Both food and wood aromas stirred nostalgic memories. Home and hearth, dinner cooking, family, warmth, love. Vague, distant memories that refused to be completely vanquished.
Rachel Stryker shook those thoughts away. Hunger gnawed at her, and it was time to get down to business. She continued her strut down Harry Hines, letting the darkness wrap her in anonymity, although she could clearly see every detail of the debris-and-hypodermic-littered street.
Midway down the block, a man got out of an older, battered, maroon Toyota Camry. He looked around, attempting a nonchalance that told her he was after either drugs or sex—or both.
She walked faster, her long strides eating up the sidewalk between them. He saw her and stopped short, his gaze skimming down her. He was middle-aged, balding, nondescript—like hundreds of other marks. He straightened and tried to smooth his shabby jacket as she reached him.
“Hey there,” she said, letting her allure drift around him. “You look like you could go for a little recreation.”
He wet his lips, his gaze still roaming over her. “I don’t think I can afford you.”
“Oh, you can,” she said, drawing the net tight. “Because I’m worth it. I’m the best you’ll ever have.” She eyed him, recognizing his type—he either was paid his wages in cash under the table or cashed his paycheck as soon as he got it. “Fifty dollars will get you whatever you want, baby.”
“Sure,” he muttered, staring into her eyes, firmly in thrall. He fumbled in his pocket, pulled out a money clip and peeled off a fifty-dollar bill. She found it odd that poorer people tended to carry more money on them, in larger denominations, as if it made them feel richer.
“Come on.” She took his arm, guided him into a nearby alley. It was easy enough to maneuver him, since she matched him in height, and was far stronger than he’d ever comprehend.
He was dirty, his foul breath and body odor an unpleasant affront to her highly developed sense of smell, but again, what did it matter? She was just what he needed, and he…he was key to her existence.
She slipped the money into her fanny pack. “Well, let’s get started then.” She stepped close and placed her hand on his chest, savoring the rapid beating of his heart. Is there anything moreexhilarating, she thought, as she always did, than the blood—a life force essential to survival—thundering through a living, beating heart?
“So,” she breathed, lowering her face against his neck, “how do you want it?” She nipped the side of his neck, slipped into his mind. She wouldn’t begrudge him his fantasies, as long as he gave her what she needed. Ah, he was easy to read…
She quickly unbuttoned his coat, then his shirt, jerking them open so that his bare chest was exposed to the cool air.
“Hey, you’re movin’ too fast,” he protested. “I want my money’s worth, lady.”
“You’ll get it. I promise.” She undid his pants, slipping her hand inside and wrapping her fingers around his cock.
“God, that feels good,” he groaned, fumbling for her breasts. She wasn’t wearing a bra, so it was a simple matter to unzip her bodice with her free hand, allowing him to fondle her breasts. Since he was focused on getting inside her rather than her taking him into her mouth, she squeezed him, stroked his balls.
Still groaning, he jerked up the hem of her dress, exposing her slender thighs and pubic hair. He seemed excited about that, clumsily touching the thick thatch of hair. “You don’t shave down there like most whores,” he muttered, slipping a thick finger between her nether lips and probing inside her.
She opened her legs farther, let him finger her a moment, then grabbed the lapels of his coat and jerked him against her, turning so that her back was against the gritty cinderblock wall. She hitched one leg around him, fitting herself against him and urging him to slam home.
“That’s it,” she crooned, meeting his thrusts as she again pressed her lips against his neck. “That’s it. Take what you want, what you’re paying for.”
She opened her mouth, sank deep. Life gushed into her, a hot surge more potent than pure adrenaline. Gulping the intoxicating liquid, she became omnipotent, flashed to the stars and back in a wild, heady rush. At the same time, a part of her managed to remain grounded and keep the mind lock on her mark. In return for her personal nirvana, she hurled him over the edge.
