiences are few and far between. I take them where I can."
He hesitated, then nodded, mollified, and accompanied me from the park.
Aaron followed me home. That wasn't as nearly as exciting a prospect as it sounds. These days we were simply friends. His choice. If I had my way, tired or not, I would have found the energy to accommodate him.
When I first met Aaron, less than a year after his rebirth, he'd accused me of helping him in his new life because he looked like something to "decorate my bed with." True enough.
Even as a human, I had never been able to rouse more than a passing interest in men of my own class. Too well-mannered, too gently spoken, too soft. My tastes had run to stable boys and, later, to discreet working men.
Finding Aaron as a newly reborn vampire, a big strapping farm boy with hands as rough as his manners, I will admit that my first thought was indeed carnal. He was younger than I liked, but I'd decided I could live with that.
So I'd trained him in the life of a vampire. In return, I'd received friendship, protection. . . and endless nights alone, frustrated beyond reason. It was preposterous, of course. I'd never had any trouble leading men to my bed and there I'd been, reduced to chasing a virile young man who strung me along as if he were some coy maiden. I told myself it wasn't his fault—he was English. Thankfully, when he finally capitulated, I discovered he wasn't nearly as repressed as I'd feared.
Over a hundred years together. It was no grand romance. The word "love" never passed between us. We were partners in every sense—best friends, hunting allies and faithful lovers. Then came the morning I woke, looked over at him, and imagined not seeing him there, tried to picture life without him. I'd gone cold at the thought.
I had told myself I'd never allow that again. When you've lost everyone, you learn the danger of attachments. As a vampire, you must accept that every person you ever know will die, and you are the only constant in your life, the only person you can—and should—rely on. So I made a decision.
I betrayed Aaron. Not with another man. Had I done that, he'd simply have flown into a rage and, once past it, demanded to know what was really bothering me. What I did instead was a deeper betrayal, one that said, more coldly than I could ever speak the words "I don't want you anymore."
After over half a century apart, happenstance had brought us together again. We'd resisted the pull of that past bond, reminded ourselves of what had happened the last time and yet, gradually, we'd drifted back into friendship. Only friendship. Sex was not allowed—Aaron's way of keeping his distance. Given the choice between having him as a friend and not having him in my life at all, I'd gladly choose the former. . . though that didn't keep me from hoping to change his mind.
That night I slept. It was the first time I'd done more than catnapped in over a year. While I longed to seize on this as some sign that I wasn't dying, I knew Aaron's assessment was far more likely—I was tired because I'd missed my annual kill.
Was this what happened, then, when we didn't hold up our end of the bargain? An increasing lethargy that would lead to death? I shook it off. I had no intention of exploring the phenomenon further. Come sunset, I would end this foolishness and take a life.
As I entered my living room that morning, I heard a dull slapping from the open patio doors. Aaron was in the yard, building a new retaining wall for my garden.
When he'd been here in the spring, he'd commented on the crumbling wall, and said, "I could fix that for you." I'd nodded and said, "Yes, I suppose you could." Three more intervening visits. Three more hints about the wall. Yet I refused to ask for his help. I had lost that right when I betrayed him. So yesterday, he'd shown up on my doorstep, masonry tools in one hand, suitcase in the other, and announced he was building a new wall for my rebirth day.
That meant he had a reason to stay until he'd finished it. Had he simply decided my rebirth day made a good excuse? Or was there more than that? When I'd spoken to him this week, had something in my voice told him I had yet to take my annual victim?
I watched Aaron through the patio doors. The breeze was chilly, but the sun beat down and he had his shirt off as he worked, oblivious to all around him. This was what he did for a living—masonry, the latest in a string of "careers." I chided him that, after two hundred years, one should have a healthy retirement savings plan. He only pointed the finger back at me, declaring that I too worked when I didn't need to. But I was self-employed, and selling art and antiques was certainly not in the same category as the physically demanding jobs he undertook. Yet another matter on which we disagreed—with vigor and enthusiasm.
I watched him for another minute, then headed for the kitchen to make him an iced tea.
I went out later to check a new shipment at an antique shop. When I got home, Aaron was sitting on the couch, a pile of newspapers on the table and one spread in his hands.
"I hope you didn't take those from my trash."
"I wouldn't have had to, if you'd recycle." He peered around the side of the paper. "That blue box in the garage? That's what it's for, not holding garden tools."
I waved him off. "Three hundred and fifty years and I have never been deprived of a newspaper or book by want of paper. I'm not going to start recycling now. I'm too old."
"Too stubborn." He gave a sly grin. "Or too lazy."
He earned a glare for that one. I walked over and snatched up a stray paper from the carpet before it stained.
"If you're that desperate for reading material, just tell me and I'll walk to the store and buy you a magazine."
He folded the paper and laid it on the coffee table, then patted the spot next to him. I hesitated, sensing trouble, and took a place at the opposite end, perched on the edge. He reached over, his hand going around my waist, and dragged me until I was sitting against him.
"Remember when we met, Cass?"
"Vaguely."
He laughed. "Your memory isn't that bad. Remember what you did for me? My first rebirth day was coming, and I'd decided I wasn't doing it. You found me a victim, a choice I could live with." With his free hand, he picked up a paper separated from the rest and dropped it onto my lap. "Found you a victim."
I sighed. "Aaron, I don't need you to—"
"Too late." He poked a calloused finger at the top article. "Right there."
The week-old story told of a terminally ill patient fighting for the right to die. When I looked over at Aaron, he was grinning, pleased with himself.
"Perfect, isn't it?" he said. "Exactly what you look for. She wants to die. She's in pain."
"She's in a palliative care ward. How would I even get in there, let alone kill her?"
"Is that a challenge?" His arm tightened around my waist. "Because if it is, I'm up for it. You know I am."
He was still smiling, but behind it lurked a shadow of desperation. Again, his worry ignited mine. Perhaps this added incentive was exactly what I needed. It wouldn't be easy, but it could be interesting, particularly with Aaron's help.
Any other time, I'd have pounced on the idea, but now, even as I envisioned it, I felt only a spark of interest, buried under an inexplicable layer of lethargy, even antipathy, and all I could think was "Oh, but it would just be so much work."
My hackles rose at such indolence, but I squelched my indignation. I was determined to take a life tonight. I would allow nothing to stand in the way of that. Therefore, I could not enter into a plan that might prove too difficult. Better to keep this simple, so I would have no excuse for failure.
I lay the paper aside. "Are you hungry?"
A faint frown.
"Last night, you said you were hungry," I continued. "If you were telling the tr
uth, then I presume you still need to feed, unless you slipped out last night."
"I thought we'd be hunting together later. So I waited."
"Then we'll hunt tonight. But not—" A wave at the paper. "—in a hospital."
We strolled along the sidewalk. It was almost dark now, the sun just a red-tinged memory along the horizon. As I watched a flower-seller clear her outdoor stock for the night, Aaron snapped his fingers.
By Blood We Live Page 52
