A Taint in the Blood (43 page)

Ellen jerked back involuntarily. It was a woman, naked but for the panties still snagged around one ankle, red lines scored across her back. She fell forward half-out of the door, her eyes wide with agony and disbelief. Her fingers clawed into the concrete, bleeding as well where the nails tore. She shrieked and twisted to clutch at the doorframe as something grabbed her from behind; Theresa stepped forward and used the toe of her polished shoe to pry the hands loose. A savage jerk pulled her back into the room, and the policeman closed the door, standing for a moment blank-eyed with his hand on the latch.

“I will direct the guests when they are ready to come up to the
casa
,
Doña
,” Theresa said with a prim smile. “Enjoy your evening.”

“Thank you, Theresa. You’ve been invaluable.”

The rhythmic pulsing screams of agony and bestial snarling and silvery laughter died away as they walked down the brick pathway between the crackling torches.

“It’s natural,” Monica started mumbling to herself. “We’re mice. It’s natural. That’s what we’re for. It’s
always
been what we’re for.”

No it is fucking well
not
what we are for!
Ellen screamed mentally.
No, no, no!

“Oh, yes it is,” Adrienne said, and put a hand on the small of her back.

“But I will touch you,” she purred. “Oh, yes, I will.”

She stopped, took Ellen’s chin between thumb and forefinger.

“Your mind is like a raw wound right now,” she said. “Shall I feed, and make you feel better?”

“Yes, please,” Ellen said tightly.

“Now there’s a contradiction. Yes-yes on your lips, no-no in part of your mind. But you smell right for feeding, very right indeed.”

An arm went around her bare shoulders under the shawl. Adrienne’s head nuzzled her jaw up, and teeth touched her throat above the jeweled collar.

Ellen whimpered again.
I
want
the bite. But I’m . . . somehow I’m betraying them . . .

“If it’s any consolation, you have no say in this whatsoever,” Adrienne said, the breath warm against her skin. “I’d have bitten you anyway after you were primed like that. Irresistible!”

The sting was slight, but it made her skin ripple all the way to her feet and back. The clamminess left her, and the twisting knot in her stomach. The horror faded; the sights and sounds and smells were still there in the eye of her mind, but now they turned to an immense soft sadness like the memory of a great tragedy long ago. That faded in turn to a feeling like reading melancholy poetry. She sighed and let her head rest against the Shadowspawn’s, putting a hand to the other’s throat. Feeling the burring vibration of the growl, and the pulse of the swallows as they took her blood.

A tear leaked down her face, and she seemed to be fading into a soft and welcoming darkness and yet be feeling clearheaded and more alert at the same time. The night around her turned sharp, with the rustle of wind in the oaks and jacarandas overhead and the
yap-yap
of a fox somewhere.

“Utterly marvelous.” Adrienne laughed as she lifted her mouth from Ellen’s neck.

Then she touched up the teardrop with a finger and put it to her crimson-coated lips.

“The mixture of flavors in your blood right now is indescribable . . . You don’t mind if I touch you,
hein?
”

“No,” Ellen murmured dreamily, releasing her. “But you should bite Monica too. It’s been a while for her, and besides that, she’s feeling bad.”

“Oh, please, Adri, please, please make it better.”

Poor Monica,
Ellen thought; she felt immensely close to the other lucy, as if to the sister she had never had.
She sounds so wretched.

Ellen stood and watched calmly as Adrienne bent her head to the other’s inner arm.

I wonder if I looked that happy,
she thought; the rigid tension of Monica’s face relaxed in the flickering flame-light, seeming to shed ten years as she smiled.

I certainly feel that way right now. I know it won’t last and the memories will give me the screaming horrors, but that’s . . . so far away. The feeding does look so
right
now. It makes you feel so complete, so needed.

She could walk normally again when they went on. At the archway that gave onto the rear terrace and pools, Jose and Peter were waiting for them, in formal dinner jackets and white ties. Jose’s shirt had ruffles, and there was a scarlet cummerbund around his waist, a combination that usually made Anglos look ridiculous but simply gave him a dashing air. He offered Monica his arm, and Peter gave her his.

“I’ll go change now,” Adrienne said, smiling at the four of them. “Paco paid the appropriate penalty and we got him out of the gene pool, but he did throw me off schedule a little. Why don’t you all drift on through to the main entranceway receiving hall, and I’ll join you in a minute.”

“Bad?” Peter asked softly when she’d gone.

The main entrance had a musician’s balcony over the doorway, as well as the curling grand stair. The group there was playing something soft and ancient—Baroque, she thought. Ellen took a flute of champagne from a passing tray and drank; the great marble space was still mostly empty, glowing softly in the light of the chandeliers. Jose and Monica were chatting easily.

“Bad?” she said. “Bad doesn’t begin to describe it. It was so bad my mind couldn’t really take it in, though my bowels certainly believed it. But right now I know how bad without
feeling
it.”

He nodded, and gave her a handkerchief. She touched it to her neck; there was only a small spot of blood, and she knew the feeding cut would be invisible except to a close look.

“
That
does make it feel better,” he agreed, and sipped at his own drink, which looked to have vodka and a twist of lemon peel in it. “Rather like
this
, only much more effectively.”

“It doesn’t actually
make
it better,” Ellen said, closing her eyes for a moment and swaying to the music. “But for the moment, feeling better will do. I wonder if you could dance to this?”

She began to turn, and then she was moving, black and silver and flying gold hair and shawl, skirts filling and flaring.

A
drian Brézé wore the shape of Wilbur Peterson easily. It was close to his own; a little taller, a little more thickly built, eyes yellow in the way most postcorporeals preferred them, hair light brown with bronze highlights. His grip carried the girl along effortlessly, despite her attempts to pull free, though she was young and strong for her size. The screams faded as they walked.

