Blood To Blood Read online

  “It is a possibility,” Mom replied, as if we were discussing the weather. “But we have worked out the damage-control process and we can whisk you away before any harm is done.” She held out her hands.

  “It's next to a gas station, Mom,” Cici said, before we whizzed through the ether to stand beside the dumpster away from the pumps. Dad “unplugged” his invisibility spell, and we casually walked around to the front of the building before heading into the restaurant.

  The place was packed. We were told there’d be a fifteen-minute wait. Puzzled, we looked at each other, before it dawned on us. “Oh my goodness,” Cici whispered. “It's Thanksgiving.” With all the drama over the past few days, we’d totally forgotten. Mom’s head was bowed as we were led to our table. I took her hand.

  “Mom, you've done an awesome job at making it all 'normal' for me, for us,” I said. “Please don't be sad. It's not like you didn't have other things on your mind.”

  Dad pulled out Mom’s chair, gesturing to the waitress. “Believe me,” he said,” I’ll be eating every bit of that turkey you have in the freezer. Now that this one isn't eating anymore, it's just more for me!”

  We all laughed and I could tell Mom felt a little better.

  “What can I get you to drink?” asked the waitress. I stifled a giggle as I imagined answering truthfully. We all ordered some kind of soda. Dad ordered a large amount of food—turkey, stuffing, cranberry sauce, the works. The waitress was shocked to find out it was all for him.

  I spied the vein bulging on the right side of her neck. She had an interesting, spicy smell that had nothing to do with the body butter she'd slathered on her skin. I inhaled appreciatively before catching Mom's warning look. Good thing I'd drained two bears instead of one, I thought, as Cici pushed calm on me and Dad chanted a soothing spell under his breath.

  The rest of us put in orders for food we had no intention of eating. The smiling waitress sauntered away, unaware of how close she’d been to death.

  12. THE NEST

  I woke up the next morning wanting to devour everything. The desire to drink mortal blood was so strong; I thought I'd lose my mind. “How am I supposed to function in the mortal world like this?” I complained to Mom. “I don’t even feel sane.”

  “You are not sane, dear, you are a newborn. And that means your need for blood can out-shadow all reason if you do not feed constantly.”

  Her forefinger smoothed the tired frown on my forehead. All through the night I’d heard the constant dirge of various sounds and wondered how one could rest with all this never-ending noise. I told her all about it after I’d downed breakfast.

  “Do not worry,” she said. “Sleep is a habit you will be free of within five hundred years. After that, you can stay awake for decades if you want to. Then, the only sleep Shimshana require is the Great Sleep that comes upon us every seven hundred years or so. Now get dressed, dear. You and I are going to spend some quality mom-and-daughter time.”

  Within seconds, I was buckling the huge silver belt on my jeans. Before I could say, “who's for brunch,” she touched me and we ended up in a massive, posh lounge. I looked around at all the mortals and immortals going about their lives as we walked through. “What’s this place?” I asked.

  “This is The Nest,” Mom answered while pointing to a neon sign that read—surprise—THE NEST. “It is a restaurant/lounge that is part of the Nutrition & Wellness Network.”

  People were involved in all kinds of activities: talking, watching TV, playing video games, etc. But what caught my eye the most was the sight of people feeding directly from willing mortals. I'd only seen people like us drink from containers. There was one particular couple, a fanged she-vamp and a guy donor. He moaned real low as she drank from his neck, her long red hair tossed casually over one of his shoulders. She gulped him down as their heartbeats pounded together like two racehorses heading toward a finish line.

  “In part,” Mom continued, “The Nest serves as an urban alternative to hunting. Now, sweetheart, do not misunderstand me. There is nothing wrong with hunting. It is who we are. But we are also so many other things. Civil. Humane. Courteous. In a nutshell, this is a place where you can feed in a way that honors humanity.”

