BloodWalk Page 10

  He started to say no, but something else in him, something controlled by the ravenous thirst, made it to his tongue first. "Okay. Why not?"

  She tucked her arm through his. "It isn't far. You'll like this."

  He hated it. Not the sex; that felt fine. But afterward, with the blood smell of her filling his head, making him dizzy with need, she looked up and said dreamily, "Did you know your eyes glow red, Mikaelian? They're like rubies."

  Hunger overwhelmed him. He kissed her neck, exploring, feeling his canines extend. She sighed in pleasure when his mouth found the throb under her silky skin. The sound goaded him. He bit, and . . . nothing! Only a drop of blood rose to tantalize him where each fang pierced. He had missed the vein!

  A scream of frustration echoed through his head, and then it screamed at him, demanding that he tear at her throat until he found the blood he needed. Garreth recoiled, and scrambled off her in horror. No! The guilt he had felt coming up here paled beside the self-loathing flooding him now. He did not have to stop being the person he was? Like hell. Look at him, turning into a ravening damn animal!

  He struggled into his clothes, desperate to leave before his hunger destroyed what humanity remained in him.

  Velvet stirred drowsily on the bed. "Don't rush off, baby."

  How could he explain? It was impossible. "I'm sorry; I have to go to work." He buckled his belt.

  She sat up, frowning irritably. "Well, wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am."

  He clipped on his gun, not daring to look at her, breathing through his mouth so that he would not smell the blood in her. "I'm sorry," he repeated. It sounded lame in his ears.

  "Cops." She snorted. "Always in a hurry to come and a hurry to go."

  He fled the room without even bothering to put on his coat. He finished dressing on the street while he walked away as fast as he could and gulped the night air to clear her scent from his head. He kept walking, paying no particular attention to the direction, as long as it was away from the crowds and bright lights.

  Missed! He could not believe it. Who ever heard of such a thing? See the vampire miss the vein. See him miss supper. Poor hungry vampire. Maybe he should hire a dowser to find veins for him.

  How many necks did a neo-vampire have to mutilate before learning the quick, clean bite? He could not do that. How did he eat, then?

  A car's horn blared. Garreth scrambled out of its path. It was then that he noticed where he was going . . . east, down to the Embarcadero. He stopped and stood looking across at the pier buildings, forgetting his problem for a moment to think about the ships moored over there, where they had been and where they might be going, exotic places. He had never even been out of the state.

  A man passed him, jogging, with a sleek Doberman running easily at his side. They left the scents of sweat and blood behind them.

  Garreth's spine tingled. He turned to watch the dog. They had blood, too. Could he live on animal blood? Lane drank human blood and all the books talked about vampires drinking human blood, but blood was blood, surely.

  The idea of preying on dogs did not appeal to him; they were pets, usually loved by someone. Cats, too. Besides, he had no idea how much blood they could lose without dying. However-his eyes moved toward the pier across the street-the city did have one species that existed in profusion, that would not be missed, and that he would not mind killing. Over there lay a bounteous hunting ground.

  The idea of touching a rat, let alone biting one, disgusted him, but a growing weakness in him and the return of his stomach cramps provided incentive for overcoming his squeamishness. People learned to eat many things out of necessity, even other people. Better rats than people.

  He crossed the street . . . only to find the gate across the entrance locked. He clutched at the grating in frustration. What now? The only open gates led onto piers with activity. He needed to find a way onto an empty pier . . . somehow. He stared into the darkened building longingly.

  Something moved in him, a gut-jarring wrench that sent pangs through him from head to hands and feet. He started to lean against the grating for support, to wait for the pain to pass. He almost fell onto his face. The grating had disappeared from in front of him. Looking around, he found, to his astonishment, that it lay behind him.

  Another truth! Vampires could move through solid objects. He had not noticed that he became mist. How had he done it, then?

  Garreth quickly ceased to care about how. His stomach said: hunt. He started down the length of the building, through a dark that appeared no more than twilight to his eyes, his ears tuned for every possible sound.

