Page 10 of Blood Lovers (American Vampires #1)

I am just an addict.

My phone rings again. And of course it’s him.

Don’t answer it. Just like the last five times, all you have to do is just not answer it.

I should take that advice. I really should. But… I shake my head and accept the call.

“Where are you?”

“Miami.”

“Did you find her?”

“Don’t you think I would call you if I found her?”

He doesn’t say anything. And this is how all his calls go since the girl got away and the feeder died. I get that he’s the boss. I even sorta maybe respect that a little bit. He is… Paul , after all.

But I’m tired of this bullshit. “You’re giving me a headache.”

“You should just come home.”

And there it is.

I’ve been waiting for him to finally say this because while he does want the girl, he’s not in a hurry for her. It would be nice to find her immediately, but he’s immortal. Who gives a fuck? What he really wants is me, at home, with him. But his place is not my home. Not even close.

He could order me. He could make me go to his compound. But he won’t. He doesn’t want to force me into things. He’s been saying this on repeat since I was second-born.

“I’m close, Paul.”

“You’re not.”

“How would you know?”

He sighs. But he’s got an answer. Maybe I’m no Josep or Lucia, but I know Paul. I know him very well. And that sigh is a tell that he’s holding back.

“ What ?” I’m snappish and I hate that. I hate losing control, even if it’s just a little bit of heat in my tone.

“I haven’t told you about them yet.”

“About who?”

“The Guild.”

I close my eyes, press my lips together to shut myself up, and nod my head, trying to breathe deeply. Even though he can’t see me, he can see me. He knows me just as well as I know him. “There’s a Guild ?” I say these words through clenched teeth. “Why am I just hearing about this?”

“It’s all very need-to-know. And I wasn’t sure that you needed to know.”

“But now you are?”

“I am.”

“Can you… enlighten me on how you know this Guild is involved?”

“Come home and I’ll tell you the whole story.”

“No.” He knows I’m not going there. I’m never going there unless he forces me. “So tell me now, or forget it. I don’t care.”

“You really don’t care, do you?”

And now we’re back to this. He fights with me like we’re lovers, and we’re not. I drink him. This is all there is to us . Food. He is my food .

Why can’t he just… find someone else to bother with his fucking feelings ?

“Do you know what that witch told me?”

“What witch?” For a moment I think he’s talking about the one I’m hunting.

“The feeder who just died. Do you know what she said?”

I blow out a breath. “‘Curse you and all your offspring for seventeen generations?’”

“You think it’s funny, don’t you?”

“Which part? Because some of this is, Paul. You’re being an asshole. I’m hunting down your fucking feeder, OK? Just leave me alone.”

“Do you have any idea what I’ve been through in the past week?”

I pause here. Because his tone has changed. Is he angry?

“I asked you a question.”

“How could I know what you’ve been through. We haven’t spoken.”

“Because you won’t answer my calls. Did it ever occur to you that I have important things to say?”

I almost laugh here. He sounds… needy. And he’s always been that way with me, but it’s a little bit desperate this time. So I don’t laugh. “OK. Then tell me what you have to say.”

“The witch did a number on me.”

“A number?”

“She… the… the blood .” He takes a breath and lets it out. “I’ve had a very bad week and I would like you here at home.”

“No! How many times do I have to fucking tell you, that place is not my home?”

He hangs up on me.

I slump back into my beach chair and tilt my head up towards the sun, enjoying the heat. I love the sun. Especially after trekking around the Rocky Mountains for three weeks.

My phone buzzes again and I rip my sunglasses off, ready to chew him out, but when I look at the screen it says ‘Echo.’

I accept the call. “What is it now, Echo?”

“He did it again.”

Now I have a full-on headache. I might actually have to go west just to get a drink from Paul if this keeps up. “Who was it this time?”

“Willie!”

I shrug even though she can’t see me. “Well, I mean… it’s Willie, Echo. He’s a meth-addicted fiend who steals anything not nailed down. What did you expect?”