“Oh God, oh God!” he screamed, in the throes of the most powerful orgasm of his insignificant life. He emptied himself inside her, in long, drawn-out waves of sensation. He’d never felt such pleasure. He was dying, dying…God, God!
Then blackness closed in around him…
Rachel stared down at the prone man, noting the even rise and fall of his chest. Since he was completely dressed, and it wasn’t that cold, he’d be fine until he came to in twenty minutes or so. He’d be weak and possibly have a headache, but he’d also have the memory of a hot sexual encounter that had left him completely satiated—even though it had all been in his mind. She smoothed her shawl and stepped out of the alley, another business transaction completed.
Strolling away, she ran her tongue over her fangs to catch the remaining film of blood. They were already retracting, the earlier heated flush receding. Fading way too quickly, like her john’s simulated orgasm. Leaving her cold and bleak until the next fix.
The next john, obviously more affluent, was better dressed and better spoken, but he was a cold, unemotional man with gutter morals. He was able to pay a lot more for Rachel’s services than her last customer. “Don’t you have a place where we can go?” he asked, as she grabbed his expensive coat’s lapels and maneuvered him behind a tattoo parlor.
She refused to do her transactions in the confines of a car. She never allowed johns to take her to a hotel, either—although there were numerous dives and flophouses in the general vicinity—not even for exorbitant amounts of cash. She didn’t need that much money, nor did she have to worry about her personal safety—it was difficult to kill a being without a soul. But she needed the cover of night, and she needed the blood, and her profession was perfect for those needs.
“I want to go somewhere where there’s a bed or a hot tub,” he said imperviously, obviously used to his orders being obeyed. “Or I want my money back.”
“No,” she whispered, flowing into his mind. “That’s not what you really want, is it? I know what you want, and I can give it to you.”
She slid down him, going to her knees where he wanted her, subservient and willing to do what his wife wouldn’t. Her fingers rubbed his thighs, circling upward, almost—but not quite—touching his straining erection.
He moaned, thrust his pelvis forward and said, “Get on with it!”
She unzipped his pants, eased his cock out, gave him what he demanded, teasing and tantalizing him with her mouth and tongue.
He was vaguely aware of her long fingers digging into his bare buttocks, and found that incredibly erotic. He grabbed her head, pressed her closer, and she took more of him. Jesus, she was good.
Then she took him really deep into her mouth, deeper than any woman had ever managed. He wanted to hold back, he tried to hold back, but her mouth was moist and her throat tight, creating an exquisite suction around his dick, and suddenly he was exploding. Oh man, oh man, he’d never experienced such pleasure. He didn’t know if he could take it, if his heart could hold out.
His world went dark with stunning, ruthless suddenness.
Rachel left the back alley and its fully dressed occupant without a backward glance. She felt the warm glow of his blood in her veins, given in exchange for another illusion of a sexual act that had never really occurred. She considered it a fair trade.
This was her last “business transaction” of the evening. She knew, without the benefit of a watch, that the night was waning, with about two hours remaining until sunrise. She’d had enough blood, and she had more money to add to her hoard. It was time to call it a night, although there was certainly nothing awaiting her at her condo.
She slipped behind the bu
ildings fronting Harry Hines and walked past stinking Dumpsters and litter scuttling along the ground until she found a bedraggled and pitiful group of people huddled around a fire in a trash can. The stench was overwhelming, the atmosphere of despair and mental confusion oppressive.
Most of those living in the streets were mentally ill, homeless through no fault of their own, shunned by the rest of society. Rachel had long ago accepted that justice was a jaded crapshoot. Drawing some bills from her pack, she approached the group.
“Hey Paul, Sam, Martha,” she said, acknowledging the people she knew. “If I give each of you some money, will you promise to share with everyone here?”
They nodded enthusiastically, toothless smiles splitting filthy faces. “Thank ye, Rach,” Sam said, snatching the bill she offered him. “God bless ye.”
“Same to you.” She couldn’t bring herself to say “God.” She didn’t believe He existed—just a useless myth. “Don’t spend it all on booze, okay?”
