I guess I got lucky. As a first-gen vampire, I'm self-healing, with superhuman strength. Nobody knows how long first-gen vampires can keep going. I don't want to say we're immortal, but our cells just keep fixing themselves, keep regenerating—all except the blood cells, of course.
The later generations of vampires are starting to fade, though. Like the girl coughing quietly as she stumbles out of the blood-hire's dingy apartment.
As I rise, my heart rate stutters, falters, then picks up again. Wavering, I catch myself against the wall to keep from falling over. As usual, I've waited longer than I should before feeding—it's been almost three days.
The blood-hire comes to the doorway. He's an enormous man, padded heavily with fat, balding on top. He sighs, taping a bandage to his left arm. "I can spare half a pint, buddy."
I almost groan. It's not enough.
It will have to be enough. I'm due back at Deathcastle within the hour. I'd better make this quick.
4
Finley
Sarah is a soft, mousy girl of nineteen or twenty, a handful of years younger than me. She has smooth creamy curves and glossy cinnamon-colored hair—a "real snack," Heath would have called her. He used to make comments like that to me about other women, and boast to his pals that I was the coolest girlfriend for not caring, never getting jealous. I did care, and I was jealous—not because he noticed female beauty, but because of the way he noticed—a kind of careless greed, a slavering, lip-licking, sultry-eyed noticing. It's one of many reasons I felt a faint relief once he was gone—a relief heavily colored by horror and grief. Heath may have been a dick, but he was mine. And the way he died—
Sarah sets my dinner tray on the top of the dresser and unslings a canvas bag from her shoulder. "I brought you some things."
She lays out jeans, shorts, a few shirts, a couple pairs of panties, some cosmetics, and a towel. There's an old tablet, too, with a charger, and she has brought me a couple of dog-eared paperback novels—one thriller, one romance. "It gets boring when we're not doing our daily work or feeding the masters," she says.
The way she says the masters sets my teeth on edge. "So they're all male?"
"There's one female, Viana."
"And who is your master?"
"Khalil."
"Is he good to you?"
"Very. But I barely see him—just every couple of days or so for feeding." She eyes the section of Atlan's room that's visible through the doorway of my space. "We're all surprised that Atlan has a blood-bag now. He's gone without one for so long." She looks at me, as if I'll have a reason for the change.
I shrug. "I guess Captain Markham decided otherwise." I pick up my food tray and sit crosslegged on the bed. "If you don't mind—I'm starving."
"Oh, sure. I'll let you eat." She's in the doorway when she turns back, hesitant. "Just so you know, you might have a little trouble with one of the other blood-ba—suppliers, I mean. Jess, Viana's supplier—she's had her eye on Atlan from the start—tried to convince the Captain to reassign her to him. She won't like it that you're here."
"Does she have a crush on him? I thought he was asexual."
"She thinks she can change that, if given the chance. Thinks she's God's gift to men or something."
I smile at the hint of malice in Sarah's voice. Maybe the mouse has teeth. "Well, I'm not interested in reawakening some vampire's libido. I'm here for safety, and for food."
Sarah nods. "I understand." And I know, from the shadow of pain in her eyes, that she really does.
When she leaves, I devour the food—corrugated carrots, mushy meatloaf, instant potatoes with gravy, and a tough roll of bread. In the old days I'd have turned up my nose at a meal like this. Right now, it tastes nothing less than heavenly.
I set the tray back on the dresser, pull on shorts and a T-shirt, and place the rest of my borrowed clothes in the drawers. I'm nearly done with the task when the door to Atlan's room opens.
Spinning around, my heart in my throat, I see him—tall and lithe, lean muscles shifting under his T-shirt, skinny dark pants hugging his long legs, and silver rings glinting on his fingers. His black hair is shaved around the sides and thick on top, tumbling in an unruly arch over his forehead. He tosses a gleaming black coat onto the bed and unbuckles his sword belt—and then he catches sight of me.