“He was getting clean.”

“Sure he was. Is that all? Because I’m busy here.”

“He ripped his head off, Ryet. His head ! People are traumatized.”

“They live on a vampire’s compound in the middle of the wilderness. What do they think is gonna happen?”

“His head , Ryet.”

“I get it. It’s gross. But what do you want me to do about it?”

“Come home. Come home and—”

I end the call. He put her up to that. I’m willing to bet—fuck, pretty much everything I own, including my already claimed soul—that meth addict Willie is alive and well. Probably drinking beer and playing pool with the guys.

Something needs to give here. I can’t deal with Paul like this. He’s not even himself. And I’m a little bit sympathetic. I am. I get it. His feeder is gone and we’re all properly freaked out about it, and if the witch got to him—I understand this is a time of great change.

But I’ve got my own problems. And I don’t need a feeder. Hell, Paul doesn’t even need a feeder. He feeds me, and I don’t require much. I could go another three or four years without drinking him if I had to. And he’s got blood on ice everywhere. Young blood. Really good, nutritious, tasty, sweet blood.

Why is he so obsessed with this one girl?

It bugs me.

Mostly because I’m a little bit obsessed with her as well. She’s practically an urban legend at this point. Her grandmother kills her mother the moment she’s born. Steals the mother’s power—who knew that was even possible?—and then uses that new power to escape, with the baby , and hides her from the oldest vampire in the western hemisphere for twenty-eight years.

If I had gotten a chance to meet that old witch, I would’ve given her a long, slow clap.

Well played, witch. Well played.

But that’s not the end of it, is it? Then the girl gets away. Even though the magic keeping her hidden is now poof. Gone.

It’s impressive.

But why is Paul obsessed with her?

I narrow my eyes as I think about this.

There could be many reasons. None of which are seriously worth considering because every time I try to figure him out, I’m never right.

But there is something to the blood inside this woman. Something important. More important than just being young, and fresh, and sweet. That’s about all I can say for sure, so I get up from my lounge chair and sniff the air.

This is why I’m here. And now that I know there’s a Guild involved, it adds up.

Someone has put her scent in the poolside misters. It’s being sprayed all over the cabanas, and the pool, and even as far out as the sand and the crashing waves.

They set a trap for me and I fell for it.

Of course, I don’t feel bad about it. I like this hunt. It keeps me busy. And I’m kinda looking forward to finding her. I want to meet this little witch.

I check the whole area anyway. Wouldn’t it be ironic if she were one cabana down? Just lounging in her chair, sipping margaritas, and watching me look for her?

This thought comes with an interesting voyeur twist that almost makes me smile.

I check the whole outside area. I even check the hotel next door, just in case. But the scent disappears quickly when I leave the one I’m staying at.

Which confirms that they set me up.

It might also be a complication. Because if this is her real scent, they will change her scent after this to hide her from me. And if it isn’t her real scent, I don’t know what she smells like.

There were a few days there where I thought I could hear her. Not like her talking, or anything, but her heartbeat. It’s stupid, and I have no reason to believe this—it’s never been a thing before—but I was sure that the thumping in my head was her. I was just sure of it.

But that disappeared first. The night I found the dead witch in that filthy cabin on the Western Slope.

She was there. The girl. She was there when her grandma died. Then gone. Poof. No trace.

So I think I probably did need to know about that whole Guild thing.

Fucking Paul.

Still, this frustrating delay isn’t enough to dampen my mood. I woke up this morning with a raging headache. I’ve been getting them lately. Not bad ones, but enough to make me consider some pain reliever. The one this morning had me calling down to room service asking for aspirin.

It helped a little, but the throb is still there.

That’s why I’m staying an extra day and not already on the move.

This is my day off and nothing Paul does will ruin it.

So I just go up to my room, grab a drink from the minibar, settle down in another comfortable chair out on the large terrace and watch the ocean move back and forth through the clear glass railing.

