"This is why I didn't want a blood-slave," he says, low. "With blood-hires, they're used to it. It's over and done quickly, a simple transaction. No complications. When you're feeding from the same person all the time it gets messy. Personal."
What is he trying to say? That this isn't working out? That he doesn't want me? With a monumental effort I swallow my emotion and force words out. "I'm sorry. I can do better, I promise."
"You shouldn't have to. God, what has this world become?" He smacks a hand against the wall. "What have I become?"
His obvious pain takes the edge off my own, and suddenly I have an inexplicable, irrepressible urge to comfort him. "From what I can see, you've become a damn good warrior."
He doesn't answer, misery etched in every line of his handsome face.
"You're really good at this, you know—killing the zombies," I continue. "And you seem to enjoy it."
"Only a monster enjoys killing things."
"Only a hero takes pride in protecting others." My sense of panic and helplessness has receded, and I touch his wrist softly. "No judgment here if you happen to like your role in this. I've always been a big believer in doing what you love, finding a career you enjoy. Job satisfaction, and all that."
I wait till he looks at me out of the corner of his eyes, and then I smile at him. An answering smile quirks his lips, though he tries to hide it. His spine isn't quite so stiff now, and his shoulders relax a little. Acceptance—that's what I've given him. I may not have much to contribute to this relationship besides my blood, but for some reason I want to give him more. Why? Why do I want to make him smile? It isn't just the gorgeousness—hell, Charon is gorgeous, and so is Harry. This is something else, something about him that pulls me in and makes me want to lay my hand on his heart and soothe whatever it is that makes him ache inside.
His fangs haven't retracted, and his lower jaw hangs slightly open to make room for them. Clearly his body is telling him he's not done with me yet.
"Listen, I know you need more blood from me. It's okay to take it."
He shakes his head. "No, Finley, I can't. You were crying."
"Only because I'm still getting used to this. And to be honest, you smell pretty bad right now."
"Yeah, I know. It's an occupational hazard."
"Maybe if I pinch my nose—" I pinch it experimentally, my voice turning nasal. "Like this, okay? And maybe you could bite me somewhere besides my neck."
"Of course," he says quickly, looking pained. "I only chose the neck so you wouldn't have to undress."
My heart starts melting again, because he's seriously the sweetest thing. "What about my wrist?"
"Wrists are trickier, but I can be careful. We'll need to sit—I'm kinda shaky at the moment."
We sit, side by side, with our backs to the wall, and he picks up my left wrist, carefully bracing my arm so it's steady. Before he bites me, he looks into my eyes. With the purple gums and his fangs extended, his smile is more of a monster's grimace, and I have to stifle another surge of fear. For his sake, I force myself to smile back as brightly and bravely as I can.
Reassured, he gently pierces my veins with the very tips of his fangs. I can feel the pressure of his lower teeth on the underside of my wrist, and the suction of his mouth as he draws my blood into himself. My bracelet pings once, and then, a few minutes later, it chimes again. Still he drinks, and my heart beats faster, even though I know he has only taken a full pint and humans can lose a few pints and be just fine. My arm is trapped between steel fanged jaws, held immobile by the same powerful arms that dispatched a few hundred zombies today. There would be no escape, even if he decided to drink me dry.
The third time the chime sounds, Atlan releases my wrist and swirls his tongue over the four holes, and over the swollen skin where he sucked.
"We should get back to the truck," he says, lifting me to my feet.
10
Atlan
After that, Finley comes with me every time I have a shift at the wall.
I've always loved killing the zombies, and though I don't exactly hide it, I wouldn't admit it to anyone aloud. Finley saw it right away—understood the rush it gives me.
I wasn't a hard-core gamer in my pre-vampire days, but I used to enjoy the occasional night of video-game zombie killage when I was a teen, and even later, in college. For me it was more than escapism; for a while I could pretend I was doing something important, something heroic. Thinking up new strategies, saving lives, attaining objectives. It was temporarily satisfying, and I used to wish for more drama and danger in my real life, so I could show off my true potential—if it even existed.
