Eveillez: Deny Your Blood Lust (12 page)

"In South Africa?"

"The arrangements will be easy to make. Once I am free."

"So you are going to escape."

"There is not enough evidence to convict me. And even if there were, once I am stronger, these chains will not be able to hold me." For emphasis Lohr tugged against the handcuffs and then smiled. "Can I count on you and your delectable blood? You are what I need to stay strong. The rest—money, lodging, women … men—I can take care of. Better than you could ever imagine."

"My imagination's pretty good."

"What I am proposing will be better," Lohr repeated.

"Like what?"

"The closest to immortality your human body will allow."

Hail liked the idea of that, even if it seemed impossible. "How?"

"You know so little about Sangs. Tell me, how old do you think Armand is?"

"Thirty?"

"He's thirty-seven. What about Slade?"

"Twenty-six."

"Thirty-three. And Angel?"

He was obviously going to be wrong. "Twenty-five."

"Thirty-one. And why do you think they look so young?"

"They're all Sangs?"

"More importantly, they're active Sangs. It's the intake of Prana helping them maintain their youth. But they are doing it wrong. I've learned the secret."

"Really?"

"Do you know how old I am, Hail?"

There were wild rumors about Lohr's age, the craziest being one hundred and fifty. "I have no idea." He looked mid-thirties, but Hail knew Lohr was going to tell him differently.

"I was born in 1880."

Hail felt his eyes widen. So the rumors weren't so crazy after all. "How?" he breathed.

"Can I count on you to help me? To be my Donor?"

Sneaking into the hospital to feed him was one thing. Plotting an escape was another. If he said yes, there was no going back.

Going back to what? Being Angel's
yes-boy
?

"You can."

There was still blood staining Lohr's teeth when he grinned. "Good. When we get to Africa, I will show you everything."

Chapter Fourteen

By the time Kevin made it to his St. Claude duplex, a quarter of the whiskey fifth he'd picked up on the way home was gone. Stumbling through the front door, he took a long swig before unholstering his gun and setting it on the coffee table with a thunk and flopping onto the couch, ignoring the caramel liquid that sloshed onto his pants. He took a long draw from the bottle and then fell back against the couch, clutching Mr. Daniels to his chest.

Angel. What the fuck?

He had no clue how to feel about the evening.

He didn't want to think about it.

Taking another drink from the bottle, he closed his eyes and let his head drop back on the couch cushion, the liquid burning down his throat.

Jesus, he could still taste her. No amount of whiskey could erase that memory. The image of her riding him was permanently burned into his retinas … those sculpted shoulders, pert breasts, smooth tight stomach muscles. And those deep brown eyes … he'd never looked into someone's eyes and seen so much passion he thought he'd drown in it.

He didn't deserve her passion. He didn't deserve anyone's passion. And he sure as hell didn't deserve her blood.

God, the blood…

Why the fuck had he craved it so much? The moment he'd tasted it on her lips it felt like someone flipped a switch on in his brain turning him from normal man to crazed psychopath.

Psychopath … he might not deserve her blood, but he did deserve the label
psychopath
. Lohr had said they were similar. Maybe he wasn't just referring to the human vampire bullshit. After all, Kevin was as much a murderer as Lohr.

He was helpless to stop the memory as it filled his brain. His wits dulled by alcohol, he could only sit back and let it assault him.

Just as the tipster had said, the car was abandoned on a railroad access road barely one mile from the Frank Lutz house. The rusty sedan sat at the edge of the gravel road, the crooked parking job indicating a hasty stop. Someone sat in the driver's seat. That someone wasn't moving.

The smell hit Kevin like a brick wall the moment he stepped from the car.

Burying his nose in the crook of his elbow, he nodded toward Fitzpatrick who held a handkerchief over his mouth. Guns drawn, they approached the car together.

Kevin sheathed his gun more than five feet from the car. He could see pieces of Frank Lutz splattered on the rear window.

"That explains the smell," Fitz said.

"Maybe." Besides Frank, what was left of his head, and a whole bunch of trash, the car was empty. He mopped the sweat from his brow. "I know it's unseasonably hot right now, but this body doesn't look like it's decayed enough to smell
this
bad."

Fitz leaned on the passenger door and peered into the car. "You're right." He paused. "Where's the girlfriend?"