I have always been a dreamwalker . Even before Paul stole my soul that night in the alley. I saw things in the purple haze long before he showed up. I saw him coming, actually.

And I was certain that God was gonna protect me.

He didn’t.

So fuck Him.

Here in Miami the dreamwalk comes easy to me and I don’t have trouble recognizing it, even when I don’t recall falling asleep. This one is very purple. Which means it’s one of three things: the future, the past, or something… unfulfilled. It’s hard to tell.

This haze is more of a thick curtain than a fog. I’m still in my hotel room and still on the terrace, but that’s where most of the similarities end.

The ocean is swirling and midnight blue in color. There is a massive whirlpool, like a giant eddy spinning and turning. The sky is the color of a fresh, nasty bruise and the sand is blood red.

A storm begins to rage, tossing thunderheads towards the other side of the world. Lightning skewers the sky and thunder cracks it open. And from this vast, empty, dark hole in the heavens appears a demon.

One I’ve been intimate with.

Paul, in his true form, towers over everything. His body is blueish-purple, like he is a bruise, just like the sky. His face is elongated, horns protruding from the top of his head. Long, thick horns with so many branches, they could be trees. His skin isn’t smooth and fresh, like he presents himself to this world where he does not belong. It is… hide. That’s the only word for it.

Hide. Like of an animal. An alligator, crocodile. Something reptilian.

And those wings. They are grotesquely magnificent. Stretching for hundreds of miles in every direction.

I do not cower from him. I stand on my terrace and tip up my chin, meeting his gaze.

Because he is here for me.

He shrinks down to human size, floating in the air, and lands in front of me. His wings fold up and his expression softens a little.

Silence between us. But so much is being said in that silence.

When he speaks, he is gruff and impatient. “What do you want?”

“What do you mean? I’m fucking dreamwalking. I don’t want anything from you. I didn’t even ask you to come here.”

I am smacked down, my face burning like fire from the rage of his blow. The force of it is so hard, I skid across the Spanish tiles of the terrace and hit the glass doors that lead to the room.

“What the fuck!” I get to my feet. “What the fuck is—”

He strikes me again. Then again. And again. Until my whole body is nothing but burning fire.

“Paul!”

He raises his hand, like he might strike me a final time. So I cover my face.

Which makes him laugh. “You are so selfish.” He seethes these words out at me. “You think I love you, Ryet. You push me away like I’m some… one-night stand. You think I love you? I don’t love you.” He descends and bares his teeth at me, revealing fangs the length of my fingers. “I love your blood , Ryet. We are blood lovers, and nothing more.”

Then, as quick as it all started, it’s over and I’m sitting up in my chair, on the terrace, in the real world, holding my fucking drink—which splashes into my lap.

“Careful now.”

I look over to my left and there he is. In his more… attractive form.

“Nightmare?” He asks this casually. Like he wasn’t just beating the fuck out of me in the dreamwalk. He holds up a bottle of Jack. “Let me refill it.”

I pull my drink back before he can pour. “What are you doing here? And what the hell was that?”

He screws up his face, like he’s not sure what I’m talking about.

“Don’t.” I point my finger at him. “You think I’m afraid of you? You think I care if you abuse me?”

“Come on, Ryet. Abuse ?” He laughs. “It was a dream. I didn’t even touch you.”

“You’re fucking with my head and—” I stop talking midsentence because he has bitten his lip and blood is trickling down his chin.

All the old urges come rushing back in less than an instant.

I don’t have any control over my reactions to his blood. It’s like breathing to me. Something intrinsic. More than just an instinct, it is a compulsion.

Paul smiles. It’s coy, and knowing, and evil. “Would you like a drink?”

Even if I could form the word ‘no’ with my lips like I might actually say it, the answer is always yes.

Because when it comes to Paul’s blood, I’m no different than that meth fiend, Willie. That night Paul found me in the alley, he turned me into his own personal addict.

And then he pretends to wonder why I don’t want to see him.

He pretends like this sick compulsion I have is love.

