Page 123 of Taste of Blood

“Yeah, I’ve kind of been doing the same. But don’t worry. It’s not my first rodeo.”

“I know. I just…I’ll be glad when this is all over.”

“Me, too. Come on, let’s go back to bed. We both need our sleep.”

I let him lead me to the bedroom, savoring his presence. As he tucks me against his chest, I release a contented sigh.

Please don’t let anything spoil this.

37: Cord

I STARE AT the mirror over the sink, unable to recognize myself, and pull my hair back in a ponytail. After wrapping a rubber band around it, I stand back and assess my appearance. With the exception of the elaborate ink peeking above my collar and on my hands, I’d almost pass for respectable. I even shaved for the occasion.

The tux fits like it was made for me, which I guess is because it was, but it was no small feat to get it.

I close my eyes, reliving the past twenty-four hours.

What should have been a simple trip to the tailor turns into a street fight outside my apartment. I manage to subdue the two men who jumped me and call Dante to have someone collect them for interrogation. After picking up the suit, I go by the warehouse to have a chat with them.

I seem to be spending a lot of time in Dante’s basement these days. The two vamps are at least more forthcoming than the last group I tortured. All it takes is a little creative artistry with my knife to get them to sing.

“We were just given your picture and told to grab you,” the one who’s conscious whimpers.

“Who gave the order?”

When he hesitates, I jam my knife into the flesh below his right eye and grin as he screams.

“I would suggest you answer him,” Zeke says. He decided to sit in on the session because, as he put it, he was bored. I’m not usually a fan of observers, but I don’t argue because I’m really not a hundred percent invested in the interrogation. Frankly, I’m getting sick of it. These guys take all the fun out of torture.

I yank the knife out of his face and wipe it on his shirt. “Let’s try this again. Who gave the order?”

“One of our lieutenants.”

“Name?”

“We don’t have names. Just numbers.”

“Then give me that.”

“W-why? You don’t know him.”

I flash my nastiest grin. “Maybe I want to send him a thank you card.”

Once again he hesitates. I flip the knife over in my hand and saunter around behind the chair where he’s restrained. “No respect, you know?” I tell Zeke.

“It comes from the top,” he agrees.

Without warning I shove the blade down into the back of the captive’s neck. He shrieks and shudders as blood flows out of the wound, dripping on the floor.

“They never learn,” Zeke says.

I lean over, my mouth ghosting his ear. “It doesn’t have to be like this, Donnie. Can I call you Donnie? You look like a Donnie.”

I squeeze his shoulder, eliciting a hiss of pain from him. “C-call me whatever you want.”

“Great. See, I’ve been conducting a study on how much blood you can lose before blood fever kicks in. Let’s see if you can break the previous record.”

I walk around in front of him and plunge the knife into his gut then scissor it up, leaving a wide gash in its wake. The airis immediately flooded with the acrid stench of stomach gas. Donnie, as I call him, continues to whimper softly.