I hadn’t felt a single emotion in the past eight hundred years. But I had my rituals, and my rituals were everything. Ensuringthe guilt of my victims—selecting the right ones, the ones that might otherwise keep killing—was paramount. Better than the way many vampires satisfied their bloodlust: by draining whomever they could find the moment they got hungry. Sloppy. Foolish. Like they wanted, deep down, to find themselves on the wrong end of a wooden stake.
Having a human witness—someone who understood me to some degree—was important for my long-term survival. If I deviated too far from my rituals, I might succumb to my instincts and drain whoever happened to be standing too close when I got hungry. Once that happened, my immortal life would surely come to a close sooner rather than later. I’d become the hunted, not the hunter.
After a long silence, Harris said, “Cole, are you planning to turn me into a vampire?”
“Perhaps someday, if you asked me to,” I replied after only a moment of consideration. After all, why not? I added, “But if you didn’t want that, I wouldn’t.”
“I guess I probably knew that. Why not turn me regardless of what I wanted? If you really don’t give a shit, that is.”
“It doesn’t make sense to create an immortal being who will hate me—who will be my enemy—for potentially hundreds of years,” I replied, a bit of my age creeping into my tone, turning it icy. I had to be certain he harbored no illusions about my motives. “It has nothing to do with right and wrong.”
Harris was unflappable—which was both appealing and supremely annoying. He snorted. “Of course not. Because you don’t care about silly things like that.”
I pursed my lips. “Correct.”
The silence stretched between us again.
I listened to the sound of him breathing. I hadn’t felt more than a strong fondness for anyone since shortly after I became a vampire and started murdering humans for their blood. But if Icould still feel even a trace of genuine love, perhaps it would be for a man like him.
Then again, perhaps not. I’d been in love exactly once, back when I was still human. And that hadn’t worked out well, had it?
“I suppose you’re curious about how all of this will end for you.”
He snorted. “Not really.”
“I’m an immortal killer who drinks fresh blood on a regular basis. There’s nothing human left in my heart. Perhaps you should be afraid, Detective.”
“I don’t have a high enough body count for you.” Harris sounded supremely confident. “So. Give me all the gory details. That’s why you called, isn’t it?”
“Oh. Right,” I said abruptly when the blonde woman stirred on the ground.
She opened her eyes, blinked rapidly, then froze. It must have occurred to her that lying on the cold concrete floor of some stranger’s basement probably wasn’t a good sign.
“By the way, I managed to get here before Jerry killed the woman who would’ve been his latest victim. She’s still alive. She’s here, in the basement of his home.” I considered her thoughtfully, my head cocking to the side. She looked quite… unwell. “She may need a bit of medical attention, now that I think about it.”
“Christ, Cole! You didn’t fucking lead with that?”
“I’m not one of the good guys, Detective,” I reminded him. “Words cannot express how much I do not care whether she lives or dies.”
“If that’s true, why didn’t you drain her, too?”
“It’s not because I care,” I told him archly. “And I called to tell you I put a little dab of my blood on Jerry’s wounds just before he died—so there’s not going to be a single mark left on him. It’lllook like he just dropped dead. Like all the others. You’ll get to show up and be the hero. Again, I might add.”
“Thanks for that. I guess.”
“You’re most welcome,” I replied sweetly. “It’s easier when you benefit as well.”
“Why not just force me to help you? You obviously can.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” Then I paused, my tone sharpening. “Perhaps I ought to wipe your memories and find another detective. One with looser legs and less of an attitude problem.”
“Ah. So you’re not planning to kill me.” Harris didn’t even sound surprised. “You’d erase my memories and let me go. That’s the end game here.”
The young woman began hyperventilating on the ground. I rolled my eyes.
Panic was setting in, no doubt. That, or it was a bad reaction from the drugs. Sweat was beading on her brow with each passing moment, and her heartbeat was erratic—a cranked-out hummingbird slamming itself into a clear-glass window and falling flat before getting up and trying again. Soon enough, it would probably stop trying.
“You should begin getting dressed,” I told him, sighing with annoyance. “The woman’s condition is deteriorating quite fast. And I’m growing bored.”
