By Blood We Live

by John Joseph Adams

  "Flowers. That's what's missing in your house. You always have flowers."

  "The last arrangement wilted early. I was going to pick up more when I was out today, but I didn't get the chance."

  He seemed to cheer at that, as if reading some hidden message in my words.

  "Here then," he said. "I'll get some for you now."

  I arched my brows. "And carry bouquets on a hunt?"

  "Think I can't? Sounds like a challenge."

  I laughed and laid my fingers on his forearm. "We'll get some tomorrow."

  He took my hand and looped it through his arm as we resumed walking.

  "We're going to Paris this spring," he said after a moment.

  "Are we? Dare I ask what prompted that?"

  "Flowers. Spring. Paris."

  "Ah. A thoughtful gesture, but Paris in the spring is highly overrated. And overpriced."

  "Too bad. I'm taking you. I'll book the time off when I get home, and call you with the dates."

  When I didn't argue, he glanced over at me, then grinned and quickened his pace, launching into a "remember when" story of our last spring in Paris.

  We bickered over the choice of victim. Aaron wanted to find one to suit my preference, but I insisted we select his type. Finally, he capitulated.

  The fight dampened the evening's mood, but only temporarily. Once Aaron found a target, he forgot everything else.

  In the early years, Aaron had struggled with vampiric life. He'd died rescuing a stranger from a petty thug. And his reward? After a life spent thinking of others, he'd been reborn as one who fed off them. Ironic and cruel.

  Yet we'd found a way for him to justify—even relish—the harder facts of our survival. He fed from the dregs of society, punks and criminals like those youths in the park. For his annual kill, he condemned those whose crimes he deemed worthy of the harshest punishment. And so he could feel he did some good in this parasitic life.

  As he said, I'd found his first victim. Now, two hundred years later, he no longer scoured newspapers or tracked down rumors, but seemed able to locate victims by intuition alone, as I could find the dying. The predatory instinct will adapt to anything that ensures the survival of the host.

  Tonight's choice was a drug dealer with feral eyes and a quick switchblade. We watched from the shadows as the man threatened a young runner. Aaron rocked on the balls at his feet, his gaze fixed on that waving knife, but I laid my hand on his arm. As the runner loped toward the street, Aaron's lips curved, happy to see him go, but even happier with what the boy's safe departure portended—not a quick intervention but a true hunt.

  We tracked the man for over an hour before Aaron's hunger won out. With no small amount of regret, he stopped toying with his dinner and I lured the drug dealer into an alleyway. An easy maneuver, as such things usually were with men like this, too greedy and cocksure to feel threatened by a middle-aged woman.

  As Aaron's fangs sank into the drug dealer's throat, the man's eyes bugged in horror, unable to believe what was happening. This was the most dangerous point of feeding, that split second where they felt our fangs and felt a nightmare come to life. It is but a moment, then the sedative in our saliva takes hold and they pass out, those last few seconds wiped from memory when they wake.

  The man lashed out once, then slumped in Aaron's grasp. Still gripping the man's shirtfront, Aaron began to drink, gulping the blood. His eyes were closed, face rapturous, and I watched him, enjoying the sight of his pleasure, his appetite.

  He'd been hungrier than he'd let on. Typical for Aaron, waiting that extra day or two, not to practice control or avoid feeding, but to drink heartily. Delayed gratification for heightened pleasure. I shivered.

  "Cass?"

  He licked a fallen drop from the corner of his mouth as he held the man out for me.

  This was how we hunted—how Aaron liked it, not taking separate victims but sharing. He always made the disabling bite, drank some, then let me feed to satiation. If I took too much for him to continue feeding safely, he'd find a second victim. There was no sense arguing that I could find my own food—he knew that, but continued, compelled by a need to protect and provide.

  "You go on," I said softly. "You're still hungry."

  He thrust the man to me. "Yours."

  His jaw set and I knew his insistence had nothing to do with providing sustenance.

  As Aaron held the man up for me, I moved forward. My canines lengthened, throat tightening, and I allowed myself a shudder of anticipation.

  I lowered my mouth to the man's throat, scraped my canines over the skin, tasting, preparing. Then, with one swift bite, my mouth filled with—

  I jerked back, almost choking. I resisted the urge to spit, and forced—with effort—the mouthful down, my stomach revolting in disgust.

  It tasted like. . . blood.

  When I became a vampire, I thought this would be the most unbearable part: drinking blood. But the moment that first drop of blood touched my tongue, I'd realized my worries had been for naught. There was no word for the taste; no human memory that came close. I can only say that it was so perfect a food that I could never tire of it nor wish for something else.

  But this tasted like blood, like my human memory of it. Once, before I'd completed the transition to vampire, I'd filled a goblet with cow's blood and forced it down, preparing for my new life. I could still taste the thick, metallic fluid that had coated my mouth and tongue, then sat in my stomach for no more than a minute before returning the way it had gone down.

