Many Bloody Returns

Twilight Kelley Armstrong

Kelley Armstrong is the author of the Women of the Otherworld paranormal suspense series. A former computer programmer, she’s now escaped her corporate cubicle, but she puts her old skills to work on her website at www.KelleyArmstrong.com.

Another life taken. Another year to live.

That is the bargain that rules our existence. We feed off blood, but for three hundred and sixty-four days a year, it is merely that: feeding. Yet on that last day—or sometime before the anniversary of our rebirth as vampires—we must drain the lifeblood of one person. Fail and we begin the rapid descent into death.

As I sipped white wine on the outdoor patio, I watched the steady stream of passersby. Although there was a chill in the air—late autumn coming fast and sharp—the patio was crowded, no one willing to surrender the dream of summer quite yet. Leaves fluttering onto the tables were lauded as decorations. The scent of a distant wood fire was willfully mistaken for candles. The sun, almost gone despite the still early hour, only added romance to the meal. All embellishments to the night, not signs of impending winter.

I sipped my wine and watched night fall. At the next table, a lone businessman eyed me. He was the sort of man I often had the misfortune to attract: middle-aged and prosperous, laboring under the delusion that success and wealth were such irresistible lures that he could allow his waistband and jowls to thicken unchecked.

Under other circumstances, I might have returned the attention, let him lead me to some tawdry motel, then taken my dinner. He would survive, of course, waking weakened, blaming it on too much wine. A meal without guilt. Any man who took such a chance with a stranger—particularly when he bore a wedding band—deserved an occasional bout of morning-after discomfort.

He did not, however, deserve to serve as my annual kill. I can justify many things, but not that. Yet I found myself toying with the idea more than I should have, prodded by a niggling voice that told me I was already late.

I stared at the glow over the horizon. The sun had set on the anniversary of my rebirth, and I hadn’t taken a life. Yet there was no need for panic. I would hardly explode into dust at midnight. I would weaken as I began the descent into death, but I could avoid that simply by fulfilling my bargain tonight.

I measured the darkness, deemed it enough for hunting, then laid a twenty on the table and left.

A bell tolled ten. Two hours left. I chastised myself for being so dramatic. I loathe vampires given to theatrics—those who have read too many horror novels and labor under the delusion that that’s how they’re supposed to behave. I despise any sign of it in myself and yet, under the circumstances, perhaps it could be forgiven.

In all the years that came before this, I had never reached this date without fulfilling my obligation. I had chosen this vampiric life and would not risk losing it through carelessness.

Only once had I ever neared my rebirth day, and then only due to circumstances beyond my control. It had been 1867…or perhaps 1869. I’d been hunting for my annual victim when I’d found myself tossed into a Hungarian prison. I hadn’t been caught at my kill—I’d never made so amateurish a mistake even when I’d been an amateur.

The prison sojourn had been Aaron’s fault, as such things usually were. We’d been hunting my victim when he’d come across a nobleman whipping a servant in the street. Naturally, Aaron couldn’t leave well enough alone. In the ensuing confusion of the brawl, I’d been rousted with him and thrown into a pest-infested cell that wouldn’t pass any modern health code.

Aaron had worked himself into a full-frothing frenzy, seeing my rebirth anniversary only days away while I languished in prison, waiting for justice that seemed unlikely to come swiftly. I hadn’t been concerned. When one partakes of Aaron’s company, one learns to expect such inconveniences. While he plotted, schemed, and swore he’d get us out on time, I simply waited. There was time yet and no need to panic until panic was warranted.

The day before my rebirth anniversary, as I’d begun to suspect that a more strenuous course of action might be required, we’d been released. I’d compensated for the trouble and delay by taking the life of a prison guard who’d enjoyed his work far more than was necessary.

This year, my only excuse for not taking a victim yet was that I hadn’t gotten around to it. As for why, I was somewhat…baffled. I am nothing if not conscientious about my obligations. Yet, this year, delays had arisen, and somehow I’d been content to watch the days slip past and tell myself I would get around to it, as if it was no more momentous than a missed salon appointment.

The week had passed and I’d been unable to work up any sense of urgency until today, and even now, it was only an oddly cerebral concern. No matter. I would take care of it tonight.

As I walked, an old drunkard drew my gaze. I watched him totter into the shadows of an alley and thought: “There’s a possibility….” Perhaps I could get this chore over with sooner than expected. I could be quite finicky—refusing to feed off sleeping vagrants—yet as my annual kill, this one was a choice I could make.

Every vampire deals with our “bargain” in the way that best suits his temperament and capacity for guilt and remorse. I cull from the edges—the sick, the elderly, those already nearing their end. I do not fool myself into thinking this is a just choice. There’s no way to know whether that cancer-wracked woman might have been on the brink of remission or if that elderly man had been enjoying his last days to the fullest. I make the choice because it is one I can live with.

This old drunkard would do. As I watched him, I felt the gnawing in the pit of my stomach, telling me I’d already waited too long. I should follow him into that alley, and get this over with. I wanted to get it over with—there was no question of that, no possibility I was conflicted on this point. Other vampires may struggle with our bargain. I do not.