I never thought I'd be living out one of those games—but I am, and not just as a random soldier or civilian either. I'm in the top tier—one of the heroes who keeps humanity going. It's damn epic, actually.
So yeah, I like my job. And it's oddly comforting that Finley gets it, and doesn't think I'm some kind of murderous freak.
"Where were you when the Gorging happened?" she asks me one day. She's sitting up against me, not exactly snuggled, but really damn close, while I drink from her arm.
I take a couple more swallows. Most of her blood shoots upward through my fangs, along the ducts in my upper jaws and into my bloodstream—but some of it always ends up sliding down my throat too. Back when I first turned, the extra blood in my stomach used to make me sick, but eventually I got used to it; and now, with Finley, it's weirdly comforting. I can feel her blood pumping through me, clean and strong, making me healthier than I've ever felt. Maybe there's a medical explanation for the difference in the way her blood makes me feel, or maybe this is one of those esoteric things that just can't be explained. Either way, it's amazing.
I slide my fangs out of her wrist and take my time cleaning the little holes I left, greedy for every last drop of her, and eager to be sure that she heals perfectly. Then I wipe my lip with my thumb. "What was the question?"
She watches me for a second, her pupils dilating and her lips parted. For a second I'm tempted to kiss her, just to see what her mouth would feel like. My lips are kinda thin, but hers are full and curved, and they just look so—
"Where were you when the Gorging happened?" she asks.
"Oh, that." It's a question lots of people ask each other. A standard "getting-to-know-you" move. "I was showing a house. Real estate job, very new. People didn't like hiring vampires in those days, you know. I had to keep switching jobs."
She frowns. "I thought employers weren't allowed to discriminate based on vampirism."
"Technically, no, but if their customers complained about it, they would find ways to get rid of me. No matter what lame excuses they used, I always knew the real reason."
Finley winces in sympathy.
"So anyway, I was showing a house to this family, and when we came out, the dad got jumped by a zombie neighbor kid. I pulled the little zombie off, but it was too late—the dad turned, and bit his own kids before I realized what was happening. I picked up the mom and ran, but she clawed me until I had to drop her, and then her husband got his fangs into her, too. I just kept running. Didn't even realize until later in the day that the zombies wouldn't chase me—that they didn't even notice I was there. And then I started thinking about how many people I could have saved if I'd realized my immunity sooner."
"That must have been awful."
"Yeah." And I don't want to talk about it anymore. "How about you?"
"I was at school, teaching." She sucks in her cheeks, and her mouth tightens.
Damn. She must have seen a lot of kids turn. "Your students turned?"
"Some of them. The rest—I don't know. We got the healthy ones back to their families as fast as we could, but it—wasn't always possible."
"What about your family?"
She shakes her head. "My dad died of a heart attack a few years before it happened. My sister and her husband and my mom died on the first day of the Gorging. My boyfriend lasted a while longer."
"I'm so sorry."
"I miss my family, so badly. But Heath wasn't much of a loss."
Suddenly I realize that I'm still holding her forearm in my hands, and I let go. "So you didn't love him."
"Oh, I did. But he didn't love me back. Not as much as he loved himself, anyway." She seizes a handful of the half-dead grass by the tenement wall and jerks it free, dribbling it over the cracked pavers. "What about your parents?"
"Mom died about fifteen years before the Gorging. Dad lasted another three years. They both lived good long lives, well into in their eighties. I'm glad they didn't have to see the world rot like this."
"It must have been strange for them, when you turned."
I can't help a half-smile, remembering. "Actually, my turning was the best thing that could have happened to them. See, when I was diagnosed with brain cancer, they stopped being my parents, in a way. They were like worry machines, hovering around me all the time, calling this doctor and that doctor, emailing here and there, trying to find me a last great hope, when all I wanted to do was enjoy the scraps of time I had left. And I did enjoy them, for a couple weeks, until my symptoms got so bad I couldn't go out any more, couldn't hide it from the girls I was with."