I breathe out, a soft sigh of surprise, because he's stunning. The sharp angles of that jawline, the shockingly pale blue of his eyes under the sweep of black hair, the perfect line of his nose and those crisply arched dark brows—I suddenly understand why this Jess girl wants a chance at him. Even the shadowy scruff along his jaw is perfect.
His thin lips tighten as he stares at me, and I remember that I'm still wearing the bold makeup they plastered on me at the slave market. I wish I'd wiped it off or something. I probably smeared the lipstick while I was eating.
The vampire looks shocked, and absolutely furious. He turns and marches back to the door of his room, one finger pointed at me like an accusation.
"Who is that?" His voice is low, but I hear every fierce, clipped word.
The Captain's voice answers, a soothing rumble. "That is your new blood supplier. She's here for your use alone—a clean, healthy source anytime you need it. No more sips from questionable temp suppliers or blood hawkers. You're to drink from her, and only her."
I shift a few steps aside until I can see Atlan's bedroom doorway, where the Captain faces off against the vampire.
"Did you buy her?" Atlan snaps.
The captain lifts his head and squares his shoulders, as if bracing himself against guilt. "I did. It was the only way to ensure a consistent supply and high quality."
"I prefer blood-hires to slaves."
"There are none with the quality you need at the price we can pay long-term. Buying a supplier outright was the cost-effective choice."
"From the slave market?" The young vampire's voice is drenched with accusation. "I thought you were a better man now, Markham."
"Enough!" The Captain's voice deepens, the growl of an alpha asserting his dominance. "She is your supplier now, and your responsibility. Do whatever you like with her, short of freeing her. I spent a lot of money to ensure you get a pure supply."
"I told you I didn't want a blood-slave. It goes against everything I—"
"You're my best warrior, Atlan. You need a stable source of blood if you're to keep doing your job. One human at your service, to save the lives of thousands more. She isn't screaming or fighting, see? She's happy to be here, to be safe. We're doing her a favor, keeping her off the streets, out of the slums. So enough with your righteous indignation. You'll keep her, and you'll drink from her, and that's the end of it."
Atlan hisses at his superior's back as the older man disappears down the hallway. I've never seen human soldiers behave that way to an officer; they're usually crisply obedient and perfectly respectful. But I suppose a highly skilled, priceless warrior like Atlan can get away with a few moments of overt rebellion.
Atlan slams the bedroom door and whirls back to me. He crosses the room swiftly; he's in front of me before I can take a bracing breath.
"Your name?" he says.
"Finley. Finley Mars."
"You already know why you're here, all the details?" Frustration edges each one of his words.
"Yes, I've spoken with Robbins, and Sarah. I know what I'm supposed to do." I hesitate, my pulse quickening. "Do you need—do you need some now?" The words feel oddly intimate—me, offering part of myself to him, to be consumed by him.
He whisks back a step. "No. I already fed today. Just—rest, and keep to yourself. I like my privacy."
"Of course. I—"
But he's already gone, closing the door that joins our rooms.
I hesitate, feeling strangely rejected.
And then, before I can think myself out of it, I yank the door open again.
Atlan has just stripped off his shirt, and he stares at me, incensed. "What did I just say about p
rivacy?"
I force myself not to stare at the exquisitely carved pecs and abs bared to my view. "Your room is my only route to the bathroom," I tell him sternly. "I think we should talk about logistics. Like a signal, for when I need to go through your space to get to the hallway."
"Fine," he growls. "If you need to cut through, tap twice on your door."
"I know you don't want me," I say, more gently. "But I'm grateful to be here. Really, honestly grateful. If you knew where I've been sleeping, what I've been eating, just to survive, you'd understand that this isn't something you should feel guilty about."
"I'll decide what I should and shouldn't feel guilty about, thank you." But the flames in his eyes fade a little, as if I did assuage some of the guilt.
"Good night," I tell him. Of course he doesn't answer.
***
I'm excused from work of any kind for the next three days. Sarah encourages me to simply rest and eat, and I'm happy to comply. I don't venture anywhere; I've had enough of wandering for a while, so I stay curled up on my bed, reading and playing the inane little tablet games that I never had time for in the days before the Gorging, when I was a busy third-grade teacher.