  Now, after only a mouthful of this man's blood, I had to clamp my mouth shut to keep from gagging. Aaron dropped the man and grabbed for me. I waved him aside.

  "I swallowed wrong."

  I rubbed my throat, lips curving in a moue of annoyance, then looked around, and found the man at my feet. I steeled myself and bent. Aaron crouched to lift the man for me, but I motioned him back, and shielded my face, so he wouldn't see my reaction. Then I forced my mouth to the man's throat.

  The bleeding had already stopped. I bit his neck again, my nails digging into my palms, eyes closed, letting the disgusting taste fill my mouth, then swallowing. Drink, swallow. Drink, swallow. My nails broke my skin, but I felt no pain. I wished I could, if only to give me something else to think about.

  It wasn't only the taste. That I could struggle past. But my whole body rebelled at the very sensation of the blood filling my stomach, screaming at me to stop, as if what I was doing was unnatural, even dangerous.

  I managed one last swallow. And then. . . I couldn't. I simply couldn't. I hung there, fangs still in the man's neck, willing myself to suck, to fill my mouth, to finish this, mentally screaming, raging against the preposterousness of it. I was a vampire; I drank blood. And even if I didn't want to, by God, I would force every drop down my throat—

  My stomach heaved. I swallowed hard.

  I could sense Aaron behind me. Hovering. Watching. Worrying.

  Another heave. If I took one more sip, I'd vomit and give Aaron reason to worry, to panic, and give myself reason to panic.

  It was the victim. God only knew what poisons this drug dealer had swimming through his veins and, while such things don't affect vampires, I am a delicate feeder, too sensitive to anomalies in the blood. I've gone hungry rather than drink anything that tastes "off." There was no sense asking Aaron to confirm it—he could swill week-old blood and not notice.

  That was it, then. The victim. Just the victim.

  I sealed the wound with my tongue and stepped back.

  "Cass. . ." Aaron's voice was low with warning. "You need to finish him."

  "I—" The word "can't" rose to my lips, but I swallowed it back. I couldn't say that. Wouldn't. This was just another temporary hurdle. I'd rest tonight and find a victim of my own choosing tomorrow.

  "He isn't right," I said, then turned and headed down the alley.

  After a moment, I heard Aaron pitch the unconscious man into a heap of trash bags and storm off in the
opposite direction.

  Any other man would have thrown up his hands and left me there. I arrived at my car to find Aaron waiting by the driver's door. I handed him the keys and got in the passenger's side.

  At home, as I headed toward my room, Aaron called after me. "I hope you're not going to tell me you're tired again."

  "No, I'm taking a bath to scrub off the filth of that alley. Then, if you aren't ready to retire, we could have a glass of wine, perhaps light the fire. It's getting cool."

  He paused, still ready for a fight, but finding no excuse in my words.

  "I'll start the fire," he said.

  "Thank you."

  No more than ten minutes after I got into the tub, the door banged open with such a crash that I started, sloshing bubbles over the side. Aaron barreled in and shoved a small book at me. My appointment book.

  "I found this in your desk."

  "Keen detective work. Practicing for your next council investigation?"

  "Our next council investigation."

  I reached for my loofah brush. "My mistake. That's what I meant."

  "Is it?"

  I looked up, trying to understand his meaning, but seeing only rage in his eyes. He was determined to find out what had happened in that alley, and somehow this was his route there. My stomach clenched, as if the blood was still pooled in it, curdling. I wouldn't have this conversation. I wouldn't.

  Ostensibly reaching for the loofah brush, I rose, letting the bubbles slide from me. Aaron's gaze dropped from my face. I tucked my legs under, took hold of the side of the tub and started to rise. He let me get halfway up, then put his hand on my head and firmly pushed me down.

  I reclined into the tub again, then leaned my head back, floating, breasts and belly peeking from the water. Aaron watched for a moment, before tearing his gaze away with a growl.

  "Stop that, Cass. I'm not going to run off and I'm not going to be distracted. I want to talk to you."

  I sighed. "About my appointment book, I presume."

  He lifted it. "Last week. On the day marked 'birthday.' The date you must have planned to make your kill. There's nothing else scheduled."

  "Of course not. I keep that day open—"

  "But you said you were busy. That's why you didn't do it."

  "I don't believe I said that. I said things came up."

  "Such as. . .?"

  I raised a leg onto the rim and ran the loofah brush down it. Aaron's eyes followed, but after a second, he forced his gaze back to mine and repeated the question.

  I sighed. "Very well. Let's see. On that particular day, it was a midnight end-of-season designer clothing sale. As I was driving out of the city to make my kill, I saw the sign and stopped. By the time I left, it was too late to hunt."

  He glowered at me. "That's not funny."

  "I didn't say it was."

  The glower deepened to a scowl. "You postponed your annual kill to shop? Bullshit. Yeah, you like your fancy clothes, and you're cheap as hell. But getting distracted by a clothing sale?" He snorted. "That's like a cop stopping a high speed chase to grab donuts."

