L.L. Foster - The Kindred

Maybe taking a child was easier than capturing an adult. Maybe a kid would be more resilient, quicker to heal if the maniac wanted a reliable blood resource.

Somehow, starting right now, she’d find that kid and protect her.

And then she thought of Luther’s request. A shudder passed through her, filling her with equal parts dread and longing. He had a terrible hold on her.

And God help her, she prayed she’d be home when he returned.

The body, long ago quartered into more manageable hunks and stored in a refrigerator, offered nothing more to him.

After the awful intrusion into his domain, a primitive building used only for the delectation of his prodigious appetite, he’d been able to salvage only a portion of the last sacrifice.

The rest of the body had been stored in an industrial refrigeration system in the basement. Soon it would be discovered by the intruders.

For now, Fabian Ludlow would make do with what had been left to him. He preferred the liquid fulfillment of warm blood, the sweet sensation of it passing over his tongue and sliding down his throat. He savored how it settled in his belly.

He needed it, like some needed the sunshine and sleep.

Long ago, he’d discovered how ingesting blood and, when necessary, human flesh, had added to his health, making him stronger, faster. Keener of mind and more astute to his surroundings.

He hadn’t known that he’d be denied his most recent kill.

Thinking of the trespass, his skin itched and his soul screamed in hollow demand. Damn the judgmental law officials for unchaining his captive.

How dare they make moral decisions against vices they couldn’t begin to understand?

From a secluded vantage point, Fabian had watched in impotent rage as a skinny woman, indistinguishable from so far away, had collapsed on the porch. The police ignored her as they scoured over the site and gathered ridiculous clues that would lead them nowhere. Eventually the idiots sent his prey on a fool’s trip to the hospital.

He might have been able to get another cup or two from the vagrant if they hadn’t interfered. And, of course, he would have kept that delectable, tasty body for when the blood flow failed.

Now he’d be forced to kill someone new.

Someone younger, fresher.

More tender .

Saliva pooled in his mouth, on his tongue. What he imagined, what he craved with mammoth preoccupation, was something of which he hadn’t yet partaken.

But now the time was near.

He ran his thickened tongue over his lips and dreamt of it, how it’d be, how the blood might taste transcendent and the underdeveloped muscles might be softer, more malleable . . .

All around him, the others laughed and danced. To his right, one young couple mistook the bloodlust for lust of another kind; they fucked wildly, without discretion.

Fools. They reveled in their freedom without discerning that it was all him .

He was the one who had transformed them. He was the one who had enlightened them on the veritable pleasures of the flesh.

He’d shown them how to take what they needed from those useless souls born only to give.

Worthless individuals unfit for sustaining life cluttered the earth in nauseating proportion. Unlike most, Fabian comprehended that they were there by contrived design, no different from cattle or pigs sent to the slaughter.

They were meant to nourish those with appropriate initiative to partake of the offering.

Those who he enlightened with the benefits of ingesting the blood, often straight from the vein, had also been taught the pleasure of taking another’s life. He’d taught them to sate themselves with the power of another human, even one too weak to survive.

With each soul he captured, he felt his own strength expand to undeniable proportions. It wasn’t an illusion, as one now-dead fool had dared to suggest.

It was actuality. Sweet, undeniable truth. He was near superhuman, with immeasurable cunning and aptitude. He understood that, even if some others yet failed to recognize it.

“Fabian, come join us.”

Bored, he looked at Georgie, a young man who favored Goth fashion and an overabundance of tattoos and body piercings. Georgie didn’t understand the merits of subtlety, or that sometimes less was more. Fabian had met him, along with most of the others, through the shop.

It amazed even him that people proved so easy to lead when one had leadership qualities, as Fabian did. But then, tattooing was a personal business, and it didn’t take long to get to know a person when you put a needle to their skin.

He didn’t hold the body art against Georgie. In fact, he often appreciated the beauty of an intricately inked human form. It had almost the same splendor as a body torturously carved of all meat.

But Georgie was stupid. He took drugs that Fabian had not approved, and that was forbidden. Only the narcotics that Fabian himself supplied were permitted. It was yet another method of control, another means of maintaining the upper hand. No one was allowed to ingest any narcotic substance that Fabian did not personally hand out.

Georgie knew that—but he thought he could show up high and Fabian wouldn’t notice.

Fool.

At present, Georgie partook of the bounty Fabian had supplied, his eyes glazed and his movements sluggish. He took extraordinary pleasure in being egregious.

For Georgie, it was the shock factor, not a proper understanding of the merits involved in partaking of sweet sustenance, consuming the very essence of life. He didn’t fathom the cerebral and sentient fulfillment of what they did.

As Fabian watched Georgie, his temper spiked.

Given a choice, Georgie would probably be stupid enough to eat the brains or even the spinal cord, both of which were prone to carrying disease.

Running his tongue along the blunt edges of his capped teeth, Fabian considered a punishment that might befit Georgie’s irreverence.

Yes, he knew what to do, knew exactly how to teach the others by using Georgie as an example. His heart began to pound in feverish anticipation.

God, he loved the adrenaline rush when he planned an attack.

Parting his lips, Fabian slipped his fingers into his own mouth and loosened the snug-fitting porcelain caps. One by one he removed them, leaving his real teeth exposed. He dropped the caps into the pocket of his coat.

With consummate delight, he skimmed his tongue along the honed edges of his predator’s bite. Long ago, his front teeth had been filed and reshaped to accommodate his inexhaustible hunger. There were no smooth borders, only jagged rims and his razor-sharp, elongated eyeteeth, meant to pierce the skin and flesh with ease.

An inferno of heat burned behind Fabian’s eyes when Georgie laughed too loud. He made a mockery of them, ridiculing their sublime practice, when in fact he should have shown due deference to the offering.

Fabian’s shoulders curled; his long fingers tightened. “Stop it,” he whispered, “right now.”

But Georgie didn’t hear the warning. He swiped a sleeve along his mouth, wasting the bounty—and Fabian lost the fragile hold on his maniacal rage.

On a thunderous roar, he launched himself at Georgie, knocking him backward. With a solid thud, Georgie’s head smacked against the chilly cement floor of the abandoned home Fabian had chosen to carry out the delectation of their avocation. Georgie groaned, flailed, and then sank into a stupor.

Someone screamed. Bodies scrambled to get out of their way.

In a blind frenzy of need and fury, Fabian sank his teeth into Georgie’s soft white throat. His tongue stroked, located the jugular, and he readjusted his bite.

Yes . Fuck yes. His eyes sank shut as he fed at the ripped throat.