  The building creaked around him. Outside, traffic mumbled and water slapped the pier and foundations. Then, amid other sounds, he caught the scrabble of tiny clawed feet and the high squeak of a rodent voice. One turn of his head pinpointed the sound. He moved in that direction, climbing over a customs barrier in his path. The rat's form appeared among the shadows under the customs counter.

  It must have heard him because it grew suddenly still. Only its head moved, turning to look up at him. Garreth froze in place, too. The tiny eyes met his.

  "Don't move," he said. Then he had a better idea. "Come here. Come to me." He would see just how far this control went.

  The rat continued to stare.

  Garreth concentrated on it. "Come here."

  One slow step at a time, the rat obeyed. As it came within arm's reach, Garreth squatted on his heels. The smell of the rat reached him, a sharp rodent odor, strong but not quite strong enough to mask the tantalizing scent of blood. He steeled himself to touch the creature. Blood is blood. He drew a breath, smelling that blood . . . and reached for his prey.

  The rat's fur felt rough and spiky in his hand. He waited for it to struggle, but the creature submitted to being picked up, hanging quiescent in his grasp. One wrench would break its neck, or a bend of his elbow bring it to his mouth, but he hesitated. Rats carry disease. How did plague and rabies affect vampires? Were they immune, or would the disease organism be destroyed by passing through his digestive system? This rat looked healthy enough, bright-eyed and fat.

  The blood smell of it was overwhelming. Hunger maddened him. He had to risk drinking from it. He remembered the switchblade in his pocket. That would keep him from having to actually bite the rat. But what then?

  The rat remained quiet. Garreth stood, carrying it, and looked around for inspiration. Draining the blood into the palm of his hand and licking it up from there sounded not only slow but primitive. He had never liked camping out with all the loss of physical comfort that meant: digging latrines, boiling water, bathing in a bucket. He wanted something more civilized now, too.

  His gaze fell on a trash barrel. He carried the rat to it and looked in. Almost on top of the litter inside sat a foam cup of the type used for coffee carry-outs. Lipstick, looking brown in the twilight of his vision, printed one edge of the rim.

  After this, he decided, he would bring a cup of his own, maybe one of those collapsing things for camping, something that fit easily and inconspicuously in a pocket. But for now, he set the cup on the customs counter, then, using both hands, broke the rat's neck and brought out the switchblade.

  The blade opened with a snap. A pass of it opened the rat's throat, and Garreth held the rat by its hind legs, letting the blood drain into the cup. Its smell set his stomach churning in anticipation, though his brain still recoiled. Blood is blood, he reminded himself. Blood is Life.

  And when the rat stopped dripping, he resolutely picked up the cup, lipstick away from him, and gulped down the contents before he had time to think further.

  Any worry that he might throw up vanished immediately. The first swallow ignited a wild appetite for more. At the same time, though, it tasted flat, lacking, as though he drank simple tomato juice when he expected the peppery fire of a Bloody Mary. His skin crawled. What he really wanted, of course, was human blood. But this will do and it's all you're getting, beast. He drained the cup to the last drop and went hu
nt­ing another rat.

  8

  "Mik-san!" Harry came up out of his desk chair grinning from ear to ear.

  From around the room, other detectives converged on Garreth, pounding him on the back. Serruto came out of his office. "Is that our Lazarus behind those Foster Grants? You're looking pretty good, Mikaelian. Did you see the doctor today?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "What does he say about when you can come back?"

  "I'm back now. Really," he added, handing over the evaluation form from the doctor. He took off his glasses and hung them on the breast pocket of his suit coat. "I checked out okay. I'm cleared for full duty." Or at least, he had been after "persuasion" helped the doctor perceive the readings for temperature, pulse, and respiration as normal.

  Foreheads furrowed in surprise around him Harry looked concerned. "Only a week after the attack? You still look pale, and you seem thin."

  "I'm on a diet. The doctor approves."

  Serruto read the form. "He thinks your neck is healed?"

