Lanny didn’t pay much attention to where they walked, simply juggling his own impulses and allowing Nikita to lead, so he was surprised when they turned down into a narrow alley which turned the corner into another. The smell hit him like a physical shove: blood. And lots of it.
Before, he might have said that blood had a faint tang to it, especially at those crime scenes where it had clotted and dried and begun to stink like death. But now it hung on the air like his mother’s marinara sauce. Copper and salt and meat and life, rich and fresh. It smelled cold – and he marveled that he could tell such a thing.
“Here,” Nikita said, catching him by the arm and pulling him to a halt in front of a door with peeling yellow paint and a rusty metal sign over the door that read Chop-Chop. The sign, Lanny noted, was shaped like a pig.
Nikita pressed the bell, and knocked three times, and a moment later the door opened to reveal a gigantic man in a flannel shirt and a white apron, sporting a massive ginger beard.
“Oh, hey,” the guy said, grinning, wiping his hands down his apron and leaving greasy streaks behind. His sleeves were rolled up to reveal intricate sequences of tattoos on both arms; Lanny spotted rings and spacers in his ears. Not a lumberjack, then, but a hipster.
His hackles immediately lowered.
“Hello, David,” Nikita said in a voice that was probably supposed to be pleasant. “We’d like to buy two quarts, please.”
Lanny stared at him.
The man, David, nodded, grin widening, like Nikita’s request made perfect sense. “Aw yeah, man, perfect timing, the truck just came by this morning. Hold on and I’ll grab it. You need a bag?”
“Please.”
“Be right back.”
The door shut and he disappeared.
“What the fuck?” Lanny asked.
Nikita pointed at the sign over the door. “This is one of those old-fashioned butcher shops. Farm-to-table like the kids like these days, you know? Lots of specialty cuts.”
“Yeah,” Lanny drawled. “And we’re gonna get some nice steaks or something?”
Nikita shot him a look like he was stupid – he was getting damn sick of that look. “David makes his own blood sausage.”
Oh.
Oh.
“So he sells you blood?”
“When I need it. Fresh from the farm.” Nikita made a face that was almost a smile.
“But I thought you and Sasha…” Lanny motioned to his own throat.
Nikita’s expression closed off completely and he faced forward again. “I spare Sasha as much as I can.”
“Hmm. You guys are real close, huh?”
No response, save the quick glint of Nikita’s gaze; he didn’t turn his head.
Just to be a shit, Lanny said, “Is it a best friend kinda situation, or is it more like–”
“Finish the sentence and I will introduce your face to the pavement,” he said, tonelessly.
Lanny snorted. “Uh-huh. Real tough guy you are.”
The door opened again, sparing Lanny another monotone Russian rebuttal, and David filled the threshold, still smiling, straining plastic shopping bag in his hands.
“Is that all?” he asked. “Can I interest you guys in this fantastic bit of skirt steak?”
“Just the blood, please,” Nikita said, pulling bills out of his wallet.
“Alrighty. Well, be sure to let me know if you need more; I can place a larger order next time.”
“Thank you, David.”
“Thanks a bunch!” He tucked the money into his pocket and shut the door on them with a resounding thump.
“Who the hell says ‘alrighty’?” Lanny muttered.
Nikita knotted the handles of the bag together and set off back the way they’d come. “The man who’s going to help keep your cravings under control.”
God, this guy was dull as shit. “Does he know that you’re a - you know,” Lanny said, floundering lamely for the word. He actually hated the word vampire. It made him feel like a teenage girl.
“His girlfriend’s a vampire,” Nikita said, “so yes, he knows.”
“His girlfriend?” Lanny felt his brows shoot up. “Are you serious?”
“She’s one of the responsible ones. And David provides her, and those who want it, with blood. It keeps everyone safe that way.”
“Damn,” Lanny said, feeling a little dazed. Then another thought struck. “Hey, if there are others like you, why don’t you hang out with them? Aren’t you lonely?”
Nikita shot him a quick, hard sideways look. “I don’t need company.”
“’Cept for Sasha, huh?”
Nikita’s mouth set into a hard, grim line. “We’ll take this back to your apartment. Being hungry is making you extra stupid.”
“I’m not hungry,” Lanny said, frowning.
But he was. He was starving. And the refrigerated pig’s blood in the bag Nikita carried called to him in a way that alcohol never had.
“You’re right,” Nikita said as they emerged on the sidewalk again. “You’re not. You’re thirsty.”
*
Jamie was beginning to think that leaving the apartment had been a bad idea.
At first, the novelty of seeing and hearing and, God, tasting everything around him had been the stuff of his wildest imaginings. It was better than Disneyland, being healthy and feeling good as he walked down the street, head held up, lungs working correctly, gaze drinking in everything about a city that was usually just white noise and blurry lights.
But then he’d stepped into his favorite indie coffeeshop and things had begun to go downhill from there.
The exposed brick walls and dark-stained hardwood floors that he’d always found so charming did nothing to muffle the din of voices, clacking laptop keys, and hissing machinery. He heard all of it as a wall of sound, and then the individual notes as well in a layered sensation unlike anything he’d ever experienced. He started to clap his hands over his ears, and then realized that would make him look weird at best, insane at worst. So he crammed his hands in his jeans pockets and tried not to grind his teeth.
And then there were the smells. Coffee, of course, sharper and more potent than was normal, but then the competing perfumes of all sorts of humans. And some salty undertone that made him salivate.
Blood, something ancient and unknowable whispered in the back of his mind. That smell is blood.
As the line inched forward, his nerves wound tighter and tighter, a thread pulling tight. It wouldn’t take much to snap it.
His stomach growled, loud enough for the guy in front of him to hear it and turn around with a frowning glance. Jamie clapped his hand over his belly and gave an apologetic smile. He wished now that he’d choked down one of Lanny’s protein shakes, because he was starving suddenly, lightheaded and frantic. He’d order two sandwiches, he decided, even though he’d never eaten more than half of one at a time. Whatever he couldn’t finish he would carry back with him – and he would go back, that he knew. Being out in public was too much. He definitely should have called Lanny or Trina this morning. Or Sasha – could have used the blond werewolf’s soothing demeanor right about now.
That’s how hungry he was: he could think the word werewolf without batting an eye.
He finally reached the counter and, voice trembling, ordered two bacon-egg-and-cheese sandwiches and a tall cappuccino. When he stepped to the side to wait, he had to hold himself up against the counter, hands, and then arms shaking. He didn’t know if it was hunger, nerves, some new vampire ailment, or a combination of all three. God knew. He was so far out of his depth.
When the barista passed over his travel cup and greasy bag of sandwiches, he thanked her frantically, spun around, and ran right into the person waiting behind him.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” he started, juggling his things. And then he saw who it was.
His roommate, Jessica.
She wasn’t wearing her usual makeup, her eyes red and puffy from crying, ringed in dark circles of exhaustion. Her usually sleek hair tried to slip loose from her sloppy ponytail and she wore the stretched-out sweatshirt she usually saved for laundry day or movies on the couch. She was grieving him; or was at least shaken to have had death get so close to her.
They stared blankly at one another a long moment, and then she really saw him.
She dropped her sunglasses and they hit the floor with a clatter. Her mouth opened, and a tiny, strangled sound moved from the depths of her throat.
Oh no.
“J-j-jaime?” she stuttered. “Oh my God, but you’re–”