It’s not. I don’t know what he’s doing, but there’s one thing I know for sure. He’s up to something and when it comes to me, he’s always got a plan.

Paul comes off as lazy, and easy, and cool. Like nothing bothers him and he hasn’t got a care in the world.

But it’s a lie.

Everything about him is a lie.

He’s doing something with me.

Using me, like he uses everyone.

And it starts and ends with this addiction he forced on me that night.

“I can hear your thoughts, Ryet.” Paul shakes his head and tsks his tongue. “I didn’t force you. You were falling to pieces, remember.”

“Shut up.”

“You were a walking suicide when we met.”

“Shut. Up .”

“I know you don’t like to talk about them.” He steps towards me and I want nothing more than to turn away and walk out. But I can’t. I smell his blood. I need it. “But they still haunt you, don’t they? Let me take it all away again. Hm?” He reaches out and brings his hand up to my cheek, swiping a lock of hair away from my eyes like he’s trying to be tender with me, the way he is with those whores he fucks. His voice is low and soft now, all the anger in the dream just that—a dream. “Would you like to pack them up one more time and put them away for another day?”

I would not. I would like to see them again, even if it was just a memory. I know I had a wife and three children, but I can’t remember their names, I can’t conjure up their faces, and there are no good times to look back on.

He took it all away.

He took them away.

And deep down, in some dark place I rarely visit, I know he did more than that to my human family all those decades ago.

He did more than that.

“Come now.” Paul slides his hand around the back of my head, pulling me into him. “I need you to drink so I can be sure things are still good between us.” I don’t know what that means, but I don’t care, either. The scent of his blood is so powerful I’m salivating before our lips even touch.

And then there it is. The tangy taste of him on my tongue.

But it’s only ever a taste. He denies me anything more than a drop or two. I eagerly kiss him back, trying to get every drop before his lip seals back up, healed.

And when it’s over, my head is on his shoulder like I’m about to weep. And I am spent.

“There you go. That’s all you needed. Tell me now. Do you feel better or worse?”

When I don’t answer him, he asks again. This time with more force.“ Ryet. Better? Or worse?”

“Better.” It’s barely a whisper.

“Good.” Then he sighs. Like he’s relieved. He guides me over to the bed and helps me lie down. He gets in next to me and plays with my hair.

I am too weak to move. But this is euphoria. This is bliss.

The blood is a powerful drug. Better than anything out there on the streets.

And I am just an addict.

Paul kisses my forehead. I can’t even manage to open my eyes.

And the last thing I hear is, “Sleep now, blood lover. Sleep.”

My second life started the moment I opened my eyes in that hotel room in San Francisco. That’s when I was born. In that fucking room.

A gorgeous place. Don’t recall the name, but it went out of business decades back.

I had no memories at all. Not a single one. I didn’t even know my name. Still don’t. He calls me Ryet. He insists my full name is Zecharyet, but it’s not. I don’t know who that guy is, but it’s not me. I feel that deep down in my demon bones.

I looked that name up online once the internet became prevalent, and many times since then, just in case it was an old record that took time to get entered into the databases. There is no such name as Zecharyet. It gets zero hits on Google.

How is that even possible? How has this combination of letters never come up before in the entire history of the world?

I don’t know, but it feels like a clue.

Or a lie.

Or a mistake.

Or maybe it was deliberate. So I would know he was lying to me. Because if I was the man he claims me to be, then there would be a birth certificate, wouldn’t there? A death certificate, maybe. That one depends on whether or not anyone was seriously looking for me after I disappeared from… wherever it was I came from.

The point is, if that name was real, was me—then there would be a history.

And there is no history.

Well, that’s not entirely true. I have one thing with this name on it. A deed to some land back east. But it was part of the waking up with Paul in San Francisco, so I’m not sure it’s an actual clue, or a planted one.

That day was pretty confusing. We were in bed together, both of us naked.

