Bloodlines (Demons of Oblivion) (2 page)

But that jacket, I liked. A black, knee-length number. Surprisingly quiet—it was some sort of canvas. Snug on him, too. It would definitely go with my black boot-cut jeans and scoop necked top. Perhaps I’d get more out of our encounter than just dinner.

I love clothes. It’s a fault, probably, but clothes are like a billboard to everyone you meet—easy to manipulate people if you know how to dress. Clothes tell people whether you’re a wimpy little girl, a sultry vixen, or a badass chick they shouldn’t fuck with. I always waver between the latter two...except for that time I posed as someone peddling
The Watchtower
to get into my target’s house and make the kill. Surprisingly, no one opens the door for a Jehovah’s Witness in a satin bustier.

My fingers flexed, bloodlust roaring through my veins like a tidal wave. Muscles readied to leap down, to grab him, to take this life that so carelessly would take mine.

Movement at the other end of the alley cautioned me. Chills of awareness rolled down my back like ice water tossed on me—someone was there. And my stalker? He knew it too; he glanced down there and lifted his shoulders in a shrugging gesture.

And how many others were there? I picked through the din—through my stalker’s heart beating and lungs breathing, through rats in the streets and dull music throbbing against apartment building walls... Pushing noises aside, filtering through and...I had nothing. Couldn’t determine how many were there, but he had friends. So I couldn’t just kill this one—I had to make it a show.

And who doesn’t love a good show?

Seconds ticked by and turned into a minute. He shuffled, stepping heavily on first his right foot then his left, and then started down the alley again.

I could have let him go; I didn’t need to play.
I’m late, I’m late, I’m late for an important date
. I had places to go, people to kill, money to make.

I’m no avenging angel, not someone looking to spare others from this attack that very well would have taken my life if I were a mortal. That game bored me now. But this little waste of time, this distraction, was an indulgence on my part—something I engaged in not because I needed to but because I
could
. Because I liked taking the time to make someone rue the day they fucked with me.

Even if his death would cut the ruing down to just two or three minutes.

I followed, edging along the roof, one hand touching down to steady me and head kept low. Wind kicked up, sending shivers over my skin and rustling my hair. The air was fresh, clean, sweeping from the south where the harbor and lake sat a few miles off.

My would-be stalker halted once more, his head turning and neck craned to check the corners I could be hiding in. Now he was really confused.

And I was ready.

My resting crouch shifted into a braced one until I was poised, ready for a leap. I launched into the air, hair whipping back, then a second later my boots touched down on grimy concrete. Hair settled again, long waves wrapping around my shoulders like the shadows did.

Good predators are silent. Another lesson my new friend had never learned.

I stood but inches behind him in a slice of moonlight. Waiting. Watching that familiar reaction as awareness crackled around him, instinct telling him I was there an instant before his brain processed it.

Ever have that feeling you’re being watched? I was the thing doing the watching.

He turned, eyes doubling in size. “Fuck!” left his lips as he stumbled back, sneaker treads scraping on the pavement.

I smiled brightly with feigned innocence. “Hi there! Looking for me?”

His lips parted and a jumble of unintelligible sounds spilled out. I know a couple different languages—pretty sure he wasn’t speaking any of them.

“Okay, confession time: I really like your jacket.” I took a step forward. “Would you mind taking it off? I’d hate to get blood on it. Despite some product commercials to the contrary, it’s damn hard to get that stuff out.”

Shock wore off and his eyes changed, like a blanket of confusion drawn aside. He straightened his back and thrust the knife toward me. “D-Do what I tell you and you won’t die, bitch! On the ground! Now!”

Such drama. I rolled my eyes. In what passed for only a second to mortal eyes, I grabbed him by the throat and slammed him against the pawn shop wall, holding him two feet in the air.

He blinked twice, then looked down at me. Another smile crept over my lips as I watched his gaze track over me and to the ground. His skin paled, blood draining away, and beneath my fingertips I felt his pulse double its beat.

This part never gets old.

