Hunger (30 page)

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Authors: Karen E. Taylor

BOOK: Hunger
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Epilogue
T
he summer sun sets late in my new home. I have adjusted to the life well, but my internal clock is still set to another time, another place. I shower, dress and go down the stairs. The day's mail lies strewn in front of the slot in the door. I pick it up and glance through it, finding nothing of interest except for a small envelope from that other place. The writing is bold and masculine and my heart jumps at the return address. I have waited for months to receive this letter. I open it with trembling hands. The message is short; I can tell through the folded page that it is no more than three lines. Before reading it I hold it to my heart, not really knowing what I want to find. Then I carefully unfold it; I can delay no longer.
“Deirdre,” he writes, “I do love you, but you were right after all. There's no way I could live your life. I hope you can forgive me.” He has written nothing else except for his name; what more could he say? A single tear drops on the signature; I wipe it away and his name dissolves to a black blot on the white page. I fold it gently and place it on top of the rest of the mail.
The streets of London are dark and shining. I raise my face to the night sky and let the rain wash away the traces of that one tear. Then, purposefully I begin to walk, my footsteps echoing off the weathered walls surrounding me. Five blocks away is the pub at which I now work. It is a homey little place that serves a decent port, and does a good business in the tourist trade.
Life goes on, I think to myself and quicken my steps. I can hear the laughter, the singing, and as I near the bar, I can smell the scent of blood and flesh. The door swings open and I trade the darkness of the night temporarily for the lights of the pub.
Faces turn to greet me, some familiar, some strange. I make my choice for the evening and give him an encouraging smile as I make my way through the crowd to my position behind the bar. So life goes on.
BITTER BLOOD
Dedicated to Pete with undying love
 
