The Strange Path

by D. Jordan Redhawk

Ravenous, Whiskey barely tasted her breakfast as she ate. It was probably just as well since the eggs appeared undercooked and the sausage patty was suspect. She knew she should try to go slow to allow herself time to get used to the food, but couldn’t help herself. In response, her stomach cramped once or twice, but the pain wasn’t of the same nature as before. Lying back, now overfull, she groaned with contentment. Maybe this sickness passed with time, just like the first one. It certainly had taken long enough, much longer than the other two. She didn’t want to repeat the incident that got her in here, and refused to dwell on the visions and cravings that would trigger another round of vomiting. Maybe later when she’d had time to digest breakfast, and gain some strength.

  An hour and a half before visiting hours. Whiskey wondered if Dorst had already arrived. On a lark, she closed her eyes, and let her mind drift, searching. A tenuous flicker of dark chocolate tickled the edges of Whiskey’s mind. Shit! The padre. She sat up straighter in bed, scanning farther. Her mind brushed across three other Sanguire presences, none of whom she knew.

  To protect herself, she yanked herself back from making full connections with any of them. Other Sanguire? Were they working with Castillo or Valmont? She didn’t think the padre would betray her after his many denials, but that wouldn’t stop the Agrun Nam from watching his every move. Would Valmont have thought to check hospitals, too? Did he send people to all of them in the area to locate her? Or maybe Alphonse and Zebediah had called Fiona last night, filling her in. Maybe these people worked for her.

  Her initial complacence gone, Whiskey climbed out of bed. Noticeably stronger this time, she took a deep breath to relax. She had to get dressed. Then she’d debate staying, or going in search of Dorst. He had much more experience and knowledge than she; if anyone could protect her, it would be him.

  The flimsy hospital gown soon lay on the bed. Whiskey stood by the window, fully clothed. From her position, she saw past the curtain to the door beyond, and the foot of her roommate’s bed. The television droned on, the volume low, portraying a morning news station. A picture of Dominick appeared behind one of the newscasters. Whiskey stared.

  “Still no leads on the slaying of a young homeless boy, Dominick Filardo. Filardo, who was fifteen years old, was beaten to death early Wednesday morning in the University District. He was a reported runaway at the time. Current theories range from a revenge killing or drug bust gone wrong. The police are urging anyone with any information to please call.” The newscaster gave a number, and the screen changed to a weather map. “Now to Hank with today’s forecast.”

  Whiskey turned off the television. Before she could react, a nurse entered the room, barely noticing her. The woman went to the other bed, and chatted with the person there.

  “And how are you this morning, Mrs. Draiman? Did you sleep well last night?”

  “Surprisingly, yes. The doctor said my tests were inconclusive this morning?”

  “I’m sorry to say.” The nurse fussed with some instruments. “I’ve come to get another blood sample from you. He’s got some more tests to run so we can pin down what’s wrong.”

  Whiskey’s mouth watered, her senses focused on what happened on the other side of the curtain. She heard the rustling of cloth, the squeak of rubber, and the faint click of plastic on plastic as the nurse uncapped a syringe.

  The odor undid her. Rich and thick and sweet, it called to her. She felt an odd sensation in her mouth. Running her tongue along her teeth, she came in contact with fangs where none had been before. The strangeness in her mouth distracted her from the activity beyond the curtain. She flopped into the chair by her bed, carefully exploring the new fangs with her tongue.

  Oh, my God! Is this supposed to happen?

  Her heart raced. She swallowed, returning her attention to the other half of the room. The nurse had left with her sample, but the smell of it still drifted in the air. Too faint for Human senses, it beckoned Whiskey. She swallowed again, noting her stomach didn’t rebel as it had the day before. Instead of cramping, it merely complained of a hunger she hadn’t assuaged.

  The teeth wouldn’t go away. Adrenaline whisked through her as she considered they might not until she’d...fed. Her memory of being with Margaurethe, literally dining on the woman, brought her to her feet. She didn’t come to her senses until she was halfway across the room.

  Stopping herself, Whiskey gaped at the old woman in the bed. What the hell was she doing? Her stomach growled louder in demand, and she imagined the feel of the flesh as her teeth pierced through. With a grunt, she turned away, stumbling to the door.