Finley's hand, lying on her knee, inches a little nearer mine, but she doesn't touch me.
"Anyway, when I finally agreed to do the serum trial, my parents were thrilled. And when I turned, they were—what's bigger than thrilled?"
"Ecstatic?" she offers.
"Ecstatic, yeah. You'd think they won the lottery. Honestly, Trouble, if it wasn't for them, I wouldn't be here. I wouldn't have made it through. They tried to make everything easy for me, but when they couldn't do that, they just—they loved me, with everything they had, for all those decades, even when I hated myself, even when I wasn't worth loving."
Why am I talking so long about this? I never tell people this crap from my past—it's not worth dredging up. It's over. Done.
I rise abruptly. "We should go."
"You still miss them," she says.
"It's been a long time."
Finley's voice is soft, persistent. "It's okay to still miss them."
I reach out and grip the corner of the building, grounding myself with the feel of rough brick under my palm. "I had a hard time after they died, yeah. I thought about—you know—"
Killing myself.
"I was in a bad place."
I planned it all out. Wrote a note and everything, not that anyone would have found it, or cared to read it.
"But then the Gorging happened, and suddenly I had a purpose. I could help people, save them. I was safe from the zombies myself, and I could fight them for others. So I've always had mixed feelings about the Gorging. It was awful, and of course I wish it had never happened—but it came at a time when I needed it. I guess I'm grateful, too."
I have never said that to anyone. It's a terrible thing to say, sociopathic to find anything good about that black day and its aftermath.
Finley will definitely be disgusted by me now. Maybe that's for the best. I'm getting too close here, opening up too much. I need to back away, to create some distance between us—
"I feel the same way," Finley says quietly. "The Gorging did me one favor, by getting me away from Heath."
I inhale sharply, and without looking at her I say, "Then you understand."
"Yes." She slips her arm through mine. "I do."
11
Finley
Off and on for the next three weeks, I watch Atlan cut great bloody swathes through the scattered clusters of zombies who have gathered outside the wall during the night. I have work shifts, too, scheduled on his days off, and I spend those hours stripping the second half of the vampire residential floor down to the studs, helping the contractors replace wiring, shore up studs, and mount the panels of drywall.
One morning I'm smearing on another layer of drywall mud and scraping it smooth, feathering the edges carefully, when pounding footsteps attract my attention. "Paul?" I call out.
But it's not the gruff contractor who's been overseeing the third floor renovation—it's Atlan, his hair mussed and his eyes bright. He fed from me this morning, and his cheeks are actually pink for once—flushed with my blood. He looks so alive, so human, and so damn beautiful that I drop my putty knife into the pan of joint compound. I pick it out again, swearing loudly and repeatedly.
He quirks an eyebrow. "Damn, girl. You taught little kids with that mouth?"
"What do you want? You can't possibly need more blood already."
"No, but you do need to come with me. Right now."
"I'm kind of in the middle of something."
"Too bad. This is an all-hands-on-deck situation. The big horde we've been tracking, the one from Yaeger City? It's here. Coming toward the wall as we speak. We're all going to fight them off."
Terror freezes my limbs. "Is this the horde the Captain said could push down the entire wall within a few hours?"
"Yeah, but we won't let them. The soldiers have been setting up pits and traps for the past couple of weeks. We've got this."
"And you want me to come watch."
"Watch, yes—and also, I might need you. It's going to be a long fight. The other blood-b—I mean suppliers—are coming too."
Slowly I climb to my feet. I'd much rather stay here and smooth joint compound over the drywall seams—it's oddly soothing, especially when I have music playing on my tablet and it's just me, working in the bare sunlit room, getting it ready to be lived in.
I don't want to watch the arrival of a zombie horde vast enough to bear down the wall and flood Blue City. I don't want to see all the carnage that will occur in defense of the wall. I don't want to be on the wall if the defense fails and everything falls apart, literally. I'd rather be here, with weapons and supplies and vehicles at hand, in case I need to escape.