Yet even as I visualized myself following the drunk into the alley, my legs didn’t follow through. I stood there, watching him disappear into the darkness. Then I moved on.

A block farther, a crowd poured from a movie theater. As it passed, its life force enveloped me. I wasn’t hungry, yet I could still feel that tingle of anticipation, of hunger. I could smell their blood, hear the rush of it through their veins. The scent and sound of life.

Twenty steps later, and they were still passing, an endless stream of humanity disgorged by a packed theater. How many seats were inside? Three hundred, three fifty? As many years as had passed since my rebirth?

One life per year. It seems so moderate a price…until you looked back and realized you could fill a movie theater with your victims. A sobering thought, even for one not inclined to dwell on such things. No matter. There wouldn’t be hundreds more. Not from this vampire.

Contrary to legend, our gift of longevity comes with an expiry date. Mine was drawing near. I’d felt the signs, the disconnect from the world, a growing disinterest in all around me. For me, that was nothing new. I’d long since learned to keep my distance from a world that changed while I didn’t.

After some struggle with denial, I’d accepted that I had begun the decline toward death. But it would be slow, and I still had years left, decades even. Or I would if I could get past this silly bout of ennui and make my rebirth kill.

As the crowd dwindled, I looked over my shoulder to watch them go and considered taking a life from them. A random kill. I’d done it once before, more than a century ago, during a particularly bleak time when I hadn’t been able to rouse enough feeling to care. Yet later I’d regretted it, having let myself indulge my darkest inclinations simply because I’d been in a dark place myself. Unacceptable. I wouldn’t do it again.

I wrenched my gaze from the dispersing crowd. This was ridiculous. I was no angst-ridden cinema vampire, bemoaning the choices she’d made in life. I was no flighty youngster, easily distracted from duty, abhorring responsibility. I was Cassandra DuCharme, senior vampire delegate to the interracial council. If any vampire had come to me with this problem—“I’m having trouble making my annual kill”—I’d have shown her the sharp side of my tongue, hauled her into the alley with that drunk, and told her, as Aaron might say, to “piss or get off the pot.”

I turned around and headed back to the alley.

I’d gone only a few steps when I picked up a sense of the drunkard. Excitement swept through me. I closed my eyes and smiled. That was more like it.

The quickening accelerated as I slid into the shadows. My stride smoothed out, each step taken with care, rolling heel to toe, making no sound.

That sense of my prey grew stronger with each step, telling me he was near. I could see a recessed emergency exit a dozen feet ahead. A shoe protruded from the darkness. I crept forward until I spotted a dark form crumpled inside.

The rush of his blood vibrated through the air. My canines lengthened and I allowed myself one shudder of anticipation, then shook it off and focused on the sound of his breathing.

A gust whipped along the alley, scattering candy wrappers and leaflets, and the stink of alcohol washed over me. I caught the extra notes in his breathing—the deep, almost determined rhythm. Passed out drunk. He’d probably stumbled into the first semi-sheltered place he’d seen and collapsed.

That would make it easier.

Still, I hesitated, telling myself I needed to be sure. But the rhythm of his breathing stayed steady. He was clearly asleep and unlikely to awake even if I bounded over there and shouted in his ear.

So what was I waiting for? I should be in that doorway already, reveling in the luck of finding so easy a victim.

I shook the lead from my bones and crossed the alley.

The drunkard wore an army jacket, a real one if I was any judge. I resisted the fanciful urge to speculate, to imagine him as some shell-shocked soldier turned to drink by the horrors of war. More likely, he’d bought the jacket at a thrift shop. Or stolen it.

His hair was matted, so filthy it was impossible to tell the original color. Above the scraggly beard, though, his face was unlined. Younger than I’d first imagined. Significantly younger.

That gave me pause, but while he was not the old drunkard I’d first imagined, he was certainly no healthy young man. I could sense disease and wasting, most likely cirrhosis. Not my ideal target, but he would do.

And yet…

Almost before I realized it, I was striding toward the road.

He wasn’t right. I was succumbing to panic, and that was unnecessary, even dangerous. If I made the wrong choice, I’d regret it. Better to let the pressure of this ominous date pass and find a better choice tomorrow.

I slid into the park and stepped off the path. The ground was hard, so I could walk swiftly and silently.

As I stepped from the wooded patch, my exit startled two young men huddled together. Their gazes tripped over me, eyes glittering under the shadows of their hoods, like jackals spotting easy prey. I met the stronger one’s gaze. He broke first, grumbling deep in his throat. Then he shuffled back and waved his friend away as he muttered some excuse for moving on.

I watched them go, considering…then dismissing.

It was easy to separate one victim from a group. Not nearly so simple when the “group” consisted of only two people. As the young men disappeared, I resumed my silent trek across the park.

My goal lay twenty paces away. Had I not sensed him, I likely would have passed by. He’d ignored a park bench under the light and instead had stretched along the top of a raised garden, hidden under the bushes and amidst the dying flowers.