  I went quiet for a moment, then said, as evenly as I could. "Perhaps. But I did."

  He searched my eyes, finding the truth there. "Then something's wrong. Very wrong. And you know it."

  I shuttered my gaze. "All I know is that you're making too big a deal of this, as always. You take the smallest—"

  "Cassandra DuCharme skips her annual kill to go shopping? That's not small. That's apocalyptic."

  "Oh, please, spare me the—"

  He shoved the open book in my face. "Forget the sale. Explain the rest of it. You had nothing scheduled all week. You had no excuse. You didn't forget. You didn't get distracted." His voice dropped as he lowered himself to the edge of the tub. "You have no intention of taking a life."

  "You. . . you think I'm trying to kill myself?" I laughed, the sound almost bitter. "Do you forget how I became what I am, Aaron? I chose it. I risked everything to get this life, and if you think I'd throw that away one minute before my time is up—"

  "How you came into this life is exactly why you're hell-bent on leaving it like this." He snagged my gaze and held it. "You cheated death. No, you beat it—by sheer goddamned force of will. You said 'I won't die.' And now, when it's coming around again, you're damned well not going to sit back and let it happen. You chose once. You'll choose again."

  I paused, looked away, then back at him. "Why are you here, Aaron?"

  "I came to fix your wall—"

  "At no prompting from me. No hints from me. You came of your own accord, correct?"

  "Yeah, but—"

  "Then, if I'd planned to let myself die, presumably, you wouldn't have seen me again." I met his gaze. "Do you think I would do that? Of everyone I know in this world, would I leave you without saying goodbye?"

  His jaw worked, but he said nothing. After a moment, he pushed to his feet, and walked out.

  I lay in bed, propped on my pillows, staring at the wall. Aaron was right. When the time came, I would leave this vampiric life as I'd come into it: by choice. But this was not that time. There was no doubt of that, no possibility that I was subconsciously trying to end my life. That was preposterous. I had no qualms about suicide. Fears. . . perhaps. Yet no different than my fear of death itself.

  When the time came, yes. But I would never be so irresponsible as to end my life before my affairs were in order. My estate would need to be disposed of in advance, given to those I wished to see benefit. Of equal concern was the discovery and disposal of my body. To leave that to chance would be unforgivably irresponsible.

  I would make my peace with Aaron and make amends for my betrayal or, at the very least, ensure he understood that whatever I had done to him, the reason for it, the failing behind it, had been mine.

  Then there was the council. Aaron was already my co-delegate, but I had to ready him to take my senior position and ready the vampire community to accept that change. Moreover, as the senior overall council member, it was my duty to pass on all I knew to Paige, as the keeper of records, something I'd been postponing, unwilling to accept that my time was ending.

  Ending.

  My stomach clenched at the thought. I closed my eyes and shuddered.

  I had never lacked for backbone and never stood for the lack of it in others. Now I needed to face and accept this reality. I was dying. Not beginning a lengthy descent, but at the end of the slope.

  I now knew how a vampire died. A rebirth date came and we discovered, without warning, that we couldn't fulfill our end of the bargain. Not would not, but could not.

  If I could not overcome this, I would die. Not in decades, but days.

  Panic surged, coupled with an overwhelming wave of raw rage. Of all the ways to die, could any be more humiliating in its sublime ridiculousness? Not to die suddenly, existence snuffed out as my time ended. Not to die, beheaded, at the hands of an enemy. Not to grow ill and fade away. Not even to pass in my sleep. Such deaths couldn't be helped, and while I would have raged against that, the injustice of it, such a fate was nothing compared to this—to die because I inexplicably lacked the will to do something I'd done hundreds of times before.

  No, that wasn't possible. I wouldn't let it be possible.

  I would get out of this bed, find a victim and force myself to drain his blood if I vomited up every mouthful.

  I envisioned myself standing, yanking on clothing, striding from the room. . .

  Yet I didn't move.

  My limbs felt leaden. Inside, I was spitting mad, snarling and cursing, but my body lay as still and calm as if I'd already passed.

  I pushed down the burbling panic.

  Consider the matter with care and logic. I should have taken Aaron's victim, while I still had the strength, but now that I'd missed my opportunity, I couldn't chance waiting another day. I'd rest for an hour or so, until Aaron had retired.

  Better for him not to know. I wouldn't let him pity and coddle
me simply because it was in his nature to help the sick, the weak, the needy. I would not be needy.

  I'd stay awake and wait until the house grew quiet. Then I'd do this—alone.

  I fixed my gaze on the light, staring at it to keep myself awake. Minutes ticked past, each feeling like an hour. My eyes burned. My body begged for sleep. I refused. It threatened to pull me under even with my eyes wide. I compromised. I'd close them for a moment's rest and then I'd leave.

  I shut my eyes and all went dark.