Servants showed them to the suite of rooms; it was set up for a postcorporeal. Only one room had an exterior window, and it could be closed by a light-tight steel shutter and bolted fast; there was a hidden shaft that led to the basements and sub-basements below. For that matter, in night-walker form he could simply go impalpable and drop through the floors—though that was hideously dangerous, unless you were very careful. Dropping into solid earth while impalpable left you with no way to get back
up
.

Adrian shoved the girl through and caught her arm again when the outer door shut. She was under twenty, he judged, but she’d lived someplace where hard labor started early. Despite that she was slender in the waist and long-limbed but full-breasted, rare for a villager. Her skin was the exact color of a latte, and the face framed by loosely curled black hair showed a pleasant mix: mostly Indian, probably a little Iberian and a dash of African as well in bluntly regular features and full lips. Her dark eyes flickered around the elegant entrance-chamber, with its cool white-and-gray marble floors and rugs and spindly antique furniture.

“What is your name?” he asked:
“¿Como se llama?”

“Eusebia Cortines.”

“¿Como le dicen?”
he asked.
How are you called?

He caught her eyes with his and held her at arm’s length, making an effort to give his speech a Mexican cast; he’d traveled there often enough to do that, though he’d first learned Spanish in Europe.

“Cheba,” she said, stammering a little but keeping her chin up.

“
¿Me permite?”
he said, asking permission to use the diminutive.

That ought to reassure her a little. She nodded, and he went on:

“Where are you from? Veracruz?”

“Coetzala,” she said, naming a village in that coastal state he’d passed through once long ago on Brotherhood business. “Then . . . Tlacotalpan.” Which was a city of some size. “Then to
el Norte
. With that bastard son of a whore Paco.”

“Paco is dead, and he died very hard. Waste no regrets. He knew what he was selling you into here, or at least that there was no returning.
¿Habla Inglés?
^”

“
Poquito.
”

Which meant
a little
; then she spoke in limping English:

“I say, yes, no, how much, can work, cook, clean, tend
niños
, kids.”

Back into Spanish: “My mother sold baskets to tourists. I talked with them sometimes, a little, to practice.”

He could sense her roiling fear, and defiance as well; her scent was healthy, clean beneath the dust and dirt of days of travel without an opportunity to wash. And her blood smelled so tempting, so tempting, even with the memory of Ellen’s tormenting flower-fragrance in his nostrils. Meaty and sweet at the same time, like a skewer of honey-glazed chicken.

“You know what I am, Cheba?” he said.

“
Brujo. Vampiro
,” she said

The corner of his mouth quirked up.
She’s brave
, he thought; the emotional balance was plain, even if he couldn’t yet read the surface thoughts that glinted away in a mumble of firing neurons.

“Yes.
Shadowspawn
is the true name. In your language—
Hijos de la noche
.
Los indios
say it better:
Nagualli.
”

“
Nagualli
,” she repeated, in a way that confirmed his suspicion that she’d spent at least her early childhood speaking Nahuatl, the old Aztec language.

“What . . . what is happening to them?” she asked, her voice small. “The people I traveled with.”

“Blood drinking. Torture, rape, death also, for many,” he said; there was no point in sugar-coating it. “Control yourself, and listen to me, and you may live.”

She nodded, waited until his grip on her arm slackened . . . then jerked free, turned and bolted for the door. Adrian sighed, made a movement with his left hand, called up a glyph and
pushed
with his will.

A snap behind his eyes, and a rucked-up piece of Persian carpet slithered. Her foot turned under her and she fell with a jolt of pain that made his lips curl back for an instant. When she tried to scramble to her feet one leg tripped another. After the third time she lay panting, eyes wide. She was sweating with terror, and he could smell it as well as feel it sparkling like red fire through her mind. The effort not to snarl in eagerness shook him.

“You know that there is nobody outside who will not push you right back through that door? That I can keep this up as long as you try to escape? That doing this makes me”—he let the snarl show a little—“
hungry?
”

Gradually she won a degree of mastery, enough to give him a quick nod.

“This is a . . . place of
los brujos
,” he said. “I’m a guest here. You’ve been given to me for . . . food. For blood. That’s why you and your friends were brought here. You are entirely in my power. You understand?”

Another nod.

“I won’t kill or torture or violate you. You must be quiet and obedient and after three days when we all leave . . . they will probably find . . . work for you. Other work than being . . . food. Until then I will protect you from the others. That is all I promise, but what I promise I will do. Get up.”

She did, cautiously after the previous three attempts. “You . . . you want to drink my blood?”

“Yes,” he said. “Some. Not enough to harm you.”

“I will not harm you otherwise. It’s the best offer you’re going to get.”

She was looking skeptical, and at his crotch. He did himself, and smiled wryly: that was a reaction he couldn’t help.

“I’m a man with a penis, not a penis with a man attached. I don’t take unwilling women.”

“The blood, for protection. Quickly!”

She nodded. He reached for her . . . and then she swung a shin up towards his groin in a hard vicious kick combined with an earnest thumb towards his eye. That showed rough-and-tumble experience; he was glad she didn’t have a knife. Adrian ducked under the gouge, grabbed the ankle effortlessly—her mind had telegraphed her intention half a second in advance—and used it to fling her around, staggering as she fought not to fall. Then he had her pinned, his right arm holding both of hers against her body, his left under her jaw.

“Hold . . .
still
,” he snarled, as she bucked and heaved and shrieked and tried to claw, kick and bite at the same time. “Oh,
nom d’un chien noir!
”

The body writhing against his was
far
too stimulating. He clamped her jaw upward and struck. The incisors sliced across taut skin, and the blood boiled into his mouth. She froze with the paralysis of an initial bite; not limp or stiff, simply unresisting as he held her off the ground and drank.