Kevin felt his heart stop beating. They'd been expecting Frank to run with Shelly, not blow his own brains out less than a mile from his house. It's why they hadn't scoured the neighborhood as thoroughly as they should have.

"Maybe she split…"

He immediately knew Fitz was wrong, no matter how much he wished otherwise.

He glanced toward the trunk, noting the flies buzzing feverishly around it. "Oh my God." He ran to their car and retrieved the crowbar. Not thinking about what he might find, that the trunk was like an oven in this heat, he returned to the sedan and urgently pried it open.

The contents made him turn and retch.

The memories shifted to the gunshot victim in the Seventh Ward. The two victims had been so similar: fetal position, gunshot to the back of the head, both in a state of advanced decay… Only one was a forty-year-old man, the other a twenty-four-year-old woman.

And Kevin was only responsible for one of their deaths.

His stomach turned. Fuck.

Both arms were needed to get his back off the couch cushions and even then it wasn't easy. When he set it on the coffee table, the bottle of Jack wobbled as unsteadily as he did. As he struggled to his feet, he thought for a moment both he and the bottle would fall over.

He stumbled into the bathroom, fell to his knees and clutched the toilet. The Jack jumped ship. After one round of vomiting, his stomach seemed satisfied, but he rested his head on the toilet seat for a moment, just to be safe.

Once he was certain the retching was over, he rose and staggered back to the couch. Teetering on the edge of the seat cushion and determined to fall into an alcohol induced coma where his memories could no longer reach him, he reached for the bottle, his fingers grazing his gun as he did.

He paused. Picking up the weapon, he examined it with hazy eyes. It was amazing how something so small could do so much damage, how one tiny piece of metal could shatter so many lives at once. The gun was barely bigger than his hand, the barrel not much thicker than his thumb.

He had killed a man once with a gun. He didn't harbor much guilt over it. His victim had murdered his girlfriend and her lover and then barred himself in a nearby hotel with the girlfriend's two-year-old daughter. When Kevin and Fitz busted into the hotel room and found the little girl crying and a gun in the suspect's hand, he hadn't even paused. It was the other victim who drove the guilt haunting him. The one he hadn't directly shot, but might as well have.

He was surprised by how perfectly the barrel of the gun fit in his mouth. The metal was cool against his lips, its flavor somewhat salty. One quick squeeze of the trigger and everything would disappear. No more guilt, no more fatigue. All gone. Just one little squeeze. It would take less than a second to splatter his life against the wall, less than a second to cease to exist.

His mother's face was the first deterrent he saw and then his sister and her kids. Finally, Angel's pleading brown eyes joined them. Would she cry if he blew his brains out? He couldn't stand the thought of torment shattering her beautiful features.

He pulled the gun from his mouth, set it on the coffee table with trembling hands and grabbed the bottle of Jack.

Kevin! Get a grip on your shit!

It was so much easier said than done. His failures were unforgivable.

He went to take another drink but found his arm too unsteady to tip the bottle back. He started to lean forward to set it on the table. His back barely lifted from the couch cushions before sinking back into them.

"Fuck," he grunted. His lids grew heavy and his head began to spin.

Angel.

His head slumped forward, and the spinning vortex moved to envelop his entire body. Darkness slowly consumed him. Starting with his extremities, it inched up his arms and legs, devouring tiny bits of his flesh little by little until his head floated in a black sea.

Angel.

The darkness inked up his cheeks, over the back of his head and down his forehead.

Save me.

* * * *

Darus' entire demeanor changed the moment he stepped through
Luxure's
front door. Any hint of insecurity was wiped clean, replaced by the arrogant cockiness he was known for. Angel wasn't surprised by the abrupt shift. What did surprise her was Slade's reaction when he caught sight of him.

In the middle of deftly mixing drinks with only one arm, Slade abandoned the activity and approached the other man. His expression was serious but respectful. He held out his hand. Sangs didn't normally shake hands—it didn't fit with the vampire image—but Darus accepted the gesture, although he seemed a bit startled by it.

"Thank you," Slade said. "For Kate."

"Yeah, well…" Darus glanced at the redhead sitting on the nearby barstool. His lips twitched like he wanted to say something to her but the only words that came from his mouth were directed at the bartender. "Think you can make a Moscow Mule with that gimp arm of yours?"

With a grin, Slade released his hand and briefly clasped his shoulder before returning behind the bar. "I can still spit in it too," he said over his shoulder.