I cross my arms. "I really don't want to go. If you need blood, you can come back here for an hour. I have work to do."
His jaw flexes. "Smearing putty on walls?"
"Yes, exactly."
"What if I get low on blood, and I'm desperate? What if I can't make it back here in time?"
"You'll just have to be careful."
"You're being ridiculous. You know I need you with me, close by. Markham said—"
"To hell with Markham. He doesn't own me—you do. And you said you don't want a slave, which means I can make this choice myself. I'm not going." I scrape the excess putty off the knife and crouch by the pan again.
In a flash he's beside me, flicking the putty knife from my hand and hauling me to my feet. He's not rough with me, but he's vampire-strong. He pushes me back against one of the walls, the one I haven't started mudding yet. I notice that he has placed his hand on my chest, right above my breasts, like he did that day behind Deathcastle, when he drank from me the second time. The realization only inflames me more, because he's obviously trying to turn me on to soften me up, to manipulate me into doing what he wants.
He touches my chin gently, but I twist away and knock his hand off my chest.
His voice rises with exasperation. "Why are you being like this?"
"I. Don't. Want. To. Go." I exaggerate each word and try to duck past him, but he catches me by the upper arms and shoves me against the wall again. My heart rate kicks up, and not just because I'm angry, but because he's an inch from my face, his azure eyes churning with frustration.
"You'll go," he says.
"Nope."
He puts his mouth to my ear. "I can make you obey me."
Yes. Yes please. I mean, NO.
"Try it, bastard," I hiss back. "I'm not going to that damn wall when there's a horde on the move."
He chuckles into my hair then. "Oh, I get it. You're scared."
"Am not."
"Yes, you are. You want to stay here in case we fail and the wall falls, right? You've got a better chance of survival if you're at Deathcastle when it happens."
"N-o-o," I
say slowly. "That's not what I—"
"It is. Ha!" He grins triumphantly. "Well, first of all, I'm hurt that you think so little of my skills. And secondly, I didn't think you were a coward."
It's silly to rise to his bait, but I can't help it. "I'm no coward."
"Prove it then." He gazes into my eyes, his own softening and warming, even as his grip on my arms relaxes. "Help me, Trouble. Be there for me, so I have the strength to do this."
Oh hell. I can't resist that plea, and he knows it. He's starting to smile broadly again, because thinks he's won this time.
I grip his jaw in my hand. "Stop grinning like a lunatic, or I'll run away and I won't come back."
A flicker of genuine fear enters his eyes. "Have you thought about doing that? Running away?"
"Like, maybe once. I haven't seriously considered it."
"Good. Because I—" He struggles for a few seconds. "I want you to stay here. With me."
For a long minute we're frozen in place—my fingers wrapped around his jaw, his hands on my upper arms—and something shivers and heats in the air between us. I don't think it's just me that feels it.
Please let it not be just me.
"Come to the wall with me, Finley," he says hoarsely, his breath warm on my lips. "Please."
Feet scuff the floor in the hall, and Jess appears in the doorway, with Sarah peeking around her shoulder. Atlan moves away from me immediately, but it's too late—they already saw us. Sarah's face lights up, but although Jess smiles, her expression has sharp edges, aching and envious. "If you two are done talking, let's go. Everyone else is waiting."
***
At the wall, the other blood-bags and I stand atop the barricade, which today is free of civilian onlookers. Instead, we're hemmed in on all sides by soldiers. Sharpshooters take up positions along the wall, while the rest of the platoon are equipped with grenades and other incendiary things I'm kind of nervous about. I've never been in a place with so much explosive material all around me. Sarah seems to feel similarly timid; she hangs onto my elbow, eyeing the scattered, shambling zombies in the killing fields below.
Enslaved To The Vampire Zombie-Hunter (Pandemic Monsters Book 1) Page 7
