Лиза Смит: Bloodlust

I continued to walk, picking up my pace as I traced the scent to an anonymous back street lined with an apothecary, a general store, and a tailor. The street was a replica of our own Main Street back in Mystic Falls. But while we’d only had one, New Orleans must have had dozens, if not hundreds, of these corridors of commerce.

The rusty smell of iron was stronger now. I followed twists and turns, my hunger building, burning, searing my very skin until finally, finally I came to a squat, peach-colored building. But when I saw the painted sign above the door, I stopped short. Sausages in their casings hung in the building’s grimy window; slabs of cured meat dangled from the ceiling like a grotesque child’s mobile; carved ribs were nestled in ice beneath a counter, and in the far back, whole carcasses were strung up, draining blood into large vats.

This was a . . . butcher shop?

I sighed in frustration but my hunger forced me to push the door open anyway. The iron chain snapped easily, as if it were no sturdier than thread. Once inside, I gazed at the bloodied carcasses, momentarily mesmerized by the blood falling into the vats, one drip at a time.

Over the sound of the raining blood, I heard the slightest ping, no louder than the twitch of a mouse’s whiskers. Then came the light shuffle of toes passing over concrete.

I reared back, my eyes darting from corner to corner. Mice scuttled beneath the floorboards, and someone’s watch ticked in the building next door. All else was quiet. But the air around me suddenly felt thicker, and the ceiling lower somehow, and I became acutely aware that there was no back exit in this room of death.

“Who goes there?” I called into the darkness, whirling around, my fangs bared. And then came movement. Fangs, eyes, the thud of footsteps closed in around me from all corners.

A low, guttural growl echoed off the bloodstained walls of the shop, and I realized with a sickening jolt that I was surrounded by vampires who looked all too ready to pounce.

I crouched low, my fangs elongated. The heady scent of blood permeated every corner of the room, making my head spin. It was impossible to know where to attack first.

The vampires growled again, and I emitted a low snarl in response. The circle closed in tighter around me. There were three of them, and I was caught, like a fish in a net, a deer surrounded by wolves.

“What do you think you’re doing?” one of the vampires asked. He looked to be in his mid-twenties and had a scar that ran the length of his face, from his left eye to the corner of his lip.

“I’m one of you,” I said, standing at my full height, fangs on display.

“Oh, he’s one of us!” an older vampire said in a sing-songy voice. He wore glasses and a tweed vest over a white-collared shirt. But for the fangs and red-rimmed eyes, he could have been an accountant or a friend of my father’s.

I kept my face impassive. “I have no ill business with you, brothers.”

“We are not your brothers,” said another with tawny hair. He looked not a day over fifteen. His face was smooth, but his green eyes were hard.

The older one stepped forward, poking his bony finger against my chest as if it were a wooden stake. “So, brother, nice evening to dine . . . or die. What do you think?”

The young vampire kneeled next to me, gazing into my eyes. “Looks like he’ll do both tonight. Lucky boy,” he said, ruffling my hair. I tried to kick him, but my foot simply flopped harmlessly against air.

“No, no, no.” While the scarred vampire watched wordlessly, the boy grabbed my arms and wrenched them so sharply and abruptly behind my back that I gasped. “Don’t be disrespectful. We’re your elders. And you’ve already done quite enough disrespecting already, if Miss Molly’s house is any indication.” He drawled her name as if he were a benign, genteel Southern gentleman. Only the steel grip on my limbs betrayed that he wasn’t anything of the sort.

“I didn’t do anything,” I said, kicking again. If I were to die, then I’d die in a fight.

“Are you sure?” he asked, looking down at me in disgust. I attempted to twist away, but still I couldn’t budge.

The elder vampire chuckled. “Can’t control his urges. Impulsive, this one. Let’s give him a taste of his own medicine.” With a flourish, he released me from his grasp, pushing me forward with strength I’d never before felt. I hit the plaster wall with a crash and fell on my shoulder, my head cracking against the wooden floorboards.

I cowered beneath my attackers, the realization sinking in that if I were to survive this encounter, it would not be by might. “I didn’t mean to do anything. I’m sorry,” I said, my voice breaking on the word.

“Do you mean it?” the young vampire asked, a glint in his eye. The sound of wood breaking assaulted my ears. I flinched. Would one vampire stake another? This was not a question I wanted answered the hard way.

“Yes. Yes! I didn’t mean to come in here. I didn’t know anyone was here. I only just arrived in New Orleans,” I said, scrambling for an excuse.

“Silence!” he commanded, advancing toward me, a jagged piece of wood in his hand. I pressed my spine into the damaged wall. So this is how it would end. With me dying on a makeshift stake, killed by my own kind.

Two hands crushed my arms, while another two pinned my ankles together so forcefully that it felt as though I were stuck under boulders. I closed my eyes. An image of Father lying prone on his study floor swam to the forefront of my mind, and I shook my head in agony, remembering his sweating, terrified face. Of course, I’d been trying to save him, but he hadn’t known that. If he was watching, as an angel or a demon or a mere specter condemned to haunt the world, he’d be thrilled to see this scene unfold.

I squeezed my eyes tighter, trying to evoke some other memory to the fore of my mind, one that would take me to another place, another time. But all I could think of were my victims, of the moment when my fangs sliced into their skin, their plaintive wails descending into silence, the blood dripping down my fangs and onto my chin. Soon, all the blood I’d taken would be released, seeping out of my own body and back into the Earth, as I was left to die, for real this time, forever, on this wooden floor.

“Enough!” A female voice sliced through the montage in my mind. Immediately, the vampires let go of my hands and feet. My eyes sprang open, and I saw a woman gliding through a narrow wooden door in the back. Her long blond hair descended in a single plait down her back, and she wore men’s black pants and suspenders. She was tall, though slight as a child, and all the other vampires shrank away from her in fear.

“You,” she said, kneeling next to me. “Who are you?” Her amber eyes gazed into mine. They were clear and curious, but there was something about them—the darkness of the pupils, perhaps—that seemed ancient and knowing, which stood in sharp contrast to her rosy-cheeked, unlined face.

“Stefan Salvatore,” I answered her.

“Stefan Salvatore,” she repeated in a perfect Italian accent. Although teasing, her voice didn’t seem unkind. She ran a finger gently along my jaw, then placed her palm against my chest and she pressed me against the wall, hard. The suddenness of the movement stunned me, but as I sat, pinned and helpless, she brought her other wrist to her mouth, using her fang to puncture the vein. She dragged her wrist along her teeth, creating a small stream of blood.

“Drink,” she commanded, bringing her wrist to my lips.

I did as I was told, managing to get a few drops of the liquid down my throat before she yanked her hand away. “That’s enough. That should fix your wounds at any rate.”