By the end of the second day I'm getting restless, though. I feel stronger already, and I've got the itch to get out of the room, to meet the people here, to explore the compound and do something. I'll be glad when my work shifts start.
The clock on the tablet tells me it's nine o'clock. I'm tired of gaming and reading, and I'm not sleepy yet, so I tap twice on the door and cross Atlan's darkened room. From there, I peek into the gloomy hallway. There's light emanating from the communal human bathroom, and more light slipping from the cracks under a couple of the doors. I've been showering in the middle of the day, to avoid encountering any of the other humans in the bathroom; but I think I'm ready to meet them now. I don't expect them to be as nice as Sarah, but the sooner I get that first meeting over and done with, the better.
I pad softly down the hall in my bare feet—no one has given me shoes yet—and I hesitate in the bathroom doorway. There are three stalls, two showers, and a long trough sink with ledges under the sprawling mirror. It reminds me of a dorm bathroom.
One of the showers is running, sending hot steam into the room, and there's a girl leaning across the sink, plucking her brows. She's short and slim, with an Asian-American cast to her elegant features. Probably one of the other "waifs" the Captain took pity on.
She catches sight of me out of the corner of her eye, and a smooth smile crosses her lips. "Hey there. You must be Finley. I'm Jess."
Jess. The one who wanted my spot as Atlan's supplier.
"Yeah, I'm Finley. Nice to meet you."
"You settling in okay?" She tugs a stray hair from her brow.
"Yeah. Just been eating and resting so far. It's been—well, honestly it's been amazing."
Her eyes dart to my face. "How are you getting along with Atlan?"
"I've only seen him once," I confess. "I think he hates that I'm here."
"Of course he does." She rolls her eyes. "That boy wouldn't know a good thing if it walked up to him and pinched his nose."
The tension in my shoulders eases, and I edge further into the bathroom, keeping my back to the wall. I do things like that without thinking about it, even in spaces where I know I'm safe. And even now, I'm considering how quickly I could smash the mirror and seize a shard of it to defend myself if I had to.
Jess watches my movements. "You're jumpy, huh? I was too, before I came here. Didn't like to be touched. The first time Viana tried to feed from me I screamed and threw a chair at her." She half-smiles. "After that she took her time with it, helped me warm up. We're friends now."
"Friends?"
"Of course. They're just people, you know. People who had terminal cancer, no other hope, and happened to be approved for a new trial drug that turned their circulatory systems into pumps that gotta be primed with living blood. No biggie."
I can't help smiling. Despite what Sarah said, I like this girl. However timid and terrified she was when she came here, she's clearly confident now, and sassy.
Jess tucks her tweezers back into her makeup pouch and gives me a wink. "You know, I wanted to give it a shot with Atlan. The boy is hot, ya know? I wanted to find out if he's really dead below the belt."
She says it without malice, but with a twinge of regret for a missed chance.
"I'm sorry," I tell her. "I didn't have a choice."
"It's fine," she said. "I've got a thing with Charon now. Of course he's also got a thing with Harry, and with anyone else he happens to want. Keep your eye on that one, okay?" She raises her voice when she speaks the last two sentences—I'm not sure why.
"I will. Thanks."
She saunters out of the bathroom, and I slip into a stall. While I'm inside, the shower that was running turns off, leaving the space washed in silence.
There's a faint hiss of whispering voices, and my skin thrills with panic. Either there's more than one person in that shower, or the person showering is talking to herself. Or himself. Either way, I don't want any part of it.
Quickly I exit the stall and wash my hands—but before I can finish, two figures appear in the mirror behind me, boxing me in against the sink. I don't turn, not yet—but I inspect their reflections curiously.
One is a tall man, maybe in his late twenties, with shaggy black hair down to his shoulders and a pale expanse of slim throat and lean torso—super pale, like stereotypical vampire-pale. He's got a black collar studded with rivets around his neck, and three thick chains looping over his chest. Near one corner of his lower lip there's a silver ring, and more silver rings decorate his ears.
