Blood Memories

"I never speed."

His teeth were yellow and the stench of three-day-old perspiration drifted over to my side of the car.

"What's your name?" he asked.

"Does it matter?"

Mortals never cease to surprise me. He looked about as bright as an antique fire hose, but he suddenly realized this situation was a bit out of the ordinary.

"Hey, what are you doing with me?"

"I was bored. You looked bored."

He still seemed uncertain, as if he thought maybe I was going to get him off and then ask for a hundred bucks.

He pulled into Union Park, grabbed the bottle out of my hand, and stepped outside. The lights on the water were beautiful at night. Black, cold water so polluted no one could swim in it, but tugboats drifted gently across the surface, in and out of the harbor, at all hours. I loved it.

My companion walked halfway up a grassy hill and sat down. The place was deserted. We could hear cars and distant voices, but couldn't see anyone. I sat down next to him and took a shallow drink from the bottle, even though warm, straight Black Velvet didn't appeal to me.

He reached out for another drink and grabbed my wrist instead. His hand surprised me. The bottle fell and shattered on a jagged rock. Instinctively, I tried to pull away, and he pinned me down beneath his chest. Bile rose in my throat as I tasted warm whiskey and stale French fries on his mouth. He was too strong to push off, and panic set in. He ripped the back of my tank top, and I managed to pull my face away.

"Don't."

"What's wrong?" he breathed without letting me up.

His eyes looked like Dominick's, cruel and flat. This must be the way Dominick made love, too. I pretended he was Dominick and felt my own control returning.

When he kissed me again, I didn't struggle. Memories of watching Maggie flooded past me, and I kissed him back the way she would have, openmouthed, with no pressure at all. His tongue pressed in violently.

The grass felt soft, and his body felt hard. Running my hands lightly up his chest, I listened to a sharp intake of breath. He rolled over with a groan and let my lips move down his unshaven cheek.

Touching him made me sick, but I just kept seeing him as Dominick. As my face buried itself in the crook of his neck, I reached up with one hand, grabbed his hair and bit down so hard that hot liquid spurted out in a tiny, pulsing fountain on the first strike.

His body bucked once, but I ripped upward with my teeth and bit down again so fast he went into shock. The blood tasted good, sweet. I tried to shut out all the ugly, shabby images of his life flowing through my mind. The faster I drained him, the fainter he got. With each swallow his arms grew weaker until they stopped pushing at me altogether.

Even when I couldn't take in any more, his heart thumped in his chest. I dragged him down the hill and rolled him into the bay, watching him sink, glad he was dying.

It was an unexpected experience, standing over the black water, blood all over my face and arms, rejoicing in someone else's death. So far I'd always hated killing. Tonight was a first.

Was the world changing or was it just me?

Chapter 12

Twenty minutes later, home was just a few blocks away, and I was wishing for a coat. I'd tried to clean myself up, but had only made the mess worse. Between the torn tank top and the blood drying in my hair, I looked like a battered teenager. Only a few people passed me on the street, but my appearance stood out enough to be noticed, even in the dark.

Relief flooded through me when I saw the porch light at Maggie's.

Almost there.

The iron gate creaked slightly as I slipped through. Poor William. He would need comfort and to be tucked in bed with soft words. My earlier manner with him had been harsh and unfair. None of this was his fault.

The path to the door seemed endless, and then something soft and tentative touched my mind. My legs froze. I looked up wildly.

Wade sat on the front stairs, gazing out through a pair of tired eyes, his white-blond hair hanging in messy tufts.

Neither one of us moved or spoke for a full minute.

"What happened to you?" he finally asked. "Are you hurt?"

"No. I'm… No."

He was wearing a pair of torn jeans and a faded Colorado State sweatshirt.

"Is that your blood?"

"What are you doing here?" I asked, ignoring his question.

Maybe it had always been there, but that moment was the first time I noticed a sadness etched in Wade's face. He'd led a strange life so far, colored by bizarre abilities he'd never asked for. Rather like me. And maybe it was because my world felt so alone, but he looked familiar. His serious, narrow countenance was an almost welcome sight. I walked up toward the porch and sat down on the stair below him- instinctive deference-not caring what he thought of the blood and ripped tank.

"Dominick came to my room this morning, a few hours after you left," he said softly. "We had a talk… that turned into an argument."

"About me?"

"He said a lot of crazy things about you. I had to see you again."