  Garreth tilted back his head to show the scars above his collar, still livid but obviously in no danger of tearing open with exertion. "I agree it's incredible, but my mother's people were always fast healers, and I've been doing nothing since Saturday but sleeping and eating, and drinking an herbal tea my Grandma Doyle swears by."

  He saw by their expressions that they put little credence in the herbal tea, but otherwise swallowed the lies. Garreth fought down a pang of guilt. He could not very well tell the truth, could he? That he had slept days but spent nights decimating the rat population on the Embarcadero, feeding the little corpses to the fishes in the bay. He hated admitting it to himself-it seemed like a savage, desperate way to be living, and he had come close to being caught last night by a watchman. He had had to crouch behind a pile of crates with breath held until the man walked out of sight. Garreth's chances of being seen increased with every night. He needed to find some way to hunt less often.

  Serruto read the form again. "I don't know," he said doubtfully.

  Garreth met his eyes as the lieutenant looked up and stared steadily into them. "I'm fit, the doctor says. You believe him, don't you?" It was a cheat and Garreth's conscience bothered him because of it, but he used it anyway. He wanted to be working.

  Serruto stared back, then returned the form. "If the doctor says you're fit, who am I to disagree? Okay, everyone, the reception party is over. Back to work." He beckoned Garreth toward his office. "Come in. You, too, Harry."

  It was about what Garreth expected, a short lecture which could be summarized as: "The doctors may think you're fit for full duty, but I think you should take it easy for a while. Make sure he does, Harry. Here's your new badge, ID card, and gun. Be sure to qualify with it on the firing range. Here's your temporary driver's license. Now, I suppose you want to know how we're doing on your redhead?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "We haven't found her," Harry said. "The APB is out with the names Barber and Alexandra Pfeifer. Odd alias, isn't it? I suppose it sounds more authentic than the standard Anglo-Saxon ones.

  "It's all crazy. Did you know we dusted her apartment, but the only prints we found belonged to your name on the letter, Madelaine Bieber, but she turns out not to be Barber, but a sixty-seven-year-old woman who was arrested for assault in 1941? We can't find her, either."

  Garreth bit his lip to keep from telling them that Lane and Madelaine Bieber were the same woman. Once he accepted Lane as a vampire, it followed that her apparent age bore no relation to her actual one. If he told them, and they believed him, then they would inevitably realize what he had become. He had no desire to learn how they might react to that.

  Little wonder, though, that Lane hunted so efficiently; she had had decades of practice.

  He asked, "Did you ever learn anything from the burned papers in the fireplace?"

  Serruto shook his head. "The lab only managed to bring up a partial postmark with two of the ZIP numbers, a six and a seven."

  "Doesn't that help?"

  Harry sighed. "It might if we knew for sure whether they're the first or second two numbers. If the ZIP is sixty-seven something, the letter came from the middle of Kansas. If it's something sixty-seven something, it could have been mailed in any one of nine states. I had the fun of going through a ZIP directory to check the possibilities." He laughed. "Isn't being a detective exciting?"

  "Show him the picture, Harry," Serruto said.

  Harry brought it in from his desk. Studying the photograph, Garreth saw that most of the envelope had burned away. In what remained, he saw a postmark circle with the two numbers at the bottom. At the top of the circle, partials of three letters also remained, and below the postmark, an ornate M. He recognized the letter as part of the address on the envelope he had seen. Too bad they were unable to see the return address. Addressed to her real name, it must have come from someone who knew her well and from a long time back.

  "Did you learn anything useful from her driver's license or car registration?"

  "Just that the information given for the license was false," Harry said.

  Serruto frowned. "We ran her through NCIC, even asking for Wants on anyone fitting her description. I know she's dirty. She stinks of 'fugitive.' She must be wanted somewhere for something."

  Garreth found satisfaction in knowing that he was no longer the only one who felt that way.

  "Anyway, that's where we stand now," Serruto said. "More is up to you two." He eyed Garreth intently. "Are you sure you feel like working?"

  Garreth returned his gaze steadily. "I feel just fine."