The other guy is African-American, with gorgeous full lips and a pair of beautiful golden-brown eyes. His skin is smooth brown, warm and rich, embellished with tattooed lines of teeth and cryptic symbols along his ribs and over his biceps.
Both of the men are entirely naked and ridiculously well-formed.
Lately, for me, any idea of sexual activity has involved the fear of rape. Living on the streets isn't ideal for a healthy sexual life. It's been ages since I felt any kind of normal arousal, and the sudden intensity of it shocks me—that old familiar tingling and warming in areas of my body that have been dormant for so long.
"What do we have here?" says the pale one, a smirk tweaking his pierced lip.
"I'm Finley. Atlan's new supplier." The words are embarrassingly husky, scraping from my dry throat.
"What a waste, giving you to someone who can't appreciate you." The pale boy takes a handful of my blond hair and runs his nose along the locks, inhaling deeply.
"Stop sniffing her, Charon," says the brown-eyed guy. "Sorry, Finley. I'm Harry, and you'll have to excuse Charon. When he became a vampire his libido got three times worse."
"I think you mean better." Charon narrows dark eyes at him. "You seemed to be enjoying yourself a moment ago."
"I—I thought the vampires used a different bathroom," I squeak. Stupid thing to say, Finley! Get a grip.
"Not always," Charon murmurs. He's leaning over my shoulder now, looking at me in the mirror, his soft mouth skimming my ear, my cheek. I'm breathing shallow, gripping the edge of the sink, captive to the sensations wakened by these two beautiful, stark-naked men. Charon's fingers creep along my hipbone, crawling across my abdomen, wriggling under the band of my shorts—
What is he doing? Is he going to touch me here, with Harry watching? Am I going to let him?
No.
Swiftly I thrust my hips backward, knocking him off balance, and I twist free of his hand and dart to the bathroom door. Harry laughs, delighted, and claps. "Nice. You're quick, girl."
Charon cocks his head, a predatorial light gleaming in his eyes. "Why so shy? You liked it, love. I could smell it."
I don't have a good reason for refusing him, honestly—except the sense that he isn't really seeing me—just another human body he can play like an instrume
nt. And as much as my body might like being played, my heart isn't ready for games like this.
"You should have asked before touching me," I retort, and then I spin on my heel and stalk back down the hall to Atlan's room. I refuse to run, because it would look like I'm scared of them, and I'm not—but my desperation to get away, to hide, nearly overcomes my pride. When I reach the safety of my room, I close the door and sit with my back against it. Not that my weight would stop a vampire—or two regular men, for that matter—but I'm hoping they have enough respect for Atlan to leave me alone once I'm in his rooms. And if by some chance they don't—well, next time Charon wants to touch me, I just might let him.
It takes a long time for me to settle down enough to sleep, and sometime after I drift off, a strident buzzing drags me out of a murky dream. My eyes blink open and I stare at the red light above my bed, not understanding what it is, or what it wants.
And then I remember.
Red light. Red as blood.
My vampire needs me.
I throw myself out of bed, but my legs are twisted in the sheets and I fall, bruising both knees. "Damn it!" I struggle to my feet and run shaking hands over my rumpled clothes—thin shorts and a soft tank top. I want to put on a bra to hide the obvious outline of my breasts, but there isn't time. I've already delayed too long. I make a mental note to start wearing my bra to bed after this.
Racing to the door, I pull it open and rush into Atlan's room.
It's dark, so dark I can't see Atlan at first. I fumble along the wall and find a switch.
When the light flares, there he is, lying on his stomach, by the wall near the button he pushed to summon me. His dark hair is a messy sweep of wild strands, concealing part of his face.
Gingerly I push his shoulder, but he's surprisingly heavy for someone so lean. Maybe it's all the muscles. I shove harder with both hands, and he tumbles onto his back, his pale face and throat exposed, his lips parted and his eyelashes forming dark half-circles on his cheeks.
Enslaved To The Vampire Zombie-Hunter (Pandemic Monsters Book 1) Page 3