He lay on his back with his eyes closed. His face was peaceful, relaxed. A handsome face, broad and tanned. He had thick blond hair and the healthy vitality of a young man in his prime. A big man, too, tall and solid, his muscular arms crossed behind his head, his slim hips and long denim-clad legs ending in work boots crossed at the ankles.

I circled north to sneak up behind his head. He lay completely motionless, even his chest still, not rising and falling with the slow rhythm of breathing. I crossed the last few feet between us and stopped just behind his head. Then I leaned over.

His eyes opened. Deep brown eyes, the color of rich earth. He snarled a yawn.

“’Bout time, Cass,” he said. “Couple of punks been circling to see if I’m still conscious. Another few minutes, and I’d have had to teach them to let sleeping vamps lie.”

“Shall I go away then? Let you have your fun?”

Aaron grinned. “Nah. They come back? We can both have fun.” He heaved his legs over the side of the garden wall and sat up, shaking off sleep. Then, catching a glimpse of my face, his grin dropped into a frown. “You didn’t do it, did you?”

“I couldn’t find anyone.”

“Couldn’t find—?” He pushed to his feet, towering over me. “Goddamn it, what are you playing at? First you let it go until the last minute, then you ‘can’t find anyone’?”

I checked my watch. “It’s not the last minute. I still have ten left. I trust that if I explode at midnight, you’ll be kind enough to sweep up the bits. I would like to be scattered over the Atlantic but, if you’re pressed for time, the Charleston River will do.”

He glowered at me. “A hundred and twenty years together, and you never got within a week of your rebirth day without making your kill.”

“Hungary. 1867.”

“Sixty-eight. And I don’t see any bars this time. So what was your excuse?”

“Among others, I was busy researching that council matter Paige brought to my attention. I admit I let things creep up on me this year, and a century ago that would never have happened, but while we were apart, I changed—”

“Bullshit. You never change. Except to get more imperious, more pigheaded, and more cranky.”

“The word is ‘crankier.’”

He muttered a few more descriptors under his breath. I started down the path.

“You’d better be going off to find someone,” he called after me.

“No, I’m heading home to bed. I’m tired.”

“Tired?” He strode up beside me. “You don’t get tired. You’re—”

He stopped, mouth closing so fast his teeth clicked.

“The word is ‘dying,’” I said. “And, while that is true, and it is equally true that my recent inability to sleep is a symptom of that, tonight I am, indeed, tired.”

“Because you’re late for your kill. You can’t pull this shit, Cassandra, not in your condition.”

I gave an unladylike snort and kept walking.

His fingers closed around my arm. “Let’s go find those punks. Have some fun.” A broad, boyish grin. “I think one has a gun. Been a long time since I got shot.”

“Another day.”

“A hunt then.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Well, I am. Maybe you couldn’t find someone suitable, but I can. I know what you look for. We’ll hunt together. I’ll get a snack; you’ll get another year. Fair enough?”

He tried to grin, but I could see a hint of panic behind his eyes. I felt an answering prickle of worry, but told myself I was being ridiculous. I’d simply had too much on my mind lately. I was tired and easily distracted. I needed to snap out of this embarrassing lethargy and make this kill, and I would do so tomorrow, once Aaron had gone back to Atlanta.

“It’s not the end of the world—or my world—if I don’t take a life tonight, Aaron. You’ve been late yourself when you couldn’t find someone suitable. I haven’t—and perhaps I’d simply like to know what that’s like.” I touched his arm. “At my age, new experiences are few and far between. I take them where I can.”

He hesitated, then nodded, mollified, and accompanied me from the park.

Aaron followed me home. That wasn’t nearly as exciting a prospect as it sounds. These days we were simply friends. His choice. If I had my way, tired or not, I would have found the energy to accommodate him.

When I first met Aaron, less than a year after his rebirth, he’d accused me of helping him in his new life because he looked like something to “decorate my bed with.” True enough.

Even as a human, I had never been able to rouse more than a passing interest in men of my own class. Too well mannered, too gently spoken, too soft. My tastes had run to stable boys and, later, to discreet working men.

Finding Aaron as a newly reborn vampire, a big strapping farm boy with hands as rough as his manners, I will admit that my first thought was indeed carnal. He was younger than I liked, but I’d decided I could live with that.

So I’d trained him in the life of a vampire. In return, I’d received friendship, protection…and endless nights alone, frustrated beyond reason. It was preposterous, of course. I’d never had any trouble leading men to my bed and there I’d been, reduced to chasing a virile young man who strung me along as if he were some coy maiden. I told myself it wasn’t his fault—he was English. Thankfully, when he finally capitulated, I discovered he wasn’t nearly as repressed as I’d feared.

Over a hundred years together. It was no grand romance. The word “love” never passed between us. We were partners in every sense—best friends, hunting allies, and faithful lovers. Then came the morning I woke, looked over at him, and imagined not seeing him there, tried to picture life without him. I’d gone cold at the thought.