  I have to get out of here. Now.

  Whiskey slipped down the hall. Despite the hour, people bustled back and forth on important errands. Nurses went about their tasks, checking on patients. A pair of uniformed men delivered trays of food to each room, checking a clipboard as they went. Passing close to her, a doctor with a trail of interns rounded the corner and entered a room, looking very much like a mother duck and her ducklings. An elderly patient hobbled along with his IV stand as a walker. Two technicians loitered at the nurses’ station, flirting with a little blonde. The number of people helped hide Whiskey’s escape attempt; no one noticed her except one intern with an armload of medical files. “Waiting room’s over there. No visitors yet.”

  She nodded, and kept walking, not trusting she could speak with the mountain of teeth in her mouth. Passing the indicated area, she headed for the elevator beyond.

  “Jenna.”

  Too quiet for Humans to hear, the whisper shouted at her. She spun around, eyes wide. Castillo stood in the doorway of the waiting area. Opening her mouth to speak, the fangs got in the way. She clapped her hands over her mouth, blushing as she realized she’d shown them to the padre, and anybody happening to look in her direction. She looked wildly around the area. Too absorbed in their activities, no one had noticed.

  “I understand.” He sped forward, faster than Humanly possible, and took her arm. “Let’s get you somewhere safe.” He pushed the call button.

  Despite having heard that from far too many people, Whiskey gladly allowed him to take the lead. She nodded, hand still clasped across her mouth. The elevator door opened before them, and she stepped inside.

  Castillo took her to the hospital parking structure, guiding her to a car. She knew he’d have one. She’d dropped her hand from her mouth, but the fangs were still there. Secure inside the vehicle, she explored them with her tongue, leery of the sharp scrape across her skin.

  “Are you all right?”

  Unable to help herself, she laughed, teeth flashing. “Sure thing, Padre.” Her words slurred with inexperience. “Happens all the time.” She waved at her mouth in explanation.

  Castillo started the engine, heading toward the exit. “You will be able to control it, I promise.”

  “Will I?” An edge of panic flickered along her smile.

  He glanced at her, sending a gentle brush of warm, dark chocolate against her mind. “Yes, you will. We all do.”

  She closed her mouth, the mental caress igniting tears, and stared out the passenger window.

  Castillo paid the attendant, and pulled out into traffic. “I’m going to take you to my home.” He glanced at her. “Not the rectory, nowhere near the U District. I swear on God’s grace that you’ll be safe while you’re there, and free to leave at any time.”

  Whiskey continued to watch the passing scenery.

  “Is that okay with you?”

  “Can you get a message to my Baruñal? I lost the cell phone that had his number.”

  Disapproval colored the edges of his sincerity. “Yes, I will. I can’t wait to meet him.”

  She couldn’t help the grin crossing her face. “He feels the same way about you.” She sniffled, and wiped at her eyes.

  Again he looked at her, an answering smile on his face. “Does he?”

  Whiskey nodded. “Oh, yeah.” She thought a moment, tongue worrying the fangs. “He’s older than you.”
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  “I’ll take that into consideration.” He drove onto the highway, heading north.

  “Then it’s okay with me.” Since she was pretty much stuck with him regardless of her suspicions, she realized she had the perfect opportunity to ask questions. “So you’re Sanguire and a priest? That seems kind of odd.”

  “You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” He shrugged, watching traffic. “As I told you before, I was raised Human. Like you. I followed in my adoptive family’s spiritual footsteps.”

  Whiskey blinked. “You’ve been a priest for that long?”

  Castillo laughed at her tone. “No, I took the vows about a hundred seventy-five years ago. And don’t sound so horrified.” He changed lanes to bypass a semi truck. “When you live as long as we do, a hundred years isn’t all that much.”

  She turned that over in her head. Her intentions varied from day to day; wouldn’t a Sanguire’s, too? Did Valmont come here to assassinate her again, or had he changed his mind? That reminded her of the other Sanguire she felt at the hospital. “What about the others? When I felt you at the hospital, there were others there. I think three of them.”

  “No one you recognized?”

  Whiskey shook her head.