  Serruto waved them toward the door. "Then crack the whip over him, Harry."

  Harry nodded, grinning. On the way back to their desks, he said, "I tried calling you a couple of times, to see how you were doing, but you never answered."

  Garreth doubted a mere phone could wake him in the daytime. "I turned off the telephone bell so I wouldn't be disturbed." Even the small lie bothered him.

  "Lien was so worried I almost drove over to check on you personally."

  Garreth breathed a sigh of relief that he had not.

  "She's down at City of Paris today. Why don't I give her a call to tell her what the doctor said about you, and ask her to make enough sweet-and-sour pork for three tonight?"

  Garreth hoped the stricken plunge of his heart did not show on his face. He could never eat sweet-and-sour pork again, nor eat with Harry and Lien again, for that matter. He did not have to fake the disappointment in his voice. "I wish I could, but . . . I have a date."

  Harry's brows went up.

  "A nurse I met while the doctor was checking me over."

  Harry slapped his shoulder. "That's great. You get along well with nurses. Glad to see you back in the game."

  "Does this mean you'll be playing Cock of the Walk with the rest of the boys now?" Evelyn Kolb eyed him over the cup of tea she was pumping from her thermos.

  Garreth paused in the act of putting his glasses back on. "What a sharp tongue you have."

  She smiled. He eyed her thermos. That might be how to reduce the number of times he had to hunt. After all, the ability to store food was supposed to be an advantage of civilization.

  He walked over to her desk and picked up the thermos. "Does this work very well?"

  "Very well. Tea I put in in the morning is still hot enough to burn my tongue twelve hours later."

  He toyed with the pump spigot on the top. "How much does it hold?"

  "A quart. Why?"

  "I'm thinking of bringing tea to work the way you do. They come in larger sizes, too, don't they?"

  "Sure, but how much do you expect to drink in a day?"

  He shrugged, noting with dismay how easily he lied these days and to how many people. Why? Right now he could have replied truthfully that he was thinking of buying a thermos. The wicked flee where no man pursueth, he thought ruefully.

  Garreth returned the thermos to her desk and watched her put it away in the kn
eehole. A thermos full of blood would keep him several days. The flaw in that struck him on the way back to his desk. Outside its owner's body, blood clotted. The thought of ordinary blood still sounded unappealing to his brain, but that of clotted blood turned even his stomach. If he wanted to store blood, he would have to use anticoagulants. Where to come by those, though?

  Harry sat at his desk frowning at the lab photo of the postmark. "What do you think these letters are?"

  Garreth peered over his shoulder. "The one in the middle has to be either an O or U. Isn't that a slanted foot to the left? That would be an A, K, R, or X."

  "And on the right?"

  It looked like the bottom end of a straight line. "Man, that could be anything." He checked the keys of the typewriter. "F, H, I, K, N, M, or P." A thought occurred which might solve several problems. "Why don't we ask the lab if they can work on making the letters a little more visible?"

  Harry shrugged. "We can ask."

  Garreth maneuvered Harry into doing the talking when they reached the Crime Lab. He put in a word or two, then slid away and wandered along the worktables to where a technician was checking bloodstains on a shirt.

  The tech looked up with a smile. "Glad to see you back. I'm glad I won't be giving evidence on your bloodstained clothes at a murder trial. I see you got in a few licks yourself."

  "Two kinds of blood on the clothes?"

  The tech nodded. "Mostly A positive, but some B positive, too."

  Casually, Garreth asked, "If you wanted to keep blood fresh, how could you do it?"

  The tech shook his head. "I'd rather have it dried. It's easier to analyze. Blood cells decay so fast in liquid or clotted blood."

  "What if you wanted to keep it from clotting? Would you use heparin?"

  The tech rocked his row of slides back and forth, studying the blood on them. "Heparin? Probably not. That's about the most expensive product on the market. It's cheaper to use things like oxalates and citrates." He looked up. "I'd probably choose sodium citrate. That's inexpensive and available at almost any chemical supply house. It isn't a drug, so it isn't controlled like heparin."