  She followed my gaze as I continued to stare at the couple. He was still moaning. “It is rude to stare, honey,” she said turning my head to look at her. “No matter what type of blood drinker you are, there is a very pleasurable aspect to feeding directly from the source. For Shimshana, it is even more so. If you take the feelings of connection you experience while drinking a donor from a glass or thermos and multiply that by one hundred, you still could not gauge the level of pleasure you receive.”

  I could feel my eyes pop out of my head. Eventually, we came to a stop. “This is our family's booth,” Mom said. We were at a plush red couch in a private candlelit area. There was a low, round wooden table painted black, with elaborate flower designs. Thick burgundy draperies covered the wall behind us. Classical music emitted from speakers on an iPod dock. We sat down.

  “Sweetheart, we need to talk about sex.”

  I nearly choked on the air. “Mom!”

  “Yes, I know we talked about mortal boys years ago, but now that you are an adult there are a few more pieces of the puzzle you need. Angel, newborn appetites are the strongest and since you will be hungry for at least a year, the best thing we can do is provide you with your own donors.”

  Donors? More than one person to drink in? Gulp. This was better than Christmas.

  “But with donors comes responsibility. The pleasure you will get when feeding this way can feel very sexual. For both of you. Your donors will be yours and yours only, simply because it will take all they have to cater to you. You will feel strongly connected to them, and them to you. But having sex with them will be irresponsible on your part.”

  “I know, Mom.” I rolled my eyes. “Because I'm saving myself for that special guy.”

  “Yes, but that is not all. Our donors benefit physically from the relationship. It lengthens their life spans and takes away many of their common ailments. They also heal a little more quickly than non-donor mortals.

  “But the other side of the coin is this: donors are vulnerable to us in almost every way. Physically, mentally, emotionally. If we do not encourage them to have lives outside of us, our donors will choose to exist for us alone, and waste their lives living from feeding to feeding. It is our moral responsibility to take care of them on all levels.” She took my hand in hers. “Besides, you will know when the right guy comes to you. All of those special feelings you have will be for him alone. Because when we love, we love fiercely, and with our entirety. And he will be strong enough to handle you. I knew that when I met your father.”

  “Ewww! Can I eat now?”

  She inclined her head slightly. Almost instantly, someone was at our table.

  “At your service, Elder,” he said, bowing deeply.

  Mom gestured to me. “My youngest. She needs two. This will be her first time.”

  “I have the perfect matches. The first will be a young man. It will be his first time as well.” Mom nodded her approval as the “waiter” discreetly vanished behind an elaborate partition.

  I sat on the edge of the couch, back ramrod straight, hypnotized by the sounds of feeding. I wiped away beads of blood sweat from my forehead. Mom offered me a tissue from a nearby box. “You will not drain your donors, Angel. To do so will kill them.” Her words snapped me out of my trance.

  “We prefer to keep our mortals alive,” she continued. “We leave them with a certain amount of blood so they will remain healthy. If you take the right amount, they will feel slightly weaker, but will be fine once they replenish their energy in the Rejuvenation Center. You are not allowed to take beyond that amount.”

  She pointed to a bell. I'd noticed earlier that every table had one. The bell was attached to some device that resembled a timer. “Once this bell rings, you must stop,” Mom continued. “Tha
t's the rule.”

  I wondered who or what enforced that rule, and what the consequences for disobedience were.

  “How do people become donors?”

  “They are almost all referrals. Once their application is approved, they go through a background check, screening process, and physical, emotional, and psychological evaluations. The best ones are chosen and waitlisted. Then they go through training. They are compelled to never reveal to any other mortals any information about this place or their role as donors. Once bitten, it is physically impossible for them to give anything away.”

  “Wouldn't you and Dad be more...ummm…comfortable...if my first donor was a girl?” I looked back at the couple who were now stroking each other, and entwined on the couch.

  “It makes no difference, Angel. You are an adult now. Would you like your first to be a girl instead?” Her face was expressionless in a way that only a two-thousand-year-old mom face could be.

  I thought about it for two seconds. “No, Mom. I want a guy.”