  “Chances are they were others who live in that area. Our population doesn’t rival Humans, but there are many of us, especially in large urban areas. No doubt a proper census would surprise everyone.”

  She sighed, and leaned her head against the back of her seat. Her eyes drooped closed for a second.

  “You’re tired. You need rest. When we get to the house, you can have a nap.”

  “But, my teeth!”

  “Have already sheathed.”

  Whiskey sat upright, searching her mouth, finding nothing amiss. “How the hell did that happen?”

  “The conversation distracted you. Your body’s automatic responses took over again. If you concentrate on them, they’ll come out again.”

  She toyed with the idea of doing just that, but sudden fear tingled down her spine at her lack of control. “I’ll take your word for it.”

  He chuckled. “Right now you have little mastery, but that will pass. Lean back, nap. It’ll be another hour before we get there.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Whiskey woke in darkness. She lay on a soft bed, snuggled and cozy with sheets and a quilt. For the first time in a while she felt almost Human. Chuckling at the thought, she sat up and stretched. How fucking bizarre, to feel Human when I’m not.

  “Hello.”

  Whiskey turned toward the voice with a hiss, automatically crouching on the bed, fangs extended. Her accelerated senses, no longer sluggish from sleep, pinpointed a young woman seated in a chair by the window. Her heart beat strong and steady, not racing as Whiskey’s did. “Who the hell are you?”

  The woman rose from her chair, and sauntered toward the bed. “My name is Aleya. I’m kizarus, a vessel.”

  “A...a what?” Whiskey recoiled from her confident manner. She scooted away as Aleya neared. The word sounded familiar. Where had she heard it before? “A kizarus. What’s that?” Her superior vision focused, noting her visitor’s plump frame and heart-shaped face. Castillo wouldn’t have allowed her in if she meant Whiskey harm. Would he? Her ever-present suspicion of him soothed her surprise.

  Aleya sat on the bed, leaning back on her elbows in a seductive pose. “Some Sanguire don’t have the time or inclination to hunt. Instead, they have kizarusi, select Humans who find the bloodletting arousing.”

  Kizarusi. Whiskey heard Fiona’s voice in her head. “They are a group of people who...serve us.” She swallowed, uncertain whether to move closer, or flee. She tongued her new fangs. “You like getting bitten? Doesn’t it hurt?”

  Aleya sighed, purring with contentment as she tossed her head back, and revealed her neck. “It hurts. But pain can be a very pleasurable thing.” She rolled over onto her side, and studied Whiskey. “It really depends on the Sanguire. Some are very capable of creating an enjoyable atmosphere; a hint of the forbidden, the erotic, goes a long way.”

  “You’re a Goth.”

  She laughed, delighted. “Yes, I am.”

  More curious than concerned, Whiskey relaxed her stance, and edged closer. “Aren’t you afraid I’ll kill you?”

  “Kill me?” The question puzzled Aleya before her eyes lit up in understanding. “That’s right. Father Castillo said you were very new at this, just now maturing. You can’t drain me like they do in the movies and books. Your stomach isn’t nearly big enough.” Aleya propped her head on her fist, sliding her free hand along the quilt in idle patterns. “Besides, Sanguire don’t really need more than a few ounces to survive. Less than a liter every few days, actually.”

  Whiskey stared at her, anticipation and dread making her swallow. “Why exactly are you here?”

  Aleya gave a lazy smile as she continued to caress the bed. “It’s time for your first feeding. Father Castillo thought I could entice you.”

  A wave of heat washed through Whiskey, leaving her slightly sweaty in response. Her mouth watered and her heart thumped, the taste of blood right on the proverbial tip of her tongue. She held herself still, awaiting the expected stomach cramps, but none came. Instead, a strong wave of hunger made her tremble.

  This is it, the final step. You’ll never be able to go back. It didn’t matter that she had no choice. The thought remained. Shaking her head, she backed away until her spine pressed against the headboard. In response, Aleya smiled and rolled over, crawling forward, stalking her. Whiskey didn’t want to do this, didn’t want to hurt her, didn’t want her to leave. Before she could formulate an escape, the kizarus straddled her waist.