They all nodded their agreement, but she knew they’d make a run for the Centennial liquor store as soon as she was gone. Maybe some food would make it into their bellies—she could only hope.
She headed for her car. She lived in a modest condominium in Oak Lawn and could walk the miles to get there, but she preferred to travel by automobile, as a hedge against being caught out in sunlight. The years had taught her that anything could—and did—happen and that she must always be prepared. The instinct to survive was strong, even if she no longer remembered the reasons to persevere.
Her car was at Parkland Hospital, a few miles south on Harry Hines. Rachel always used the visitor parking garage. She could afford it and didn’t have to worry about her vehicle being vandalized. And if someone tried to question her appearance or her regular use of the garage, she could always glamour them into forgetting they’d ever seen her.
She’d gone one block when she saw him. He was standing beneath one of the streetlights that still worked, and its fluorescent glow gave him the unsettling illusion of being framed in a halo. His body language was different from the usual Harry Hines crowd.
He appeared to be expectant, almost waiting for something—or someone—although he didn’t emit the threatening hostility of a criminal, the hardness of a drug dealer, the apathy of a drug addict, or the general despair and hopelessness that swirled in varying shades of darkness in the area.
He wore gray slacks and a navy sports coat over a dark gray sweater, and his swept-back dark blond hair gleamed in the light. Despite the strongly chiseled features of his face, the slightly over-large nose, and the surprisingly sensuous mouth, he had a wholesome look—a glaring indication that he was totally out of place here, in the bowels of Dallas. He might be an undercover cop, but she didn’t sense it, and she was rarely wrong about cops.
Police, like soldiers, had a distinct aura surrounding them. Generally it was an air of power and arrogance, sometimes cruelty and finding sadistic pleasure in the fear of others; although some cops did radiate a genuine concern to help. But the compassionate ones were rarely seen here among the depravity and hopelessness. Not that it mattered; Rachel was well acquainted with the cruelty of corrupted power—and she was no longer helpless.
A chill swept through her. Mentally damning the stranger whose presence had raised unwelcome memories, she started past him, but he stepped into her path. Surprisingly, he met her gaze, another anomaly for the area. His eyes were dark, intent.
“Hello,” he said.
She shifted around him, kept walking.
“Wait!” he called out. “Please.”
Ordinarily she wouldn’t have stopped, but the please—the rareness of hearing that word—startled her. She paused, looked back over her shoulder.
“I’d like a few minutes of your time.” His well-modulated voice was pitched low, as if someone might actually care that he was negotiating a transaction, but no one around here cared about anything except their next fix, whether it be drugs, alcohol, or sex.
He definitely wasn’t her type of mark, and she’d had enough blood tonight. “Sorry, not interested.” She pivoted back around.
“I’m not asking for sex,” he responded quickly. “I just want to talk.”
They all did. They wanted to tell her about their rotten lives, cheating spouses, unemployment, and the crap the world dumped on them in general. Or they wanted to brag about their sexual prowess, or their domination over women, or how important they were—despite all evidence to the contrary. She’d heard it all, seen it all, when she slipped into the pathetic and weak minds she encountered virtually every night of her existence.
“No,” she said firmly. “I’m done for the night.” She started to walk away.
“I know what you are.”
She rolled her eyes. Great. He was a missionary, intent on saving the soul of a lowly prostitute. Or a do-gooder, trying to meet his quotient of helping those “less fortunate.”
She glanced over her shoulder again. “Hooray for you. News flash, mister—I don’t want to be saved, and I don’t want to be helped. But there are plenty of the less fortunate back that way. Just leave me alone.”
She’d only made it two steps when he spoke again. “And I know who you are, Rachel Emma Stryker.”
His words stopped her cold. She’d never given her full name to anyone. She had used a false identity for buying her condo and her car and establishing credit.
Tension lacing through her, she faced him. “You’ve mistaken me for someone else.”