I had told myself I’d never allow that again. When you’ve lost everyone, you learn the danger of attachments. As a vampire, you must accept that every person you ever know will die, and you are the only constant in your life, the only person you can—and should—rely on. So I made a decision.

I betrayed Aaron. Not with another man. Had I done that, he’d simply have flown into a rage and, once past it, demanded to know what was really bothering me. What I did instead was a deeper betrayal, one that said, more coldly than I could ever speak the words, “I don’t want you anymore.”

After over half a century apart, happenstance had brought us together again. We’d resisted the pull of that past bond, reminded ourselves of what had happened the last time and yet, gradually, we’d drifted back into friendship. Only friendship. Sex was not allowed—Aaron’s way of keeping his distance. Given the choice between having him as a friend and not having him in my life at all, I’d gladly choose the former…though that didn’t keep me from hoping to change his mind.

That night I slept. It was the first time I’d done more than catnapped in over a year. While I longed to seize on this as some sign that I wasn’t dying, I knew Aaron’s assessment was far more likely—I was tired because I’d missed my annual kill.

Was this what happened, then, when we didn’t hold up our end of the bargain? An increasing lethargy that would lead to death? I shook it off. I had no intention of exploring the phenomenon further. Come sunset, I would end this foolishness and take a life.

As I entered my living room that morning, I heard a dull slapping from the open patio doors. Aaron was in the yard, building a new retaining wall for my garden.

When he’d been here in the spring, he’d commented on the crumbling wall and said, “I could fix that for you.” I’d nodded and said, “Yes, I suppose you could.” Three more intervening visits. Three more hints about the wall. Yet I refused to ask for his help. I had lost that right when I betrayed him. So yesterday, he’d shown up on my doorstep, masonry tools in one hand, suitcase in the other, and announced he was building a new wall for my rebirth day.

That meant he had a reason to stay until he’d finished it. Had he simply decided my rebirth day made a good excuse? Or was there more than that? When I’d spoken to him this week, had something in my voice told him I had yet to take my annual victim? I watched Aaron through the patio doors. The breeze was chilly, but the sun beat down and he had his shirt off as he worked, oblivious to all around him. This was what he did for a living—masonry, the latest in a string of “careers.” I chided him that, after two hundred years, one should have a healthy retirement savings plan. He only pointed the finger back at me, declaring that I too worked when I didn’t need to. But I was self-employed, and selling art and antiques was certainly not in the same category as the physically demanding jobs he undertook. Yet another matter on which we disagreed—with vigor and enthusiasm.

I watched him for another minute, then headed for the kitchen to make him an iced tea.

I went out later to check a new shipment at an antique shop. When I got home, Aaron was sitting on the couch, a pile of newspapers on the table and one spread in his hands.

“I hope you didn’t take those from my trash.”

“I wouldn’t have had to if you’d recycle.” He peered around the side of the paper. “That blue box in the garage? That’s what it’s for, not holding garden tools.”

I waved him off. “Three hundred and fifty years and I have never been deprived of a newspaper or book by want of paper. I’m not going to start recycling now. I’m too old.”

“Too stubborn.” He gave a sly grin. “Or too lazy.”

He earned a glare for that one. I walked over and snatched up a stray paper from the carpet before it stained.

“If you’re that desperate for reading material, just tell me, and I’ll walk to the store and buy you a magazine.”

He folded the paper and laid it on the coffee table, then patted the spot next to him. I hesitated, sensing trouble, and took a place at the opposite end, perched on the edge. He reached over, his hand going around my waist, and dragged me until I was sitting against him.

“Remember when we met, Cass?”

“Vaguely.”

He laughed. “Your memory isn’t that bad. Remember what you did for me? My first rebirth day was coming, and I’d decided I wasn’t doing it. You found me a victim, a choice I could live with.” With his free hand, he picked up a paper separated from the rest and dropped it onto my lap. “Found you a victim.”

I sighed. “Aaron, I don’t need you to—”

“Too late.” He poked a calloused finger at the top article. “Right there.”

The week-old story told of a terminally ill patient fighting for the right to die. When I looked over at Aaron, he was grinning, pleased with himself.

“Perfect, isn’t it?” he said. “Exactly what you look for. She wants to die. She’s in pain.”

“She’s in a palliative-care ward. How would I even get in there, let alone kill her?”

“Is that a challenge?” His arm tightened around my waist. “Because if it is, I’m up for it. You know I am.”

He was still smiling, but behind it lurked a shadow of desperation. Again, his worry ignited mine. Perhaps this added incentive was exactly what I needed. It wouldn’t be easy, but it could be interesting, particularly with Aaron’s help.

Any other time, I’d have pounced on the idea, but now, even as I envisioned it, I felt only a spark of interest, buried under an inexplicable layer of lethargy, even antipathy, and all I could think was “Oh, but it would just be so much work.”

My hackles rose at such indolence, but I squelched my indignation. I was determined to take a life tonight. I would allow nothing to stand in the way of that. Therefore, I could not enter into a plan that might prove too difficult. Better to keep this simple, so I would have no excuse for failure.

