Page 6 of Blood Lovers (American Vampires #1)

Just another wicked, wicked witch.

When I open the feeder’s door , it is completely dark. I have excellent night vision but it is the stench of sickness that hits me first, not the sight of my feeder. I put a hand over my mouth and nose, forcing down a gag, then I flip on the light.

This room contains one bed, one chair, and one table. There is a small stainless-steel toilet in the corner, something you might find in a prison.

The chair is in the center of the room and the feeder is sitting on it. She is naked, head hanging forward, matted-up gray hair covering her face and old, saggy flesh bitten hundreds of times. Blood is weeping from sores left over from older bites and trickling down her arms and legs from newer ones.

It has never been clearer to me that her soul left this body decades ago.

I close the door behind me and force a smile, even though her eyes are closed. “Happy New Year, Rose. I hope the partying didn’t keep you up.”

She doesn’t even moan.

I walk over to her and kneel down, placing my hands on her bony knees. She flinches. “Aw. There you are.” I reach up and push her matted hair aside so I can see her wrinkled face. “There, there. It’s almost over now. Was Lucia mean to you? I will punish her for that. You know I don’t like it.” I caress her cheek with the back of my hand. “You are so important, Rose. You should be respected, shouldn’t you?”

Her eyes open, momentarily brighten, then go sharp. I smile at this reaction. She wants to spit on me, I can tell. But she hasn’t the strength to do it.

“And there’s that spunk I’ve always loved.”

“Fuck,” comes out as a whisper. “You,” is barely a breath.

“No, Rose. You can beg for it all day long, but you’re just not my type. I like the pretty ones. Remember when you were pretty?” I pet her. “It was long time ago now. But even back then, you were not pretty enough for me.”

She’s too weak to respond or object to my characterization of her. No. She was never my favorite. Just the one I had on hand. But I have always liked her. Especially when she was small and her blood was so sweet. She was a lovely child with a big, happy personality. She would run around the estate I was living in at that time, giggling and laughing. She didn’t even mind when I bled her.

But I was younger then, too. And more careful, maybe.

They always change when they come here. It’s Lucia. She’s not at all careful with the feeders. She never has been. She doesn’t love them the way I do. She doesn’t respect them. And why should she? She’s not the one who provides them. She is not invested in them the way I am.

If I cared about Lucia, I would teach her some respect for her food. But I don’t care for her. I put up with her personality because all those unattractive attributes make her messy. Sloppy.

And eventually, sloppy gets you killed.

Even her. She does not have enough young, Black blood running through her veins to last through too many more mistakes. Why interfere when she is the one in charge of her own demise?

I redirect my attention back to Rose. These thoughts of Lucia are secondary. Right now, I need to focus on the woman in front of me.

I caress her hair, smoothing it away from her eyes. And then I just feel… sad.

Rose as well, apparently. Because her cheeks are all wet. Little teardrops filling the deep lines on her aging face.

She cannot die without me. This is why I don’t really mind leaving Lucia in charge of the feeders as I pass time underground in my natural state. Lucia could drink her dry and still this woman would not expire. She would run out of blood, and Lucia would get little, if any, satisfaction from draining her like that. But there is so much evil inside Rose now, she’s not even human. Hasn’t been. Not for decades.

No. In order for this feedbag in front of me to die, she needs me to bite her, take every last drop, then give it back and take it again. Then give it back and take it again. And give it back and take it again.

It’s a long digestion process that comes with its own set of perils.

But it is time.

I untie the rope securing her to the chair, lift her up, carry her over to the soiled bed and sit down, cradling her frail body in my arms. I position her so that her head is on my shoulder and her neck is within easy reach of my mouth.

I might be here all night killing her, but it must be done.

And anyway, the recycled blood will cause a dreamwalk into the past. I like to revisit the past as I push them out of this world. I like to put images in their heads of happier times to make their descent into eternal Hell just that much more tolerable.

When they were small, and cheerful, and had so much blood to give, they could never imagine objecting to me taking bags of it for storage each morning and putting them to bed with my mouth on their necks, sipping on them until they slept each night.

They liked it.

And so did I.

“Let’s reminisce, shall we, Rose?”

She doesn’t respond. But that’s OK. It’s not like she has a choice in the matter. None of this was her choice. She is what she is.

A wicked, wicked witch.

If I had not taken her as food, she would’ve run amuck around the world causing God knows how many problems. And God does know. That’s why He made me. I am the check to their balance.

These Black witches could beg for forgiveness all day and night—for centuries on end—and God would never allow them into His eternal kingdom.

She is far more evil than I, so I feel no remorse for using her for blood the way a man might use a cow for milk. God does not want this creature. She is not one of His.

She is one of mine. And all of mine will go to Hell.

“Remember the house you were raised in, Rose? Wasn’t it lovely?” I begin her death by taking her back. “I remember every detail, myself. San Francisco has never been a preferred location, but it was much nicer back then, wasn’t it? Perhaps I should’ve taken you home to die. Wouldn’t that have been a pleasant way to go? Of course, it would be a huge inconvenience for me. And even though I do like you—loved you, at one point—in this state you’re just not worth that much trouble.”