I don’t think I had feelings about that, which seems wrong, just like the name. Because I am not attracted to men. Paul doesn’t count. He’s not a man. He’s a monster.

It felt pretty natural, though. Like sleeping naked together is just something he and I occasionally do.

But that was wrong as well.

He was not my boyfriend.

Gross. Just that word and him in the same sentence repulses me. And I’m not even awake. I’m in the dreamwalk. There’s purple haze everywhere.

I’m on a beach. A nice, warm beach, which makes sense, because that’s where I left my physical body. But this isn’t the same beach. It’s much nicer. Like private island nicer.

I push my current surrounding aside and drift back to waking in San Francisco with Paul. It’s the only beginning I know. The rest of it is just a flicker of things that no longer matter.

I was starving when I woke up. But not for room service. Just the scent of him was driving me crazy. I wanted to devour him. I wanted to be inside him, actually.

Not sexually, but… just… like… become him.

Merge with him.

Be part of him.

I couldn’t get close enough. I couldn’t stop smelling him. I can’t even explain that scent. It’s so overpowering and seductive. And original. You can’t say, Oh, he smells like the woods, or the beach, or the lake. He just smells like Paul. It’s like a roast beef dinner, and a very well-groomed horse, and a… a… pit in the depths of Hell.

Savory, and sweet, and smoky.

I wake up in a hotel room that is definitely not the one in Miami where I fell asleep. It is old, and dingy, and smells like piss.

I sit up in bed, realize I’m naked, and then exhale a long breath as the memory of the blood lust comes back to me.

Then I look around for Paul, but I already know he’s not here.

Paul? In this place? Please.

But he was here. Because I can smell him.

Plus, there’s a folded piece of paper on the bedside table that says ‘Ryet’ in his stupid, lavish longhand. He loves to leave letters. That deed he left me in San Francisco on my first day was in one of those big yellow envelopes and came with a letter. It was like a welcome-to-my-cult kind of letter. Here is your ID, here is where you will find your money, here is where you can get clothes, here is a number where you can reach me, here is a deed for land with your name on it to prove who you are.

Since then, they’ve gotten more… personal. I’m not in the mood for that, so I sigh, ignore the letter, walk over to the bathroom, peek inside, and weigh my options.

Nnn -no. I’m not showering in this place. It’s the most disgusting room I’ve ever been in and that shower looks like it hasn’t been cleaned in decades.

I find my clothes scattered across the room and briefly pause to wonder what the fuck we were doing here. That’s when I realize the bed has one of those Magic Fingers things attached to it, the kind you put a quarter in and it will jiggle the bed for you.

For a moment I wonder if I’m still dreaming because I feel like I fell back in time forty years. But when I go over to the window and use a pen from the little table to push the disgusting curtain to the side, everything appears to be on the up and up. The trucks passing by on the snowy mountain road are modern, at least.

I glance down at the pen and read the logo stamped on it. White River Cottages. White River, Idaho.

Cottages? That’s a stretch.

I chuckle a little—because this is just how shit goes after the blood lust—and pick up the note.

My dearest Ryet,

I left you a duffle and a truck. If you require anything else, call me.

Talk soon,

Paul

Well, at least it wasn’t personal. I crumple up the note, toss it in the trash, and find the duffel on the other side of the bed. He left me two sets of clothes—jeans, flannel, thermal shirt, socks and those black boxer briefs that he knows I hate.

They really highlight your assets . I can hear his voice saying that in my head.

Like I really need an image of him staring at my dick in this moment.

I put one set of clothes on, then find the truck keys on the windowsill, plus another note, this one more casual than the first. FYI , it says, you work here now. You’re the new caretaker. The woman at the front desk is expecting you at nine AM. She’s kind of a bitch, so don’t be late .

Next to the keys is a phone. And in the phone is one contact number.

His.

As if I don’t know his number.

I don’t want to call. He did all this to make me call, so I really don’t want to call.

But I’m not staying here. And this was a direct order, so… like it or not, I have to call and sort it out.