I set the paper aside. “Are you hungry?”

A faint frown.

“Last night, you said you were hungry,” I continued. “If you were telling the truth, then I presume you still need to feed, unless you slipped out last night.”

“I thought we’d be hunting together later. So I waited.”

“Then we’ll hunt tonight. But not—” A wave at the paper. “—in a hospital.”

We strolled along the sidewalk. It was almost dark now, the sun only a red-tinged memory along the horizon. As I watched a flower seller clear her outdoor stock for the night, Aaron snapped his fingers.

“Flowers. That’s what’s missing in your house. You always have flowers.”

“The last arrangement wilted early. I was going to pick up more when I was out today, but I didn’t get the chance.”

He seemed to cheer at that, as if reading some hidden message in my words.

“Here then,” he said. “I’ll get some for you now.”

I arched my brows. “And carry bouquets on a hunt?”

“Think I can’t? Sounds like a challenge.”

I laughed and laid my fingers on his forearm. “We’ll get some tomorrow.”

He took my hand and looped it through his arm as we resumed walking.

“We’re going to Paris this spring,” he said after a moment.

“Are we? Dare I ask what prompted that?”

“Flowers. Spring. Paris.”

“Ah. A thoughtful gesture, but Paris in the spring is highly overrated. And overpriced.”

“Too bad. I’m taking you. I’ll book the time off when I get home and call you with the dates.”

When I didn’t argue, he glanced over at me, then grinned and quickened his pace, launching into a “remember when” story of our last spring in Paris.

We bickered over the choice of victim. Aaron wanted to find one to suit my preference, but I insisted we select his type. Finally, he capitulated.

The fight dampened the evening’s mood, but only temporarily. Once Aaron found a target, he forgot everything else.

In the early years, Aaron had struggled with vampiric life. He’d died rescuing a stranger from a petty thug. And his reward? After a life spent thinking of others, he’d been reborn as one who fed off them. Ironic and cruel.

Yet we’d found a way for him to justify—even relish—the harder facts of our survival. He fed from the dregs of society, punks and criminals like those youths in the park. For his annual kill, he condemned those whose crimes he deemed worthy of the harshest punishment. And so he could feel he did some good in this parasitic life.

As he said, I’d found his first victim. Now, two hundred years later, he no longer scoured newspapers or tracked down rumors but seemed able to locate victims by intuition alone, as I could find the dying. The predatory instinct will adapt to anything that ensures the survival of the host.

Tonight’s choice was a drug dealer with feral eyes and a quick switchblade. We watched from the shadows as the man threatened a young runner. Aaron rocked on the balls at his feet, his gaze fixed on that waving knife, but I laid my hand on his arm. As the runner loped toward the street, Aaron’s lips curved, happy to see him go, but even happier with what the boy’s safe departure portended—not a quick intervention but a true hunt.

We tracked the man for over an hour before Aaron’s hunger won out. With no small amount of regret, he stopped toying with his dinner and I lured the drug dealer into an alleyway. An easy maneuver, as such things usually were with men like this, too greedy and cocksure to feel threatened by a middle-aged woman.

As Aaron’s fangs sank into the drug dealer’s throat, the man’s eyes bugged in horror, unable to believe what was happening. This was the most dangerous point of feeding, that split second where they felt our fangs and felt a nightmare come to life. It is but a moment, then the sedative in our saliva takes hold and they pass out, those last few seconds wiped from memory when they wake.

The man lashed out once, then slumped in Aaron’s grasp. Still gripping the man’s shirtfront, Aaron began to drink, gulping the blood. His eyes were closed, face rapturous, and I watched him, enjoying the sight of his pleasure, his appetite.

He’d been hungrier than he’d let on. Typical for Aaron, waiting that extra day or two, not to practice control or avoid feeding, but to drink heartily. Delayed gratification for heightened pleasure. I shivered.

“Cass?”

He licked a fallen drop from the corner of his mouth as he held the man out for me.

This was how we hunted—how Aaron liked it, not taking separate victims but sharing. He always made the disabling bite, drank some, then let me feed to satiation. If I took too much for him to continue feeding safely, he’d find a second victim. There was no sense arguing that I could find my own food—he knew that, but continued, compelled by a need to protect and provide.

“You go on,” I said softly. “You’re still hungry.”

He thrust the man to me. “Yours.”

His jaw set and I knew his insistence had nothing to do with providing sustenance.

As Aaron held the man up for me, I moved forward. My canines lengthened, throat tightening, and I allowed myself a shudder of anticipation.

I lowered my mouth to the man’s throat, scraped my canines over the skin, tasting, preparing. Then, with one swift bite, my mouth filled with—

I jerked back, almost choking. I resisted the urge to spit, and forced—with effort—the mouthful down, my stomach revolting in disgust.

It tasted like…blood.

When I became a vampire, I thought this would be the most unbearable part: drinking blood. But the moment that first drop of blood touched my tongue, I’d realized my worries had been for naught. There was no word for the taste; no human memory that came close. I can only say that it was so perfect a food that I could never tire of it nor wish for something else.