Acknowledgments
 
The support network for the Vampire Legacy novels is seemingly endless. Once again, I'll try to mention everyone involved. Thank you to: Cheri, Elise, and John, for their invaluable proofreading, often on short notice; to Paul, whose expertise on cemeteries and the seduction of barmaids was very helpful; to the ladies of the neighborhood (again); to Sherron for her promotional advice, and to my editor, John Scognamiglio, at Zebra Books, and Cherry Weiner, my agent. But the real stars are my family, for their support, their love and understanding. Thank you all.
Chapter 1
I
shook the cold rain from my heavy woolen cloak as I entered the pub. That the place was nearly empty was not surprising. Although the sun had been set for nearly half an hour, it was still early, too early, for most of our regulars and certainly too early for the tourists. Two men, hunched over their bitter ale, glanced at me from the bar. To my acknowledging nod, they gave a brief grunt of greeting and returned their full attention to the contents of their mugs.
Idly, I moved behind the bar, still groggy from my nightmare-interrupted sleep. I gave the counter a cursory sweep with the dishcloth, then poured myself a large glass of port. Sipping gratefully, I leaned back into the shadows, my eyes greedily searching the dark street outside for passersby.
Business had been bad recently. And while I did not need the money, I did miss the tourists. The wine helped, but it would not be long before I had to feed, at any cost. The hunger possessed me fully, its grasp stronger, more savage each waking moment, seeming to grow proportionately with the intensity of the dream. Two years ago I had sought freedom from that grip to discover too late that there would be no deliverance for me, only a deeper traveling into the inhuman soul—mine or his, it made little difference.
A light touch on my arm drew me, shuddering, out of my thoughts and back to the present.
“Someone walking on your grave, Dottie?”
I looked up at the ruddy face of my one-time boss, now my partner and smiled slightly. “I imagine so, Pete,” I said, reaching below the bar to hand him a crumpled pack of Players. He followed the same routine every night before leaving the pub. He would smoke one cigarette, drink a glass of stout, and count the money in the drawer before making his way home to wife and family.
I poured him a drink and handed it to him as he sat on his stool, counting the day's take. The cigarette dangled from his upper lip, and he squinted up at me through the thick smoke.
“Thank you, darlin'. What did I ever do before you came?”
I laughed. “You lost money, just the same as we do now. How was business today?”
“Could have been better, Dot. But you know how I'm not one for complaining.” He shut the cash drawer, stubbed out his cigarette, and reached for his coat on a hook behind the bar. “Now, you, I worry about. Tending this bloody place night after night—it's not right for a young thing like you. Close up early tonight, Dottie, and go out and have some fun. Get some roses back into your cheeks.”
I reached over and protectively pulled his lapels up closer to his neck. “Pete, you are a dear, but I really enjoy the nights here, with no crowds, no pressure. And in any event, I don't know anyone here well enough to go out with them.”
He gave a brief, angelic smile, but the feigned expression of innocence did not fool me; try as he might, he could not disguise the glint of mischief in his eyes.
“Now, and that reminds me,” he started in his slow, matter-of-fact way, “bless me if there wasn't a young chap in here a little earlier, asking after you.” He began to rummage through his pockets, absently patting and prodding them. “Seems to me, I wrote his name and number down somewhere. A Yank, did I tell you that? He said he knew you in the States. Awful anxious he was. Now, if only I could find that paper . . .”
I folded my arms and leaned against the bar, waiting for him to complete his act as patiently as was possible. Pete, for all of his sixty-plus years, was more of a child than I had ever been, a lover of surprises and practical jokes. Finally he produced a wrinkled, grubby piece of paper with a flourish, and I held my hand out to receive it.
“Thank you, Pete. Have a nice evening.”
“You too, darlin'.” With a wink he left, whistling an old music-hall tune as he went through the door.
I shook my head and regarded the paper, folded and lying in my trembling hand. There was only one person who knew my current location. Two years had not been enough time to forget him, or the taste and feel of him, yet those years had merely reinforced my reasons for leaving.
Mitch was better off without me; I had believed it then and I believed it now. I was not the same woman I had been; I was changed and not, I thought, for the good. My desperate strike for freedom had failed. I had not driven away the dark spirit. Instead, by giving him death, I had allowed him entrance to my soul and will. Sometimes in my loneliest times, I held him close, savoring our shared passion and pain. We were one in his death, as we had never been in life—it was his whispering voice I heard during the hunt, his cynical pleasure I felt when I fed.
I did not hear the door open—its cheerful little bell had not announced a customer—but suddenly he was there, leaning across the bar, one eyebrow raised and a sardonic smile on his face. “How lovely you look tonight, my dear. How about a drink for an old friend?”
“Dammit, Max. Get the hell out of here.”
His body wavered and shimmered, dissolving instantly into the shape of one of our regulars, very surprised and slightly belligerent. “All I want is a drink, Dot, then I'll leave you alone.”
“Oh, God, I'm so sorry. I thought you were someone else.” I gave him a bright smile and pushed a glass in his direction. “This one is on the house.”
He took the drink and my apology good-naturedly. “Thanks. You don't seem too chipper tonight. You feeling all right?”
“I am fine, thank you. Just a little tired, that's all.”
He shrugged and moved away from the bar to sit at a table, joined a few minutes later by a few of his friends. I shoved the note unread into my apron pocket and tended to the business of the pub.