“I don’t think we’ve been introduced,” I said. “My name’s Zara. I’m strong, I’m fast, and I totally kick ass. It’s great to be me...but that means right now it sucks to be you.”

Terror has a taste for a predator; for me, it’s savory and hot, like spices slow roasted. It sparked against my tongue now as my victim panicked and struggled against my grip.

The switchblade flashed in the moonlight as he slashed at me. The blade grazed my inner arm, then slid between my ribs.

Shit
. Stupid knife—I forgot about that. Pain swiped at me, biting and stinging. But it was bearable.

I dropped the guy to inspect my wound, an exaggerated sigh blowing past my lips. I hauled the knife out and the wound spit blood, but I didn’t stress it. I’d been stabbed, like,
a lot
over the years and I knew the healing process had started. Pity I couldn’t say the same about my shirt.

“Goddamn it.” My gaze snapped back up to him. “You damn well better have some money to cover a replacement or I’m going to be rather unhappy with you. I just bought this.”

I released the knife and he winced as it struck the ground, a decisive
click
that echoed in the alley.

I’m terrible with empathy, but I tried to imagine it from his perspective when I didn’t fall down mortally wounded. Somewhere in his head he must have remembered all the stories of strong, healthy men being found dead in the streets, and, despite how absurd it seemed, he was cowering before a girl who didn’t die when he stabbed her.

My empathy is still a work in progress; I didn’t feel pity. Just...glee.

He screamed, a burst of fear that reeked of cigarette smoke and rancid tequila. He scrambled for the knife at my feet, twisted and ran, feet thumping down the alley. Dirt and stones crunched underfoot, scraping between his shoes and the concrete. He smelled of fear. My stomach rumbled.

The air shifted as I moved and then I was there, in front of him, and he skidded to a halt.

Before he could take another swipe at me with the knife, my fingers wrapped around his hand and squeezed. The weapon fell, but I tightened, tightened, feeling the grind of bone against bone.

A shriek started in the back of his throat, high-pitched and grating on my nerves; my other hand snapped out to clamp over his mouth.

“You were following me, presumably with the intent to violate me. I suppose you were going to kill me too.”

He vehemently shook his head in response.

I tightened the death grip on his hand. “I don’t like people who lie to me.”

Tears sparked in his eyes, building, welling, then spilling down his cheeks. He made some sort of moan of protest against me breaking his bones.

“I know it’s wacky, but I really have a problem with people who try to rape and murder me,” I continued. “Do you have any idea how rude that is? Here we are, in the twenty-first century, and despite the progress women have made, men still think they can dominate them. That makes me
so
angry. Doesn’t that make you angry?”

Weakly, he nodded.

“I mean, what is humanity coming to when in this day and age a woman
still
can’t even walk down a deserted alley, all alone, in the middle of the night, without fearing being attacked?”

Another whimper, a weak little broken sound.

“Tell me, are you at all aware of how this has affected me? How am I ever going to walk freely at night after what you’ve done to me? Did you even think of my feelings when you started stalking me?”

He mumbled something.

Ah, so you finally decided to join the conversation
. I removed my hand from his mouth so he could speak freely.

“Yes?” I said. “You were saying?”

He parted his lips and his high-pitched scream filled the air, like the female victim in a horror film. The sound drove spikes into my brain—I hate it when they scream this far into the act.

His neck twisted to look behind him, at the mouth of the alley where we both knew others waited. “Help me!”

I leaned toward him as he looked back, my voice taking on a soft whisper. “Something tells me they aren’t coming.”

That thought settled in his brain and his face changed, twisting into something ugly and frightened, then he yelped as I flung him by his broken hand across the alley. He hit the bricks hard and crumpled to the ground, a broken puddle that used to be a tough guy.

My heels clicked on the concrete as I strolled over. He stirred, cradling his broken hand, eyes coming to settle on the toes of my boots.

I’m not all bad; I reached down to offer my hand. Not surprisingly, he stared back, agape and fearful.

So little trust
. I hauled him to his feet by the collar of his shirt. “Do you now see the error of your ways?”

He nodded, cowering in my grip.