But this tasted like blood, like my human memory of it. Once, before I’d completed the transition to vampire, I’d filled a goblet with cow’s blood and forced it down, preparing for my new life. I could still taste the thick, metallic fluid that had coated my mouth and tongue, then sat in my stomach for no more than a minute before returning the way it had gone down.

Now, after only a mouthful of this man’s blood, I had to clamp my mouth shut to keep from gagging. Aaron dropped the man and grabbed for me. I waved him aside.

“I swallowed wrong.”

I rubbed my throat, lips curving in a moue of annoyance, then looked around and found the man at my feet. I steeled myself and bent. Aaron crouched to lift the man for me, but I motioned him back and shielded my face, so he wouldn’t see my reaction. Then I forced my mouth to the man’s throat.

The bleeding had already stopped. I bit his neck again, my nails digging into my palms, eyes closed, letting the disgusting taste fill my mouth, then swallowing. Drink. Swallow. Drink. Swallow. My nails broke my skin, but I felt no pain. I wished I could, if only to give me something else to think about.

It wasn’t just the taste. That I could struggle past. But my whole body rebelled at the very sensation of the blood filling my stomach, screaming at me to stop, as if what I was doing was unnatural, even dangerous.

I managed one last swallow. And then…I couldn’t. I simply couldn’t. I hung there, fangs still in the man’s neck, willing myself to suck, to fill my mouth, to finish this, mentally screaming, raging against the preposterousness of it. I was a vampire; I drank blood. And even if I didn’t want to, by God, I would force every drop down my throat—

My stomach heaved. I swallowed hard.

I could sense Aaron behind me. Hovering. Watching. Worrying.

Another heave. If I took one more sip, I’d vomit and give Aaron reason to worry, to panic, and give myself reason to panic.

It was the victim. God only knew what poisons this drug dealer had swimming through his veins and, while such things don’t affect vampires, I am a delicate feeder, too sensitive to anomalies in the blood. I’ve gone hungry rather than drink anything that tastes “off.” There was no sense asking Aaron to confirm it—he could swill week-old blood and not notice.

That was it, then. The victim. Just the victim.

I sealed the wound with my tongue and stepped back.

“Cass…” Aaron’s voice was low with warning. “You need to finish him.”

“I—” The word “can’t” rose to my lips, but I swallowed it back. I couldn’t say that. Wouldn’t. This was just another temporary hurdle. I’d rest tonight and find a victim of my own choosing tomorrow.

“He isn’t right,” I said, then turned and headed down the alley.

After a moment, I heard Aaron pitch the unconscious man into a heap of trash bags and storm off in the opposite direction.

Any other man would have thrown up his hands and left me there. I arrived at my car to find Aaron waiting by the driver’s door. I handed him the keys and got in the passenger’s side.

At home, as I headed toward my room, Aaron called after me. “I hope you’re not going to tell me you’re tired again.”

“No, I’m taking a bath to scrub off the filth of that alley. Then, if you aren’t ready to retire, we could have a glass of wine, perhaps light the fire. It’s getting cool.”

He paused, still ready for a fight, but finding no excuse in my words.

“I’ll start the fire,” he said.

“Thank you.”

No more than ten minutes after I got into the tub, the door banged open with such a crash that I started, sloshing bubbles over the side. Aaron barreled in and shoved a small book at me. My appointment book.

“I found this in your desk.”

“Keen detective work. Practicing for your next council investigation?”

“Our next council investigation.”

I reached for my loofah brush. “My mistake. That’s what I meant.”

“Is it?”

I looked up, trying to understand his meaning, but seeing only rage in his eyes. He was determined to find out what had happened in that alley, and somehow this was his route there. My stomach clenched, as if the blood was still pooled in it, curdling. I wouldn’t have this conversation. I wouldn’t.

Ostensibly reaching for the loofah brush, I rose, letting the bubbles slide from me. Aaron’s gaze dropped from my face. I tucked my legs under, took hold of the side of the tub and started to rise. He let me get halfway up, then put his hand on my head and firmly pushed me down.

I reclined into the tub again, then leaned my head back, floating, breasts and belly peeking from the water. Aaron watched for a moment before tearing his gaze away with a growl.

“Stop that, Cass. I’m not going to run off and I’m not going to be distracted. I want to talk to you.”

I sighed. “About my appointment book, I presume.”

He lifted it. “Last week. On the day marked ‘birthday.’ The date you must have planned to make your kill. There’s nothing else scheduled.”

“Of course not. I keep that day open—”

“But you said you were busy. That’s why you didn’t do it.”

“I don’t believe I said that. I said things came up.”

“Such as…?”

I raised a leg onto the rim and ran the loofah brush down it. Aaron’s eyes followed, but after a second, he forced his gaze back to mine and repeated the question.

I sighed. “Very well. Let’s see. On that particular day, it was a midnight end-of-season designer clothing sale. As I was driving out of the city to make my kill, I saw the sign and stopped. By the time I left, it was too late to hunt.”

