Carnal Thirst

Chapter One

The computer disconnected itself, and Maggie O'Roarke knew it was the last time she'd get online. She couldn't pay the bill, and anyway, what was the point? The whole reason she'd had it to start with was for her company. Now it was gone.

At long last, after years of sinking every dime back into it, working two and three jobs to keep it afloat, all the while ignoring everyone who told her she was just being hard-headed and it would never succeed—her company was finally dead. She supposed she should've conceded defeat a long time ago, but she'd begun operating out of the red. Unfortunately, the declining economy had decimated her last shred of hope.

What was she going to do now? She'd spent her most of her youth trying to get out of the poorhouse, and still had nothing to show for all the sacrifice but a huge ass and a worn down computer. She didn't even have anyone she could call and talk to about it.

Maggie stared at the dark screen with the star field screensaver spinning by, wondering how she should feel, besides sorry for herself. Of course, she knew how she should feel—she should be bawling her eyes out, raging against her competitors and the government, anything but being consumed by this utter emptiness.

She was feeling sorry for herself, and as good as it would feel to wallow in self-pity, it wasn't going to do her a damn bit of good right now.

Maggie popped her neck and rolled her shoulders, feeling another tension headache trying to set in.

Pushing away from her desk, she rose and walked to the kitchen, grabbing her Excedrin from the table.

Pouring out two pills, she looked in the refrigerator for her water, found it, and took the medicine.

Hell, why was she even drinking water? She needed to get drunk. Or better yet, get off this damn diet that wasn't doing her any good anyway. She couldn't remember the last time she'd lost even a pound.

She needed some comfort food, like her mama's ribs and pork rice. Her eyes stung at the reminder that her mom was gone, forever.

"Just in a wonderful mood tonight, aren't we?” Maggie muttered to herself, wiping at her eyes with a knuckle. “I might as well go for the death by calorie intake. At least it'll make me happy."

The fridge was empty though. Her ‘86 Bonneville had finally died two weeks ago, and she hadn't had the money to fix it. The repairs would've cost at least ten times as much as the car was worth.

It was an eyesore anyway.

Besides, she still had the problem of no food. Of course, there was some, but none of it appealed to her mood. There was flour and sugar; mayonnaise; something in a bowl that might've been tuna salad; a jug of water; one cracked, frozen egg; and a bag of green slime that used to be salad fixings. Maggie closed the door with a distasteful shudder. In a depression, you had to have something decadent to make it all better, like chips or chocolate or....

"Ice cream. Chocolate chip,” she said on a reverent whisper. She practically orgasmed at the thought.

Cold weather and depression always put her in the mood for it.

Grabbing her purse, Maggie counted out her cash—twice to be sure she had it right. Not that it was hard to count six dollars in bills and change. She could've sworn she'd had more than that. There was her other change, a huge stash, but that was in her car ... at the tow truck place.

Six dollars wasn't enough to pay for a cab to the store, even one way—not and still get something to satisfy her craving. There was a market close enough she could walk it, just a few miles. She might even burn up enough calories not to have a heart attack when she dug in to the treat.

It was late though, and the neighborhood wasn't exactly one of the best. She shrugged dismissively. She wouldn't have to worry about being a target for a serial killer, Typically, they targeted tiny women who were easy to subdue quickly—in the five foot, one hundred pound range. Seeing as how she was damn near twice that weight and almost a foot taller she couldn't imagine running into anyone who thought they could just toss her over their shoulder and haul her off. If she got mugged, they'd probably only take her purse and the credit cards that had been canceled long ago.

"Screw it,” she said, tucking her money in her Jean's pocket rather than carrying a purse, which might tempt muggers—and might tempt her to commit murder if they tried to make off with her ice cream money. Determined now, she marched out the door into the brisk night, not bothering with a jacket or sweater since she figured the walk would keep her warm enough.

The hour was later than she'd thought it was. There wasn't a soul to be seen on the sidewalks, and precious few cars, or traffic to be heard even in the distance.

Uneasiness touched her briefly, but she dismissed it. She felt invigorated by the outdoors, excited to be going somewhere after two weeks of being locked up in the house—even if it was only to the store.

