Adrian Phoenix - In the Blood

Seattle, WA

March 22/March 23

DANTE WALKED ALONG THE sidewalk, listening to mortal thoughts, feeling drum tight. Neon from the strip clubs on both sides of the street flickered and buzzed—JIGGLES and GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS and LAP DANCES!—too bright, and he slid on his shades. The winking colors muted. He drew in a deep breath of air and smelled car exhaust, fried chicken, and brine from the bay.

Hunger pulsed through him, strong and insistent, but still under control, thanks to Von. He’d fucked up by waiting too long to feed, and he knew better, but his hunger for Heather had been stronger.

Hood up, shades on, he slipped past small clusters of people gathered in front of some of the clubs smoking and laughing, making deals—dope, sex, break-ins. Most didn’t pay him any attention, their thoughts focused elsewhere.

Dante listened . But all he picked up were horny thoughts, horny and lonely and desperate thoughts, a few worried— I’ll just say I was out with the guys, took in a ball game, had a few beers —and others challenging— I’m an adult, I’ll fucking do whatever I want. Some thoughts were all business, flat and bored. Hey, baby. Wanna date? Wanna blow job?

A few of the clubs were closing, and cars trickled steadily from parking lots. Dante stepped over one of the yellow-painted parking blocks and walked through the nearly empty lot for HOT XXX BUNS. Several cars remained parked near the employee exit at the side of the building.

Dante followed the noise of two fast-drumming hearts, their rhythms overlapping and twisting into one thundering sound. In the darkness pooled in front of the exit, courtesy of a burned-out bulb, a guy in a windbreaker struggled with a woman, his hand locked around her upper arm.

“Let go of me!” she cried, trying to jerk free. Fury edged her voice, but Dante heard fear underneath. She swung her purse.

“Goddammit!” The guy dodged, then grabbed her bag and wrenched it from her hand. He tossed it into the parking lot. It hit the concrete, spilling its contents across the pavement. “I spent a helluva lot of money on you! You could at least be nice.”

“I don’t—”

Dante moved . He ran across the parking lot, breezing past the woman’s purse, and stopped beside the grabby guy before the woman finished speaking.

“—owe you shit!”

The guy, potbellied but thick-muscled, scowled at Dante. “None of your business, asswipe. Get lost.”

“Yeah, y’know what? Fuck you.” Dante shoved the guy with one hand. Potbelly slammed into the building like he’d been fired from a cannon. He slid down to the pavement, expression dazed.

The woman blinked, not exactly sure what had happened, but when she noticed Potbelly was down, she ran over and kicked him in the thigh, then gathered up her purse and its contents. Whirling, she hurried back into the club. The steel door slammed shut behind her.

Potbelly groaned.

Dante leaned over him, twisted his fingers into the windbreaker’s collar, and yanked the guy to his feet. He dragged Potbelly around the club’s edge to the Dumpster-filled back lot. Hurled him against the building and pinned him there, hand to shoulder, thigh snugged between legs. Potbelly stared at him, mouth open, eyes dilated, and Dante realized his hood had fallen back.

“My God…”

Dante breathed in the mortal’s adrenaline-and-lust-spiced scent, listened to his jackhammering heart and thought of the blood pumping through his veins. Just beneath the skin. Promising pleasure. Promising relief. Hunger uncoiled.

He shoved Potbelly’s head to one side, before he could say another word, and tore into his warm, pulse-pounding throat with his fangs. Burrowed into his flesh.

And fed.

Seattle, WA

March 23

S hannon staggers along the highway’s edge, thumb out, peering into the darkness. She really has to get home. She only stopped for a few drinks while out on errands. The kids were at soccer practice or guitar lessons or Scouts, and she had a few moments to herself .

A few moments to concentrate on all the amazing ideas and thoughts and plans buzzing in her head like busy little bees that won’t let her sleep. Light seems to fill the darkness behind her eyes at night, illuminating her mind, and working in cahoots with the stupid busy little bees .

Just a few moments to drown the fuckers and put out the light.

The next thing she knows, it’s dark, and the moon’s high in the sky. Her new friends try to talk her into staying and, for a second, she considers it. Then she remembers Jim saying: I’ll take the kids from you, Shannon, I swear to God! You need to pull yourself together. You need to get back into rehab.

So she pulls free of her friends’ beseeching hands —C’mon! One more drink!— and escapes into the chilly October night. Car won’t start and she can’t find her cell phone. Screw it. She abandons the car, and decides to thumb a ride home. Probably will piss Jim off—he’ll rattle more crime statistics until she blocks out the sound of his voice by humming to herself .

Sometimes she wishes he’d never joined the fucking FBI. She can’t compete with that kind of love, that kind of devotion. He was like a priest, and forensics was his act of communion with the Holy Bureau.

October, and the air is crisp. But she’s not cold, she’s on fire and alive and flying. Heather’s birthday is coming up. She’ll be twelve. Twelve going on forty. She sees too much and maybe not enough .

Have I lost her?

Shannon stumbles, her heel catching on the asphalt’s ragged edge. She giggles. Good thing she isn’t driving. Point in her favor. She licks the tip of a finger and strokes an imaginary line in the air. Sliding off her shoe, she peers at the heel .

Headlights pierce the night. Shannon sticks out her shoe instead of her thumb, cocking her weight onto one hip and smiling. The headlights glow, twin moons filling her vision and dazzling her sight .

The car pulls over, tires crunching on gravel, the muffler streaming a plume of exhaust and the heady smell of gasoline in the air. The engine purrs .

Headlight-blinded, she wobbles as she tries to put her shoe back on. She hops backward before sprawling on her ass. She throws back her head and laughs. Good thing she isn’t walking the line for a cop. Another point in her favor. She draws another imaginary line in the air. Slipping off her other shoe, damned heels playing havoc with her balance; well, that and all the booze, Shannon climbs to her feet, stumbling only a little. She’s brushing the dirt off her hind end when the driver’s door opens.

A man slips out of the purring car, and something gleams in his hand .

“Need help, Shannon?” he asks.

WITH THE SMOOTH IDLE of a well-tuned engine still in her ears, Heather awakened, heart racing. Light filtered into the room between the slats of the closed blinds. Rolling over onto her side, she pulled open the nightstand drawer and fished out a memo pad and pen. She wrote down as many details as she remembered: the car not starting; the lost cell phone; the cold, crisp air; the smell of pine and rain-wet blacktop; the man speaking her mother’s name.

Shannon and her killer knew each other .