He glowered at me. “That’s not funny.”

“I didn’t say it was.”

The glower deepened to a scowl. “You postponed your annual kill to shop? Bullshit. Yeah, you like your fancy clothes, and you’re cheap as hell. But getting distracted by a clothing sale?” He snorted. “That’s like a cop stopping a high speed chase to grab doughnuts.”

I went quiet for a moment, then said, as evenly as I could, “Perhaps. But I did.”

He searched my eyes, finding the truth there. “Then something’s wrong. Very wrong. And you know it.”

I shuttered my gaze. “All I know is that you’re making too big a deal of this, as always. You take the smallest—”

“Cassandra DuCharme skips her annual kill to go shopping? That’s not small. That’s apocalyptic.”

“Oh, please, spare me the—”

He shoved the open book in my face. “Forget the sale. Explain the rest of it. You had nothing scheduled all week. You had no excuse. You didn’t forget. You didn’t get distracted.” His voice dropped as he lowered himself to the edge of the tub. “You have no intention of taking a life.”

“You…you think I’m trying to kill myself?” I laughed, the sound almost bitter. “Do you forget how I became what I am, Aaron? I chose it. I risked everything to get this life, and if you think I’d throw away one minute before my time is up—”

“How you came into this life is exactly why you’re hell-bent on leaving it like this.” He snagged my gaze and held it. “You cheated death. No, you beat it—by sheer goddamned force of will. You said ‘I won’t die.’ And now, when it’s coming around again, you’re damned well not going to sit back and let it happen. You chose once. You’ll choose again.”

I paused, looked away, then back at him. “Why are you here, Aaron?”

“I came to fix your wall—”

“At no prompting from me. No hints from me. You came of your own accord, correct?”

“Yeah, but—”

“Then, if I’d planned to let myself die, presumably you wouldn’t have seen me again.” I met his gaze. “Do you think I would do that? Of everyone I know in this world, would I leave you without saying good-bye?”

His jaw worked, but he said nothing. After a moment, he pushed to his feet and walked out.

I lay in bed, propped on my pillows, staring at the wall. Aaron was right. When the time came, I would leave this vampiric life as I’d come into it: by choice. But this was not that time. There was no doubt of that, no possibility that I was subconsciously trying to end my life. That was preposterous. I had no qualms about suicide. Fears…perhaps. Yet no different than my fear of death itself.

When the time came, yes. But I would never be so irresponsible as to end my life before my affairs were in order. My estate would need to be disposed of in advance, given to those I wished to see benefit. Of equal concern was the discovery and disposal of my body. To leave that to chance would be unforgivably irresponsible.

I would make my peace with Aaron and make amends for my betrayal or, at the very least, ensure he understood that whatever I had done to him, the reason for it, the failing behind it, had been mine.

Then there was the council. Aaron was already my co-delegate, but I had to ready him to take my senior position and ready the vampire community to accept that change. Moreover, as the senior overall council member, it was my duty to pass on all I knew to Paige, the keeper of records, something I’d been postponing, unwilling to accept that my time was ending.

Ending.

My stomach clenched at the thought. I closed my eyes and shuddered.

I had never lacked for backbone and never stood for the lack of it in others. Now I needed to face and accept this reality. I was dying. Not beginning a lengthy descent, but at the end of the slope.

I now knew how a vampire died. A rebirth date came and we discovered, without warning, that we could not fulfill our end of the bargain. Not would not, but could not.

If I couldn’t overcome this, I would die. Not in decades, but days.

Panic surged, coupled with an overwhelming wave of raw rage. Of all the ways to die, could any be more humiliating in its sublime ridiculousness? Not to die suddenly, existence snuffed out as my time ended. Not to die, beheaded, at the hands of an enemy. Not to grow ill and fade away. Not even to pass in my sleep. Such deaths couldn’t be helped, and while I would have raged against that, the injustice of it, such a fate was nothing compared to this—to die because I inexplicably lacked the will to do something I’d done hundreds of times before.

No, that wasn’t possible. I wouldn’t let it be possible.

I would get out of this bed, find a victim, and force myself to drain his blood if I vomited up every mouthful.

I envisioned myself standing, yanking on clothing, striding from the room….

Yet I didn’t move.

My limbs felt leaden. Inside, I was spitting mad, snarling and cursing, but my body lay as still and calm as if I’d already passed.

I pushed down the burbling panic.

Consider the matter with care and logic. I should have taken Aaron’s victim, while I still had the strength, but now that I’d missed my opportunity, I couldn’t chance waiting another day. I’d rest for an hour or so, until Aaron had retired.

Better for him not to know. I wouldn’t let him pity and coddle me simply because it was in his nature to help the sick, the weak, the needy. I would not be needy.

I’d stay awake and wait until the house grew quiet. Then I’d do this—alone.

I fixed my gaze on the light, staring at it to keep myself awake. Minutes ticked past, each feeling like an hour. My eyes burned. My body begged for sleep. I refused. It threatened to pull me under even with my eyes wide. I compromised. I’d close them for a moment’s rest and then I’d leave.