  Aleya tossed her hair to one side, baring her neck. “We need this,” she whispered. “You need this to survive. And I need you to do it.”

  Whiskey swallowed, breathing hard as she focused on the slow, steady pulse beating beneath the skin’s surface. Her entire body shook with need. Still she held back. “I don’t know—”

  “Shhh.” Aleya’s hand slid behind Whiskey’s head, guiding her closer. “You’ll figure it out.”

  Whiskey nuzzled the soft skin. Inhaling, she committed Aleya’s scent to memory. Her arms wrapped around the woman’s body, holding her close, no longer being guided. She knew what to do. Elisibet remembered.

  The first taste of copper was unlike anything Whiskey had ever had before. Ambrosia, an aphrodisiac to her body. Better than her inadvertent biting of that woman a few days ago, better than what she remembered of the meditation visions. Growling, she pressed into Aleya, suckling hard against the tear her teeth had rendered. In her arms, the woman sighed, undulating her hips against Whiskey. Her scent altered, smelling of musky arousal as well as blood, her pleasure ignited by the feeding. Whiskey felt no echoing sexual desire. Parched to the bone, she suffered a deep thirst. Aleya’s blood relieved the ache, a soothing balm against the fading undernourished tremors that shook her. As Whiskey drank her fill, her nerves tingled in response, waking from a sleep that had lasted her entire life.

  She found herself slowing, stopping. Completely relaxed for the first time in days, she gently licked the wounds she’d left on Aleya’s neck. Aleya, smelling heavily of her arousal, hummed in satisfaction in her arms. Whiskey rolled over, setting her gently on the quilt. “Are you all right?”

  “Very.” Aleya sighed. Her eyes opened, heavy-lidded. She waved vaguely at the chair where she’d been seated. “Could you bring me my bag? I have first-aid supplies there.”

  Whiskey obeyed. “Do you need help?”

  “No. I’m fine.” Aleya sat up, seemingly none the worse for wear. She found a gauze pad and some tape. With deft hands, she covered the bite mark, and taped the padding down.

  Uncertain, Whiskey stood awkwardly beside the bed, watching. What did you say to a woman whom you just bit? ‘Gee, thanks, you were tasty?’ She muffled a giggle.

  As Aleya stood, Whiskey stepped back from the bed. Aleya tossed the st
rap of her bag across her uninjured shoulder. Stepping closer, she leaned in, and gave Whiskey a quick peck on the lips. “Thank you. You were very gentle.”

  Was that good or bad? “Um, thanks.”

  Aleya smiled, and patted her cheek. “See you around.” She sauntered toward the door, hips swaying. She turned back to give Whiskey a wink.

  Alone once more, Whiskey sank onto the bed. That was...indescribable. How often do I need to feed? Will it feel like that every the time, or do I get used to it? Aleya had said some Sanguire didn’t prefer “hunting.” What of those who did like to hunt? How did they go about it? Whiskey couldn’t imagine Valmont having a kizarus or six wandering around behind him.

  Whiskey threw herself backward on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Her hands roamed her skin, absently noting differences in sensation. Her teeth had retracted once she’d released Aleya. She used her tongue to explore the normal-feeling flesh. Concentrating, she closed her eyes, and thought of the taste of blood, slicing through skin with her teeth. Her eyes popped open as fangs slowly slid out from their sheaths. For a panicked moment she worried she’d be stuck with them as she’d been when she’d left the hospital. Her heart thumped, and she pushed away the thought of blood. She felt the fangs retract, and her heart slowed. Rubbing her face with her hands, she sat up.

  Time to see if Castillo had found Dorst.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Whiskey explored ahead with her mind, pleased to feel both the men she sought. At least they hadn’t killed each other. Castillo seemed slightly distracted. She heard him tell Aleya goodbye. That must be why. With them together, she compared their strength. The difference in vigor between them intrigued her. She knew Dorst was at least three hundred years older than Castillo, probably more. She felt the inequality of their power, but couldn’t say how. Maybe Fiona and her pack weren’t different enough in age for her to catch it. Or maybe she wasn’t far enough along to see it when she was there. There certainly hadn’t been time to distinguish the finer points of strength last night at the hotel.