"Good. If you didn't, I'd think I was in a bar where the drinks
don't
taste like piss."

"That can also be arranged."

Satisfied Darus no longer needed her support, Angel joined Kate at the bar. She was so preoccupied with running into Armand or Julia—neither of whom were there—she hadn't prepared herself for an encounter with Kate.

Angel's guilt was palpable as she approached the younger woman. Although Kate's light blue eyes were somewhat reserved, they were not angry.

"I'm very sorry to hear about Melanie," Angel said quietly. "And I'm so relieved to see you are well." When pain and guilt flashed across Kate's face, Angel concentrated on exuding the most soothing energy she could muster. A difficult task with her own remorse so dense, but she managed somehow. "And I am so sorry about…" For a moment she lost her capacity for words. She swallowed to recover the one stuck in her throat. "…Lohr. I regret summoning you. I didn't … if I hadn't…" She smiled feebly. "There is no excuse. Please accept my sincerest apologies."

Kate pressed her full lips together and clamped her eyes shut. When she opened them, they were glassy. Blinking a few times, she wiped discretely at the corners and leaned forward. "Thank you," she whispered. "Slade assured me you had nothing to do with Lohr. I believe him. I don't blame you. I'm the one…" She grimaced and wiped her eyes again.

Angel rested her hand on Kate's arm. "If you need to talk…"

"When there aren't so many people, I
would
really like to talk to you about … everything. It's been a little tough." Kate glanced briefly at Slade. "Worth it, but tough." Turning back to her, Kate noted, "You look like you could use an ear yourself."

The comment caught Angel off guard. She was used to her role as counselor. Being on the other end of the couch felt utterly foreign. At a loss for words, possibly for the first time in her life, she could only nod.

She gratefully took the drink Slade offered her. He knew exactly what she liked: a simple martini, well chilled and garnished with a lemon peel.

Smoothing the troubles from her face, she smiled at Kate and then turned and scanned the bar. The dance floor was packed with bodies, Darus was charming Onyx, Ash sat alone at one of the small round tables looking … morose. She should go talk to him, she should try to comfort him. But she couldn't. She tucked herself into the waitress well instead.

Slade caught a glimpse of her and made his way over. "Something wrong?"

Yes. "No. I'm just … tired. Can you get me a shot? Discretely." The bagged blood would do little more than get her through the evening, but the only flesh she wanted to put her lips on belonged to a man she doubted she'd see again. And while there might be less intimate ways to draw blood from a live Donor, there were none in the bar she wanted to face.

"Join me in the back," he said, jutting his chin toward the velvet curtains. "I doubt Armand will care, and then if you want to sneak out the back you can."

Was she that easy to read?

"You're in luck. I have a small bag in the warmer." He held the curtains aside for her and she stepped into the back room. "O positive, but at least it's ready to go. Unless you want me to microwave something?"

She grimaced. "No, thank you. The O positive is fine."

He filled a shot glass and handed it to her. "I'm going to head back. If you decide to take off through the courtyard, just make sure the gate locks behind you."

"Of course." He turned to leave, but she stopped him. "Thank you," she said when he glanced at her in question. "For being discrete."

"No prob." He started for the curtains.

"Oh, and Slade." He paused again. "You're looking well."

His brows bunched together. "Thanks?"

"I mean … Ash told me your Cravings had increased. How is that going?"

"Better. Surprisingly. Back to normal actually. I think it has to do with that hot redhead out there," he added, jabbing his thumb toward the bar.

"Because she's become your Donor?"

"I don't think that's it, at least not all of it. You might have been on to something all along with the energy bullshit. I get a dose of good juju every time that girl comes around. Maybe it's helping tame the blood lust." He shrugged. "Hard to tell. But I’m not complaining."

When Slade disappeared back into the bar, Angel sat gingerly on a stack of beer boxes and took a tentative sip of the blood. It was so bland. Not because of the type—though O positive wasn't her favorite—but bagged blood was like drinking flat soda. While most of the flavor and elements were there, it only vaguely resembled the original beverage.

She pondered Slade's words. Could happiness, or lack thereof, contribute to the Human Vampire condition? There was certainly something to the energy exchange. It wasn't only good energy though, some Vamps fed off negative energy, thrived on it. Energy was energy. But while she was learning to actively absorb it, Slade wasn't. Any energy he received from another had to be absorbed passively. He'd never shown any interest in manipulating outbound or inbound energy.