I shut my eyes and all went dark.

I awoke to the smell of flowers. I usually had some in the house, so the smell came as no surprise, and I drowsily stretched, rested and refreshed.

Then I remembered I hadn’t replaced my last flowers, and I was seized by the sudden vision of my corpse lying on my bed, surrounded by funeral wreaths. I bolted upright and found myself staring in horror at a room of flowers…before realizing that the fact I was sitting upright would suggest I was not dead.

With a deep sigh, I looked around. Flowers did indeed fill my room. There were at least a dozen bouquets, each a riot of blooms, with no unifying theme of color, shape, or type. I smiled. Aaron.

My feet lit on the cool hardwood as I crossed to a piece of paper propped against the nearest bouquet. An advertisement for flights to France. Beside another was a list of hotels. A picture of the Eiffel Tower adorned a third. Random images of Parisian travel littered the room, again with no obvious theme, simply pages hurriedly printed from websites. Typically Aaron. Making his point with all the finesse of a sledgehammer wielded with equal parts enthusiasm and determination.

Should I still fail to be swayed, he’d scrawled a note with letters two inches high, the paper thrust into a bouquet of roses. Paige had called. She was still working on that case and needed my help. In smaller letters below, he informed me that today’s paper carried another article on the palliative-care patient who wanted to die.

I dressed, then tucked two of the pages into my pocket, and slipped out the side door.

I didn’t go to the hospital Aaron had suggested. It was too late for that. If I was having difficulty making this kill, I could not compound that by choosing one that would itself be difficult.

So I returned to the alley where I’d found—and dismissed—my first choice two nights ago. The drunkard wasn’t there, of course. No one was. But I traversed the maze of alleys and back roads in search of another victim. I couldn’t wait for nightfall. I couldn’t risk falling asleep again or I might not wake up.

When an exit door swung open, I darted into an alley to avoid detection and spotted my victim. A woman, sitting in an alcove, surrounded by grocery bags stuffed with what looked like trash but, I presumed, encompassed the sum of her worldly belongings. Behind me, whoever opened that door tossed trash into the alley and slammed the door shut again. The woman didn’t move. She stared straight ahead, gaze vacant. Resting before someone told her to move on.

Even as I watched her, evaluated her, and decided she would do, something deep in me threw up excuses. Not old enough. Not sick enough. Too dangerous a location. Too dangerous a time of day. Keep looking. Find someone better, someplace safer. But if I left here, left her, I would grow more tired, more distracted, and more disinterested with every passing hour.

She would do. She had to. For once, not a choice I could live with, but the choice that would let me live.

There was no way to approach without the woman seeing me. Unlike Aaron, I didn’t like to let my victims see the specter of death approach, but today I had no choice. So I straightened and started toward her, as if it was perfectly natural for a well-dressed middle-aged woman to cut through alleyways.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her look up as I passed. She tensed, then relaxed, seeing no threat. I turned, as if just noticing her. Then with a brisk nod, I took a twenty from my wallet.

A cruel ruse? Or making her last memory a pleasant one? Perhaps both. As expected, she smiled, her guard lowering even more. I reached down, but let go of the bill too soon. As it fluttered to the ground, I murmured an apology and bent, as if to retrieve it, but she was already snatching it up. I kept bending, still apologizing…and sank my fangs into the back of her neck.

She gave one gasp before the sedative took effect and she fell forward. I tugged her into the alcove, propped her against the wall, and crouched beside her still form.

As my fangs pierced her jugular, I braced myself. The blood filled my mouth, as thick, hot, and horrible as the drug dealer’s the night before. My throat tried to seize up, rejecting it, but I swallowed hard. Another mouthful. Another swallow. Drink. Swallow. Drink. Swallow.

My stomach heaved. I pulled back from the woman, closed my eyes, lifted my chin, and swallowed the blood. Another heave, and my mouth filled, the taste too horrible to describe. I gritted my teeth and swallowed.

With every mouthful now, some came back up. I swallowed it again. Soon my whole body was shaking, my brain screaming that this wasn’t right, that I was killing myself, drowning.

My stomach gave one violent heave, my throat refilling. I clamped my hand to my mouth, eyes squeezed shut as I forced myself to swallow the regurgitated blood.

Body shaking, I crouched over her again. I opened my eyes and saw the woman lying there. I couldn’t do this. I couldn’t—

One hand still pressed to my mouth, I tugged the pages from my pocket. I unfolded them and forced myself to look. Paris. Aaron. Paige. The council. I wasn’t done yet. Soon…but not yet.

I squeezed my eyes shut, then slammed my fangs into the woman’s throat and drank.

Her pulse started to fade. My stomach was convulsing now, body trembling so hard I could barely keep my mouth locked on her neck. Even as I pushed on, seeing the end in sight, I knew this wasn’t success. I’d won only the first round of a match I was doomed to lose.

The last drops of blood filled my mouth. Her heart beat slower, and slower, then…stopped.

Another life taken. Another year to live.