I press the contact. He picks up on the first ring. “Good morning, sunshine. How did you sleep?”

“What the fuck is this place?”

“I just bought it. It’s a mess, as you can see. Clean it up for me. Get it ready for the summer tourist season. Fishing and whitewater rafting. That’s what this place is about.”

I’m so annoyed. “Why the fuck would I stay here, Paul? I’m looking for your fucking feeder, remember?”

“She’s disappeared. The Guild has shuttled her off somewhere. I can feel the emptiness. There’s nothing we can do but wait for the next mistake. So while we wait, I would like you to get this place up and running. Bookings start Memorial Day weekend. Redo everything. And I do mean everything .”

Then he hangs up on me.

I throw the phone across the room and it smacks into the aged brown paneling, leaving a dent.

This is great. Just fucking great. Now I’m stuck in Idaho for who the fuck knows how long. He did this on purpose. I’ve heard of White River. It’s only a couple hours away from the Montana compound. He wants me close.

This isn’t even that unusual. He’s done shit like this before. But it’s when he’s needy. And the way he treated me in Miami, not to mention this letter and phone call, doesn’t conjure up images of neediness.

So what the fuck is he doing now?

The phone buzzes an incoming text across the room. I walk over and pick it up.

It’s eight fifty-five. I’m telling you, she’s a bitch. Do not be late .

I shove the phone into my pocket and grab the keys to the truck—which, now that I look at the keyring, also has another key attached. A key that has ‘A-1’ stamped on it. And when I open the cottage door and look at the outside, it matches.

This shithole room is my new home.

I close the door, lean into the bitter wind, and head towards the office. When I get there, I find a young, blonde woman pacing the disgusting lobby.

“Finally!” She stomps her foot. Actually stomps her fucking foot. Like she’s five years old and doesn’t want to eat her vegetables. “You were expected at seven .”

I close the door behind me to block the weather. “Well, I was told to be here at nine.” I point to an old analog clock hanging on the wall. “And I’m one minute early.”

“Who cares. Here is what I expect and when I expect it.” She hands me a piece of paper with a single-spaced list. Number one is: Remodel my whole apartment. She gives me two weeks to get it done. ‘My apartment’ meaning her apartment, not the shithole room I’m staying in.

She taps the page with a long, purple fingernail. “I need it ready immediately. I’ll be at the hotel on Route 121. But that place is as gross as this one, so two. Weeks .” She snarls this at me, then turns on her heel and heads for the front door.

“I’m sorry.” I block her way with my arm. “Who are you and why are you even here?”

“I’m Isabella . I own this place.”

“No. You don’t. Paul owns this place.”

“Well, he gave it to me.” She tips her chin up and scowls, like she’s daring me to contradict her. “He said it would be mine. And you”—she pokes me in the chest—“are going to fix it up. In two weeks. And the rest of it better be ready by Memorial Day.”

She tries to push past me, but this time I grab her arm. “I’m not gonna ask you again. Who. The fuck. Are you?”

“I’m carrying his baby, OK? That’s who I am.”

I release her arm and she leaves, slamming the door behind her.

So that’s what he’s up to.

He wants another child.

Well, I can’t say I’m surprised. He does this every once in a while. Of course this girl is not pregnant with Paul’s child. She’s carrying a child from one of his slaves.

This rental cottage place is a bribe. She gives Paul a child and plays house with him until the child is old enough to move up to the compound to be groomed for his role in life—which is safeguarding Paul’s supply of new, young blood.

Which will come from the new feeder.

If I can find her, since even Paul is now admitting that her scent has gone cold.

I look around again. But this time, my mind is calculating what needs to be done here.

Fuck that.

I go back to my room, take a good long look at the bathroom, then get in my truck and drive three hours to the nearest real town with a Home Depot. I buy tools, and tile, and everything else I need to change that bathroom into something I can get naked in.

Then I hit up a mattress store.

And when I get back to White River, I start tearing shit apart.