His gaze remained steady, his eyes an indeterminate color in the artificial light. “Your mother was Gertrude Marie Gutmann Stryker and your father was Abram David Stryker. Aaron was your younger brother.”
Shock staggered her, but she managed to keep her outward composure. How could he possibly know that? Who or what was he? He certainly wasn’t her kind. She would know if he was. “Who are you?”
“I’m Gabriel Anthony. But my friends call me Gabe.” The light around him seemed to intensify, and she had to avert her eyes. He took a step closer. “I’m here to help you.”
Fear and irritation comingled. She was certain now that he was a do-gooder, determined to “rehabilitate” her, that he had somehow managed to trace her to that other life so long ago. Although she had no idea how, and his accomplishment left her shaken and concerned.
She took the step that brought her in close proximity with him. Looked him in the eyes, despite the pain of the light. He radiated a surprising warmth that almost had her leaning into him. And he smelled great, reminiscent of fresh bread, coffee, cinnamon, and all the other enticing scents that had once permeated her mother’s kitchen.
Damn it, she wasn’t going there. “Let me make this very clear. You are mistaken about me. You have me confused with someone else. I repeat, I don’t need and I don’t want your help. Now leave me the hell alone.”
She turned and strode off, determined this would be the end of it.
“I’ll see you around.” His words sounded like a promise—or a threat.
“I don’t think so,” she called back without breaking stride.
He didn’t speak again or try to stop her. But she was very aware of his presence behind her as she walked away. She went another two blocks before she looked back. He was still there, watching her. And the light still surrounded him like a sacred nimbus.
She didn’t like halos or anything associated with them.
She walked on, disappearing into the shadows.
Chapter 2
HERE, kitty, kitty! Come here, kitty. I have something for you.” Rachel crouched at the Dumpster where Gertie usually lurked. She rattled the paper bag, pulled out a pouch of Friskies Fine Cuts and a paper plate.
A faint meow came from behind the Dumpster, and there was a flash of white and gray as a small cat edged around and trotted toward Rachel. It meowed again, then rubbed against her legs. She petted the cat awkwardly, feeling rather foolish, as she did every night. It butted its head against her
hand.
“Are you hungry? I brought your favorite brand.” Rachel opened the pouch and dumped the contents on the paper plate. The cat started gulping the food.
Rachel allowed herself one more stroke along the cat’s soft fur before she stood. She’d found the animal a month ago, just a kitten, ragged and starving and feral. The kitten’s skeletal state had resurrected terrible visuals of the starving humans in Dachau. Something about its weary, distrustful eyes had touched Rachel. That, and the fact that it would only come to her, despite efforts from Caitria and some of the homeless men. Rachel could only guess that the animal was attracted to her because of her allure.
She couldn’t bring herself to take the cat home, but she couldn’t leave her to starve, either. So she’d started bringing food for her every night, although she only allowed herself brief contact. She didn’t want to become attached to the animal. She’d had enough loss in her life.
Rachel turned to go, starting when she careened into a man standing there. She moved back, her eyes narrowing when she saw who it was.
“You. What are you doing here?”
The do-gooder from last night, Gabriel something-or-other, squatted down, held out his hand. “I’m here to see you—and Gertie.”
How did he know the cat’s name? Rachel usually only called her “kitty,” rather than use something as personal as a name. Squinting against the light that seemed to emanate from the man, she stared as Gertie left her food and went right to him, rubbing against his hand. The cat had never let anyone else near her. And she was purring loudly.
“You saved her life, you know,” he said, scratching under Gertie’s chin. She angled her head back to give him better access, and he smiled.
The light around him brightened, and Rachel had to look away. “I haven’t saved anyone. It’s enough just to take care of myself.”
He stood and faced her. Tonight he was wearing a dark brown leather jacket over a tan sweater and jeans. “I think you’ve done a good job of surviving. But there’s more to life than simply existing.”
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