Page 3 of Cryptic Dreams

Ugh.

“Lick it up.”

I stop trying to wipe blood off my hand as a second black running shoe comes into view. My shoulders bunch up to my ears, my immediate reaction to roll into a tiny ball and disappear over the barked command. I can’t, though, because only males have the ability to dematerialize, which means I’m either going to have to do what this asshole expects, or I’m going to be miraculously saved last minute by some heroic knight in shining armor before I start licking cement.

I’m not that lucky.

And clearly I need to stop checking out the romance novels while I’m at work because they’ve started giving me crazy ideas.

“Lick. It. Up,” black Nikes growls as his accomplice snickers.

If my shoulders go any higher, my face would disappear into my blouse. And while it would save me from having myself be totally humiliated, it won’t actually stop it from happening. These two clearly aren’t going to let this go, and since I could be severely punished for lashing out—not that I would because I’m terrified—I need to do something to placate them.

So, with a hard swallow of what little pride I have left, I lift my hand to my lips and tentatively use my tongue to clean the blood from my throbbing fingers.

Male.

Late forties.

Mediterranean.

Very healthy.

I can taste the vitamins and supplements the donor must take on a very regimented schedule because his blood is very clean, very fresh, and in any other situation I’d be thrilled to have such a pure snack. One that would no doubt give my dwindling energy a little boost. But right now? Right now it makes my stomach sour.

Probably doesn’t help that I can also taste the saliva of a young twenties female, dirt, and stale cigarettes thanks to the half smoked Marlboro my snack exploded on top of.

Gotta love the variety in New Orleans.

I wipe my hand on my skirt, the thing a lost cause at this point, but when I go to reach for my sketch pad and pencils, the black Nike stomps down on top of them too before he barks his next orders.

“Off the pavement, leech. I want you to lick every drop of your stolen blood off the pavement.”

Another flinch, and more shrinking.

It’s moments like this that make me wonder what it would have been like if vampires had never been discovered. What would have happened if my kind had never been exposed and forced to normalize, to mix with the general population and conform to the rules the human government—along with the Great Counsel—created for us.

Would I refuse?

Fight back?

Make this asshole lick the blood off the sidewalk himself before I added him to the mix?

Would I use one of the manytalentsmy kind supposedly have and make this jerk sorry for talking to me this way? Make him regret stopping at all?

Probably not.

I’m not like the few others I know, the very few vampires who talk to me despite my vast differences from the race I’m supposed to be a part of. Chances are high I’d still be in this exact same position. I’d still be leaning slowly toward the cracked and dirty pavement in order to lick up spilled blood and avoid a beating, or any number of other horrible things I’ve learned humans are capable of.

Spineless.

Weak.

Disgraceful little bitch.

Hiswords come racing to the forefront of my mind, and just when my face is so close to the ground I can see shards of glass littered throughout the blood spatter, a voice stops me.

“Curfew!” he shouts. “All vampires need to return home before sun up or else they’ll be fined by the city under the Safe Harbor Act! Anyone preventing them from doing so will also be fined for destruction of property once she fries, as well as the cost for cleaning the charred remains from public property!”