  The waiter returned, followed by a tall, muscular guy. He was a little over six feet, and despite the muscles, he had a lean build. Black hair and kind, almost black, eyes collided with brilliant white teeth. He looked a little nervous, but his smile was dazzling.

  “This is Justin,” the waiter said. “Let me know if there is anything else you require.”

  Justin sat down and we faced each other expectantly.

  “Since this is your first time, they make it a little more instructional than usual,” Mom said. She smiled at Justin, and gently tilted his head to the side to show me a diagram drawn on his neck. “Don't worry kids, the marker is non-toxic. You'll place your teeth exactly how this illustrates. There's also an instructional brochure in the small side cabinet there. You'll have to figure out the rest on your own.” She stood and picked up her purse. “You have all the time in the world.” She left us alone.

  Justin and I continued to stare at each other long after Mom left. I strained to block out the sounds of mealtime from all around The Nest so I could focus on him, but it seemed to be a losing battle.

  “So, you're Angel.”

  “Yep.”

  I didn’t want to make small talk; I wanted to chow down. But how rude would it be to just pounce on him like...a piece of meat? My nails sliced into the palms of my hands as I struggled to control myself. “Are you nervous?” I asked him.

  “Yep.”

  A couple tattoos peeked through the sheer material of his white silk shirt. My stomach contracted in anticipation. He watched me with a friendly yet guarded stare. Smart, since I was the hunter and he was the prey. He wasn't fooled into thinking otherwise by the Nest’s elaborately civilized decor.

  “I'm nervous, too,” I said. “You're my first.”

  “I've done the training. I know what the deal is.” He looked into my eyes, as if to remind me he was not a piece of meat. “But I couldn't have been prepared for a prettier mistress.”

  Mistress? A mental image of Elvira Mistress of the Dark popped into my head. It made me even hungrier and I moved toward him until we were close enough to touch. “Let's get started.”

  “Yes, mistress.”

  “Enough with the mistress stuff, for crying out loud. Please... Just call me Angel.”

  “Yes...Angel.” He tilted his head to the side to fully expose the diagram.

  My teeth rested on the delicate skin. Inhale. Mmmm… I couldn't remember anything from mortal life that smelled so good. After a second I gave up trying to think. My impulse was to just be, and allow the wonderful aromas to flood my senses. He waited with his thumb hovering over the start button on the timer.

  Deep inside of me, my shimshana started to extend and unfurl. Just as Mom said, the feeling I experienced, now that I was with a person, was sensual… and also amazing, and tingle-y. Yum.

  I bit down carefully as the instructions indicated, holding the mound between my teeth gently, making sure not to break his skin as my shimshana probed and penetrated him. He tensed up slightly before relaxing with a sigh, and I wasted no more time. My intestines contracted and sucked him in stronger with each pull. The taste and the warmth was something I couldn't have been prepared for. I soon felt as if I'd known him for years. There was no sense of time, and I was surprised when the bell rang. With great difficulty, I pulled myself out of his muscled embrace as my shimshana retracted.

  Justin sighed as he sprawled all over the couch and I sprawled all over him. I rested my head on his chest and could feel his heart pounding a mile a minute. I enjoyed the feeling of us together; it almost felt as if we shared one body.

  “Was it good for you.” His tone was joking but his face was serious.

  “Better,” I answered.

  And then I was hungry again. After a long hug and exchange of email addresses, Justin was led away to the Rejuvenation Center.

  “Number two now,” was all I said to the hovering waiter.

  13. GETTING THE KINKS OUT

  After The Nest, I was as content as a fat cat next to an empty milk bowl. Mom plopped me back in my bedroom before we heard a knock on the downstairs door. Inhaling, I recognized the scent right away. It was Mr. C., ready to help me get a grip on my now-lethal pipes. Cici ushered him in, and, yet again, I was down the stairs before I even knew I was moving. His face registered a few seconds of shock when he saw what probably looked like me popping out of thin air. Mom had told me I was pretty fast. I felt bad for making him feel uncomfortable.

  “Hi, Mr. C.”