“Do you promise not to try to rape any more girls?”

Again, he nodded.

“Good.” I grinned. “Now go my child, and sin no more.”

He didn’t move.

“Okay, okay,” I said. “Of course you aren’t getting off that easy. Brace yourself ’cause this will hurt...quite a lot, actually.”

A throb started in my gums. They make it look so easy in the movies, but even after a few centuries of it, the growth of my teeth into fangs hurt. The throb sharpened into pinpricks dancing on my gums and then my canines grew longer, sharper. Saliva formed, swelling in my mouth as I reached out and yanked my would-be-killer toward me. His body went limp in my arms, then contorted and shook as my teeth pierced his skin. The hot blood swirled past my lips, but rather than satiate my thirst, it made me want more.

I held him there in the moonlight as I drank, ensuring his friends would see. With any luck, that would serve as a warning to them. If they came after me, I’d be forced to kill them, which—though enjoyable—was a waste of perfectly good blood. I couldn’t very well feed from all of them, as one human was enough to fill me for a week, and overfeeding would leave me feeling ill for a few days afterward. Besides, I was already late for a very important meeting.

Generally, I don’t take enough blood to kill. It doesn’t make sense in the grand scheme of things—if the human lives, he can always produce more blood, so there’s no danger of ever having to go without a meal. I rarely ever drain a human.

But sometimes I just can’t stop myself.

Chapter Two

Business Opportunities

Not fifteen minutes after my meal, I stood in front of my destination. Or, rather, on top of it. After my unexpected dinner, I opted for the rooftops for the rest of my walk. It’s faster than stopping to kill every loser who decides to follow you.

Plus I probably looked killer with that knee-length jacket flapping in the wind as I ran.

Mishka’s window lay wide open without a screen, a big happy mouth ready to let me dive inside. How nice of her.

I dropped noiselessly onto the fire escape and stole down two levels to her floor. White sheer curtains fluttered, cutting across the open window. Beyond them was the living room, and beyond that the kitchen; Mishka Thiering sat with her back to me at the chrome dinette table. Blonde hair was coiled in a bun at the nape of her neck, not a strand out of place even at three in the morning. I swore that witch never slept.

A blue ceramic mug touched down on the table, then she moved her hand back in front of her; the flipping of pages followed. Her flowery peasant skirt trembled as she shifted in her seat.

I failed to see why she’d have all the damn lights on so anyone could see into her place. Despite living in what could only be described as “the slums,” all her furniture was either new and stylish or antique and priceless. That chrome dinette set wasn’t there the last time I dropped by for a visit, nor was the 1930’s lounge chair tucked near the window. Maybe she didn’t think anyone would bother carting off furniture in this neighborhood. Or maybe local thieves were scared of the witch next door.

I’d both steal good furniture
and
risk the wrath of a witch...good thing we’re still friends, Mish.

I bent and slipped through the window. Two lights were on either side of me and I stole through the living room at an angle, dodging the light where I could as to not cast a shadow in her line of vision. My boots moved soundlessly on the plush gray carpet and soon I stood directly behind her.

Her attention stayed on the book as I leaned over her shoulder to peer at the discoloured pages.

“
Invocation of the Summer God
,” I read aloud.

Her shoulders lifted in a start and her body jumped in her chair. “Goddess damn you, Zara!”

“Hmm.” I took the seat opposite her and dropped down to sit, draped one long leg over the other, and tapped my scarlet-painted fingernails on the tabletop. “Is it possible to damn someone already damned?”

“Funny,” she said without smiling. “Why can’t you just use the door like a normal person?”

Because I’m not a person, dumbass
. “I like to make an entrance. Besides, you shouldn’t leave the windows open.”

“The air conditioner doesn’t work—that’s the only way to get any fresh air in here since the landlord won’t replace it.”

“Uh, yeah, that’s why I moved out. Maybe you should buy one yourself or at least invest in a spell to keep out unwanted visitors, rather than...” I snatched the leather bound book from her hands to look at the cover. “
Raven’s
Grimoire
of
Dark
Magick
?”