the
unyielding barrier, her throat tore to ribbons with her vicious
growls and snarls. She pulled hunks of hair from her head, knocked
over the bookcase and tossed the bed against the wall. And I just
sank down the wall to the floor, watching it all, hating myself and
wondering for the millionth time if I should just put her down.
It was worse
than watching her fight. Fighting was what she was built for. It
was the point of the altering mechanism that made one a vampire. A
weak human rebuilt into this—a manic monster consumed by its
hunger, insane with the need to destroy. They were a very real
threat to the stability of the world. A creature no one believed
in, that preyed solely on humans, that had the evolutionary
benefits equivalent to that of a great white shark, damn near
perfect and completely alien in terms of wants and needs.
Vampires were
animals. Worse than that. They were the unquantified mystery
science knew nothing about. The silent, unseen predator lurking in
the shadows. There were no institutions begging for funding so they
could find a cure for vampirism. There were no vaccination
programs. There were no anti-vampire forces ready to go into the
night to do battle. No one knew about them, no one understood them.
No one could defeat them.
I did my
darnedest, with Mercy and Roberts, but it wasn’t enough. Because
I’m such a believer in statistics, I did think there were others
out there fighting as well, but I hadn’t seen or met any of them.
And I doubted any of those hypothetical folk did it with something
like Mercy at their side.
She rammed the
bars one last time and crumpled to the floor, seemingly beaten,
exhausted. Little mewling noises came from her, between pants for
air. She was faking. Even broken bones wouldn’t stop her from
fighting when she got this hungry.
I grabbed the
broom handle I kept for just these times and used it to push the
bag of A positive blood into the cage beside her, nudged her hand
with it. She moved lightning fast, snatched up the bag and,
recognising it for what it was, shoved it to her mouth. Her
razor-sharp fangs punctured the plastic and she fed. Her natural
blood group was O pos. The A group would react adversely with her
natural blood type, they would tear each other apart and she would
weaken. It was sort of an induced coma. She’d survive the reaction,
and would heal, eventually, but she’d sleep through it.
I took the
other bag—the one that would have restored her to full strength—and
left.
Chapter 6
Erin stopped outside Kirby’s. From
her research, Kirby’s had started life as a pub and graduated to
nightclub status when the owner installed a high tech music system
and began hiring halfway decent DJs. And now it was a boarded-up
store front with Lord knew how many years worth of grime coating
the windows. She leaned against the old glass-fronted sign
advertising some band with four girls in outfits approximating
private school uniforms.
If it hadn’t
been for Ivan’s over-socialised life, she would never have learned
the club from the video footage was Kirby’s. It was still listed in
the phone book so she’d tried calling, with no answer. And here she
was. Her first lead and a dead end. Not a particularly startling
occurrence, but it hit her hard.
She and Ivan
had stayed back late at the office the night before, nutting out a
plan of attack on this case. It had netted them the identification
of Kirby’s, a message left with one of Erin’s contacts in the local
police and no hits on Google. The incident in the club hadn’t
warranted news coverage, apparently. Finally getting home hadn’t
been a blessing. William was having a bad night and the neighbours
were having a loud party. Between nursing William through the pain
and trying to call the neighbours to ask them politely to turn the
music down, she hadn’t slept much.
And now here
she was, stalled before she’d even started.
Maybe Ivan had
discovered the owner by now. She was
unyielding barrier, her throat tore to ribbons with her vicious
growls and snarls. She pulled hunks of hair from her head, knocked
over the bookcase and tossed the bed against the wall. And I just
sank down the wall to the floor, watching it all, hating myself and
wondering for the millionth time if I should just put her down.
It was worse
than watching her fight. Fighting was what she was built for. It
was the point of the altering mechanism that made one a vampire. A
weak human rebuilt into this—a manic monster consumed by its
hunger, insane with the need to destroy. They were a very real
threat to the stability of the world. A creature no one believed
in, that preyed solely on humans, that had the evolutionary
benefits equivalent to that of a great white shark, damn near
perfect and completely alien in terms of wants and needs.
Vampires were
animals. Worse than that. They were the unquantified mystery
science knew nothing about. The silent, unseen predator lurking in
the shadows. There were no institutions begging for funding so they
could find a cure for vampirism. There were no vaccination
programs. There were no anti-vampire forces ready to go into the
night to do battle. No one knew about them, no one understood them.
No one could defeat them.
I did my
darnedest, with Mercy and Roberts, but it wasn’t enough. Because
I’m such a believer in statistics, I did think there were others
out there fighting as well, but I hadn’t seen or met any of them.
And I doubted any of those hypothetical folk did it with something
like Mercy at their side.
She rammed the
bars one last time and crumpled to the floor, seemingly beaten,
exhausted. Little mewling noises came from her, between pants for
air. She was faking. Even broken bones wouldn’t stop her from
fighting when she got this hungry.
I grabbed the
broom handle I kept for just these times and used it to push the
bag of A positive blood into the cage beside her, nudged her hand
with it. She moved lightning fast, snatched up the bag and,
recognising it for what it was, shoved it to her mouth. Her
razor-sharp fangs punctured the plastic and she fed. Her natural
blood group was O pos. The A group would react adversely with her
natural blood type, they would tear each other apart and she would
weaken. It was sort of an induced coma. She’d survive the reaction,
and would heal, eventually, but she’d sleep through it.
I took the
other bag—the one that would have restored her to full strength—and
left.
Chapter 6
Erin stopped outside Kirby’s. From
her research, Kirby’s had started life as a pub and graduated to
nightclub status when the owner installed a high tech music system
and began hiring halfway decent DJs. And now it was a boarded-up
store front with Lord knew how many years worth of grime coating
the windows. She leaned against the old glass-fronted sign
advertising some band with four girls in outfits approximating
private school uniforms.
If it hadn’t
been for Ivan’s over-socialised life, she would never have learned
the club from the video footage was Kirby’s. It was still listed in
the phone book so she’d tried calling, with no answer. And here she
was. Her first lead and a dead end. Not a particularly startling
occurrence, but it hit her hard.
She and Ivan
had stayed back late at the office the night before, nutting out a
plan of attack on this case. It had netted them the identification
of Kirby’s, a message left with one of Erin’s contacts in the local
police and no hits on Google. The incident in the club hadn’t
warranted news coverage, apparently. Finally getting home hadn’t
been a blessing. William was having a bad night and the neighbours
were having a loud party. Between nursing William through the pain
and trying to call the neighbours to ask them politely to turn the
music down, she hadn’t slept much.
And now here
she was, stalled before she’d even started.
Maybe Ivan had
discovered the owner by now. She was
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