  He quickly recovered his face and eyed me for a drawn-out moment, taking in my appearance and whatever else he managed to see with those enigmatic eyes. “Angel. You've been busy.”

  I grinned. Mom came in. “Mr. Caulkins.”

  “Mrs. Brown. Please, call me Sheridan.”

  “Only if you call me Cleo.”

  He kissed her hand a little too gallantly. “It would be an honor,” he said. There was an air of understanding between them now, thick with unspoken words.

  I found myself in the kitchen pouring coffee for him and blood for me. Seriously, I was going to have to find a way to slow down if I was going to look normal in the mortal world. The house came alive with the strains of Tchaikovsky as Mr. C. played on the grand piano in the living room. Tchaikovsky was always one of my favorites, but with my new immortal hearing, it seemed like I'd never heard the music before. Varying shades of green and purples with hints of blue danced before my eyes.

  It was so beautiful, I grew confused. I fought the urge to go immediately to the living room to be closer to the music. My hands were frozen in the motion of pouring blood, and a puddle formed on the floor as I stood there in indecision. Falling onto my knees, I licked up every drop, knowing this unladylike display would be so uncool with Mom. Sure enough, as if on cue, she walked in.

  She took one look at me with my tongue on the floor, one look at the puddle, and pivoted out of the kitchen muttering something about “God give me strength.” I continued my cleanup duties without missing a beat. Cici roared with laughter upstairs.

  When the floor was all sparkly clean again, I wiped my mouth with a napkin so as not to give poor Mr. C. another scare. I couldn't imagine what would go through his mind if he saw blood dribbling down my chin.

  “So Angel,” Mr. C. said as I placed his coffee mug and a ceramic coaster down on the grand. “It would seem as we have some serious work to do, my dear.”

  From my immortal point of view, the only thing different about him was his smell. It was more intense. The tang of his blood and skin mixed with the less organic odors of cologne and cigarette smoke to create a bouquet of age, decay, and resilience. It was an aroma that spoke of many ups and downs, but not enough to really make a dent in the world. It was the fragrance of mortality, and it drew me in like honey attracts flies.

  I stayed as far away from him as I could while sipping out of my thermos. He didn't ask me what I drank. In fact, he didn't ask me anything pertaining to me on
a personal level. Didn’t he sense that I wasn’t the same? He was the first non-donor mortal to have any contact with me since I woke up.

  “Mr. C. Do I seem different to you?” I'd never been so bold with him.

  “Angel, you look the same.” His fingers absently tinkled notes on the grand. “But it's clear to me you're not. And I would dare say anyone who loves you and knows you would see that as plain as day. You just need to decide how much you want people to see. Your parents have been very clear with me. Quite honestly, I still enjoy this life too much to want to know more about exactly how different you are. That being said, let’s start in the key of C. You will stop singing the very second I say stop. Understand?” I nodded.

  He began to play and I started to tremble. I opened my mouth to sing, but no sound came out. I recalled Heist crumpled on the studio floor, had a flashback of the giant grizzly in the cave, and relived the agony of seeing Mr. C. himself crumple over the keys. I began to cry. “Can't,” I whined.

  “You can, and you will,” he retorted. He looked at me kindly, but stayed firmly planted at the keyboard. No grandfatherly hug. He now stayed away from me the same way I stayed away from him. He knew I was dangerous. The tragic reality of this insight made me cry even more. I stopped when I saw the look of utter shock on Mr. C's face. It was as white as a sheet. He was looking at my tears. My bloody tears. I bawled even louder.

  “I'll never be the same,” I wailed. “Nothing will ever be the same. How can I sing?”

  He calmly unfolded his handkerchief and handed it to me, at extreme arm's length, from where he sat. I gingerly took the proffered white cloth and wiped my eyes. He blinked several times in disbelief as he looked at the bright red smears on the fabric. I watched him gather himself and his thoughts for a while until he said, “I will teach you, my dear. We will start at the beginning and work our way through. I will make sure you perform at the Garden without hurting the smallest fly on the wall.”