She really needed to get out more. She couldn't remember the last time she'd gone for a walk or stuck her head out while the sun was still shining. The moon was perfect though—her sun—since she was a night owl.

Feeling a giddiness brought on by too little sleep and possibly mild hysteria, she put a skip in her step and enjoyed herself. An hour later, with the market in sight, her feet were killing her and her nose and toes felt like they were going to freeze off. She knew she should've put on shoes instead of using her sandals.

Maggie dreaded the trip back, but the ice cream called to her. Sugar made anything better.

A lone car sat in front of the store—probably the clerk's. A wash of neon from beer signs and fluorescent lighting blazed from the storefront onto the darkened street, running over the pavement like shining blood.

Wind ruffled in her hair, sending a chill up her spine. She shrugged her shoulders, shivering slightly at the eerie feeling that descended upon her, increasing her pace.

When the blow came, she was too stunned from the force of it to do anything but throw her hands out to brace for a fall.

A hard object slammed into her right flank, pummeling into her shoulder blade and sending her sprawling to the pavement. The skin peeled away from her palms as she skidded onto the ground, gasping for breath. Fire seared her palms and knees, but it was nothing compared to the pain in her back.

She whipped her head around, dazed, unable to comprehend what had happened. She felt someone near but couldn't see them, couldn't hear them. Her heart pounded unaccustomedly hard, the beat so rapid she thought it would explode. Her lungs felt frozen, achy from too much breathing, but she couldn't get enough air.

Planting a palm on one alley wall, she struggled to her feet, screaming for help in the direction of the store. The alley she'd been thrown into funneled her voice, but the wind seemed to snatch it away. The air around her vibrated with the sound of a gasp just before another blow struck her back and knocked her fully to the ground.

Legs locked around her waist, pinning her in place. She bucked against the weight, trying to free herself.

Her attacker wasn't heavy. He had to be at least twenty five pounds lighter than her, but she couldn't budge him, couldn't turn to scratch his eyes out.

She was trapped.

She dug her hands against the pavement, seeking purchase, her legs flailing as she tried to get a knee under her for leverage. A male laugh reverberated against the walls, echoing against her ear drums, mocking as fingernails scraped over the back of her neck to wrench her hair aside.

Maggie screamed again, unable to believe no one could hear her, that no one had seen her being attacked.

What did he want? To rape her? Mug her? Kill her?

"Get the fuck off me, you bastard!” she screamed in fury, ineffectually slapping her hands back at his knees.

He pressed her face into the pavement with inhuman strength. Grit and broken rock ground against her cheek, tearing at the corner of her mouth and eye. She gritted her teeth, growling in pain.

Air fanned over her neck, stirring the fine hairs there, sending chills down her spine. A tongue laved her and pulled back, leaving a cooling swath of flesh in its wake.

"What a tender little pig you are,” he said above her, chuckling. His grip in her hair tightened to pain, stretching her scalp until she expected to feel the sharp sting of separation.

Maggie clawed at the hand gripping her head, felt her short nails break the skin. She dug into him, desperate to pry his hand loose. He grunted and tugged her hair harder, ignoring the pain she knew she inflicted. Wrenching her head at an angle, grinding her face across the pavement, he pulled her so hard her neck bone cracked and she felt the tendons in her neck stretch painfully taut.

She ground her teeth, sucking in a sharp breath as twin blades pierced her throat. Dimly, she heard the soft pop of her skin being punctured, felt the hot rush of blood well to the surface to puddle on the pavement beneath her. A slurping, sucking sound pushed past the fog clouding her mind. Lips latched onto her. A tongue pressed into the wound, working the blood out faster.

Oh god, oh god, oh god. Teeth. Teeth ripped into her neck like some animal.

He was eating her.

It was a nightmare she'd had ever since she'd been a child. A nightmare of cannibalism, of blood drinkers, of the undead converging on the living to devour them ... ever since watching Romero's Dawn of the Dead.

This couldn't be real. She'd been drugged somehow. She felt chemicals traveling through her system, shutting down her body. But her sight and hearing was intact. She could hear him sucking at her neck as though he were eating melting ice cream.