Later that evening my long wait for tourists finally paid off. A group of six, loud and embarrassingly boisterous, arrived one hour before closing, quickly driving out the regulars. I singled out the likeliest candidate, tall and broad-shouldered, with a bold look in his eyes that caused my body to tighten in anticipation. I smiled at him as I took their orders and served their drinks, offering him a glass of port. When he questioned me, I leaned close to him. “For later,” I whispered, “for endurance.” He drank it in one gulp, shuddering slightly at its bitterness, and immediately asked for another.
“He's ours now, my little one,” the cynical voice in my mind prodded. “Don't wait too long.”
I did not. So desperate was I for this man that I issued last call almost immediately. My invitation to him to stay and help close up was met with unabashed approval from his friends, and soon we were alone.
I locked the door, dimmed the lights, and walked back across the room. He joined me behind the bar as I was counting the money in the register. “Aren't you afraid I might steal that?” he questioned with a crooked smile as he helped himself to another glass of port.
I laughed, low and sensually, as I put the night's profits in the safe. “There's not enough here to even be tempting.” I gave him a warm, appraising glance. “And somehow I don't think that you're interested in my money.”
“You sure are right about that, babe.” He crossed over to me and put an arm around my waist. “When you're finished here, let's go back to my place.” He mentioned the name of his hotel and I nodded my agreement, leaning closer to him.
His grip tightened. “I don't think I caught your name . . .”
“Dorothy . . . ah, just Dorothy. And yours?”
“Oh, I get it. No last names, right? Then I'm Robert, Robbie to my friends.”
“It's wonderful to meet you, Robbie. You'll never know how much.”
“But I'll bet I can guess.” He pulled me closer and kissed me; my teeth grazed his lip, drawing one intoxicating drop of blood. I savored it and probed with my tongue for more. My hands were wrapped about his waist. I slid my nails slowly up his spine and he shivered, took his mouth away from mine, and looked down at me.
“God.” He was breathing heavily, and small beads of sweat appeared on his brow. “You really want this bad, don't you?”
I moaned in answer, and his face grew fierce, full of passion. His hands grasped my waist and he lifted me onto the narrow counter behind the bar, pushing against me forcefully and insistently until I encircled his body with my legs.
He kissed me again and slid his hand down the back of my jeans, kneading the flesh of my lower back. His skin was so warm, so alive. I had to have him now.
“Wait,” the voice inside urged. “Let's play a little first.”
“I don't want to wait,” I protested aloud, and reached up to loosen his tie and unbutton his shirt.
“Neither do I.” He lifted my sweater over my head and threw it on the floor. While he nuzzled my breasts, he struggled unsuccessfully to untie my apron. With an exasperated sigh he spun it around on my waist and began to unfasten my jeans. I pulled his shirt off and he ground his groin into mine. Putting my tongue to his skin, I traced a delicate path to his neck and gently nibbled there while he eased my pants down around my knees.
There was a pounding in my head and my gums tingled, signaling the growth of my canines. I was ready; it had been too long, entirely too long. The pounding increased, louder and more demanding.
Abruptly, he pulled away; I lost my balance and lurched up against him.
“What was that?” His voice was angry, suspicious.
“Nothing,” I purred, wrapping my arms tightly around his neck. “Come back to me, make love to me.”
“No way,” he said, wresting himself away from me and putting his clothing back into order. “There's someone at the door.”
“They'll go away. I need you, Robbie.”
“Forget it.”
I was trembling with my unsatisfied need. Quickly I fastened my jeans, put my sweater back on, and walked over to him, where he was putting on his coat. Gently, I laid my hand on his arm and rubbed my head on his sleeve. “Robbie, please, what's wrong? We can go somewhere else if you like, please . . . you can't leave me like this.”
The knocking at the door continued, more urgent now.
“Nothing doing, babe. I've heard about this scam before. How much would it have taken to pay off that guy out there—the witness to your ‘rape'—five hundred, maybe an even thousand? No thanks, you may be the sexiest bitch I've seen in this country, but you're still too rich for my blood.” He pushed me away from him and opened the door. “She's all yours, pal,” he said to the figure standing hesitantly in the doorway. “I barely touched her.”
“Damn,” I swore under my breath as the door slammed. The little bell jangled, discordant in my ears. I rubbed my hands along my jeans. “Well?” I addressed the man whose shadowed face was unrecognizable, even to me. “This had better be damned important.”
“Deirdre?” The voice sounded embarrassed, and vaguely familiar. “What was that all about?” He stepped forward into the dim light of the room.
Instantly, I knew who he was—the mysterious Yank visitor that Pete had told me about, whose name and number were on a crumpled piece of paper in my apron pocket. And it was not Mitch. Disappointed at that realization, I understood that my dread at meeting him again would have been overruled by my strong desire to see him, hold him, make love to him one more time.
“Hello, Chris,” I said to the man who had inherited Mitch's features and build. He had aged in two years, I thought; lines of worry creased his face and he looked like he hadn't slept in weeks.
“Deirdre, it is you, isn't it? I barely recognize you.”
“Yes, it is I, in the flesh,” I said with no trace of a smile. Were my changes so apparent, even in the darkness? My hair was still almost black, but I had let it grow to its original length. That could not have made much of a difference to him. And although I had not aged, I knew that my mirror revealed me to be harder, coarser, debased somehow by my inhuman instincts.
“Your eyes look funny, they're . . . well, they're almost glowing.” I could hear fear in his voice, a reluctance that had never been there before.

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