She begins to cry in my arms.

“Right. Let’s continue, shall we? It’s time for me to take the long drink.” I don’t wait for her answer, just dip my mouth down to her neck and sink my teeth into her saggy, disgusting flesh.

I should kill them when they are young. At least the blood would be sweet.

But they are so dear. So few.

I begin to imagine a world where there are so many feeders, I could afford to kill them while they are still fresh so I would never have to taste their sour, old, stale blood again.

It’s selfish of me, this daydream. I should concentrate on Rose.

I pull back, the last drop of blood from her now in my mouth. I swallow it, grimacing, forcing myself to keep it down. Then I bite my wrist and hold it up to her mouth.

“Drink me, Rose. You’ll feel so much better. Just drink now. It’s finally your turn.”

At first, she tries to move her mouth away from my wrist. But she is feeble and weak, so I just force the blood inside her. It only takes a few moments for her to begin suckling on her own. Small draws at first. Then longer, deeper ones.

It’s a little bit erotic, even if she is disgusting and rancid.

This goes on for several minutes, then I push her back into position, take my mouth down to her neck, and we do it all over again.

Only this time, I get the purple haze. I get lost in my own past. A past that came after Rose, actually. Two decades, to be exact.

And this past, and the promise of a future, is what keeps me spry these days.

Ryet .

He is the one I imagine in my arms right now. His beautiful, glorious face. His hard, muscular body. And those eyes of his.

They have never looked at me with fondness. But one day they will.

And I can wait for that. As long as it takes.

I drink Rose’s last drop of blood for the second time, then bite my already healed wrist, put it up to her mouth, and she suckles me like a babe on a tit.

Her face is smoother now, some of the wrinkles fading, her eyes just a tiny bit brighter as she gazes up at me, lips busily moving as she draws in my blood.

I smile at her. And we do this over and over again. She changes back to the young woman I remember so well. So pretty. Not the fairest, certainly not, but she’s at least an eight.

“You are pretty, aren’t you? Of course you are. I would have it no other way. Why not, right? Why not surround myself with beauty, Rose? The ugly is waiting for me, just like it is you. And everything ends. Even me. One day. A long, long time from now. One day I will be stuck in the ugly, so I will be beautiful now. I will covet it. And hold it. And keep it.”

I say things like this as we repeat the drinking and sucking.

She ages down to the little girl with the cheerful face.

Of course, this is all an illusion. She feels it though. She feels herself ageing backwards. And I see it because I want to see it. And what I want is really the only thing that matters here.

This blood-mixing is a powerful drug. It’s better than heroin. Better than that new synthetic Chinese crap, too. It’s all-natural. Organic.

I almost guffaw at that thought.

The recycled blood puts us both in a dream state. It makes us drunk. Makes us love each other. Makes her forgive me for all the things I have done to her over the decades.

“It’s just my nature, Rose.” I swipe the hair away from her face and she sighs and smiles at me. Like the little girl I used to bleed in the kitchen in San Francisco.

This next time she pulls her mouth away from my wrist, shaking her head.

“What’s wrong, dear? Don’t stop now, we’re nearly there.”

“You.” Her word comes out as a croak, betraying my illusion for a moment, but I concentrate harder and force her to be my tasty little girl.

“Yes, my sweet, sweet girl. I’m here.”

“You… bastard .” Her voice is light and chirpy now. A child’s voice because I prefer her that way. “You will rot in Hell for what you’ve done to me.”

I smile lovingly down at her. “Of course I will, darling. I am a creature of that place. Just like you. I’ll see you there one day—after I have my conversation with God, of course. We can meet up in some bubbling brimstone pit and have a drink as we chat about the good old days.”

“No!” She’s crying again. “No. You are beyond evil. And I might be a witch…” Her whole body has strength now. But it is just my strength. The power is from me, a gift to her so she can have her final say.

I am so generous to them, but they never appreciate it.

“… I might even be an evil witch. But you have forgotten what I can do, little man.”

And then she is inside my head.

Like a dreamwalker.

Like a thief in the night, stealing my thoughts.

Like a wicked, wicked witch.

We are in a forest filled with purple haze. She is young, but not the blonde and beautiful young woman I remember. She is tall, and dark-haired, and naked.

This is not the body I remember, either. She is full, and round, and pregnant.

“Look at me, demon!” She is hissing at me. “See this face?”

It’s not her face. It is her voice, though. I would recognize it anywhere. Should I be able to hear her in the purple of a dreamwalk? Certainly not. But yet I can.

“Memorize this face, devil. Because she is the one you’ve been waiting for. And she is going to kill you.”

And then she thrusts her arms out, sending power my way. Enough power to knock me sideways.

I trip, stumbling, falling. The back of my head crashes into a rock, causing the dream to fade to black…