She'd heard of attacks with men and women having their veins slit open and blood drained, with no memory of how it had happened. She hadn't believed it. She hadn't wanted to believe it. She'd thought it some new vogue movement, like vampiric goths—not something real, something deadly. The attacks had happened near the highest trafficked areas, the clubs and tourist spots irresistible at any hour of the day.

Not here. Not so close to her home.

Not to her.

Maggie slowly blinked, watching the growing pool of blood her attacker let slip from his lips. It looked black in the darkness, an ooze too distasteful to believe gave her life. She reached for it weakly, as if she could scoop it back into her body.

She felt the man above her stiffen. He stopped suckling at her neck and pulled away, as if studying his kill.

Maggie tried to buck him off, but she could only shrug one shoulder. She felt drugged and knew it had to be loss of blood that had her so weak. It was too much to hope she was only having a nightmare. The pain and horror were too intense to be anything other than real.

Teeth pierced her neck again, sinking deeply, blotting out the fleeting pain coursing through her neck with each heart beat.

Her vision dimmed to a pinprick, no further than her fingertips. She smelled ozone, and then her sight snapped away into nothingness.

Freshly spilt blood wafted on the air like the scent of a sumptuous feast. In his weakened state, its allure was irresistible.

Danior Blake dropped to the ground, his leather duster whipped out in the residual energy blasting around him like the wind.

The vampire feeding looked up at his approach, wiping the blood trailing down his chin with the back of his hand.

"My lord,” he said, bowing his head before standing.

"Zane.” Danior nodded, coming to stand over the body. His fangs lengthened at the spicy, sweet scent, resisting his efforts at control. The battle with the lycan, Raoul, had left him weaker than he'd supposed.

His body still bore the brunt of the fight, for his wounds would not heal completely until he'd fed.

"You have the smell of wolf on you,” Zane said.

"I've been hunting Lycan,” Danior said, meeting his gaze coolly. “You know the council has forbidden the killing of humans in the city. We don't need the attention right now."

Zane's face did not betray his emotions, but Danior felt the fear in him. “She is different, my lord. I—"

The woman moaned, so softly it was barely a whisper of sound. Danior knelt beside her, frowning.

Humans had no immunity to vampire venom. “Did you not bite her?” he asked, touching her wound.

"I did, twice in fact. It did not paralyze her. I think if not for her blood loss, she would be fighting even now. She will not succumb to mind tricks, my lord. There would be no disguising this attack."

Danior nodded. It was true. Only through telepathy had they controlled what humans knew of them so far. It was how they'd escaped destruction for hundreds of years.

"Her blood is strong, sweeter than any I've tasted before. She can't be allowed to turn. Will you finish her or should I?"

The council had forbidden the creation of more vampires, as well. The city was overrun with them, and no vampire would leave for fear of showing weakness. Weakness was deadly in these strained times.

“Leave. I'll take care of this mess."

"Yes, my lord.” Zane bowed and took to the sky, leaving Danior alone with the woman.

Without the anti-coagulant of vampire saliva, the blood flow from the wound at her shoulder and neck slowed to a dribble.

She was a large woman, heavy and sturdily built. He puzzled over why she could resist the venom and why two bites along with the blood drain had not killed her almost immediately.

Her eyelids fluttered as he brushed her hair back, the corner of her mouth twitching as if she would speak. She seemed caught in some unspeakable nightmare, as horrific as reality, he surmised.

If the blood loss did not kill her, the venom coursing through her vitals could possibly turn her. She had an equal chance of either, perhaps better than most, for he'd never once seen a human resist the paralyzing effects of a vampire bite.

It was rare to turn a human. A small bite for normal feeding would result in no more than the feeling of a hangover afterward. Three bites over three days could chain a human to a vampire, leaving them addicted to the bite like a drug, but with some of the benefits of vampirism and none of the worst side effects.

Anything more than small increments was almost inevitably fatal. Those that managed to survive were forever infected with the virus that humankind knew as vampirism.

Some indefinable emotion swarmed Danior. He searched his memory but could not recall its name. Lust and hunger he knew. Anger. Rage. Desire. But this?

He shook his head and scooped the woman effortlessly into his arms.

He was curious to see the limits of her resiliency. The others would tear her apart in this state, though, so he could not take her beneath his club, nor to any other haunt of his kind.

There was only one place they feared to go—a place even he hesitated to go.