Human blood.
Living, pumping… calling.
Heartbeats echo from every direction, rhythmic drumming that resonates through the air, music written specifically for predators. And for one sickening second, I’m back at the lookout, hearing the wet crack of Jake’s neck and the exact moment a heartbeat became silence.
The hunger roars in response, a tidal wave of need that nearly drives me to my knees. My fangs throb. My throat constricts, and every muscle in my body tenses with the overwhelming urge to hunt, to find, tofeed.
I stumble down the street, one hand braced against a brick wall for support I don’t actually need, my vision swimming with too much input. The city sprawls around me, alive and pulsing with life. I suddenly sense it in ways that make no logical sense.
How many people surround me right now?
Dozens? Hundreds?
Each one is a walking blood bank, warm, inviting, and delicious.
No!
I dig my fingers into the brick hard enough that it should hurt, and cracks spiderweb beneath my grip, stone crumbling like sand.
No, I’m not…
I won’t…
But the hunger doesn’t care about what I want or don’t want. It cares only about survival, about satisfaction, about the ancient instinct driving me toward the nearest source of sustenance.
A woman walks past on the opposite sidewalk, phone pressed to her ear, completely oblivious to my presence. Her heartbeat reaches me across the distance, steady and strong, the same sound Jake’s made, right up until it didn’t, and the sound of it makes saliva flood my mouth. I hear the blood moving through her veins, can practically taste it in the air, can imagine the warmth of it sliding down my throat.
She’s prey.
They’re all prey.
And I’m the monster that hunts them.
Chapter Three
CHARLIE
With a deliberate effort, I force myself to move in the opposite direction, my feet carrying me away from the woman even as every instinct screams to follow, to take,to drink.The neon signs blur past in streaks of color, storefronts bleeding into each other as I half-walk, half-run through streets I don’t recognize. Nothing looks familiar. Nothing makes sense. The whole world has tilted sideways, and I’m sliding through, present but not part of it anymore.
The diner appears ahead, small and ordinary, light spilling from its windows onto the empty street.‘Maggie’s’declares the flickering sign, and beneath it,‘Open 24 Hours.’Through the glass, I see booths along the walls, a counter with red vinyl stools, fluorescent lights casting everything in harsh white illumination that should hurt to look at but doesn’t.
A handful of people sit scattered throughout the space.
Two truckers at the counter, their heartbeats slow and steady. A young couple in a corner booth, his arm around her shoulders, hers racing with something that might be nervousness or excitement. An older woman working behind the counter, her movements efficient, practiced, tired.
The waitress is maybe forty, with brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, wearing a stained apron over jeans and a T-shirt. Her heartbeat reaches me through the glass, slightly elevated, probably from being on her feet all night. She moves between tables, refilling coffee, clearing plates, offering tired smiles to customers who barely acknowledge her existence.
I push through the door before I can stop myself, a little bell jingling overhead to announce my arrival. The waitress looks up,and her smile appears automatically, professional and empty of real warmth. “Hi there, honey,” she calls from across the room. “You look like you’ve had a rough night. You need some help?”
I weakly smile at her, glancing down at my torn, bloodstained clothes. “No ma’am, just some coffee please.”
“You sure, hon? I can call someone for you, maybe the police?”
My head snaps up to her, rage flooding my veins so hot it’s taking everything inside me not to reach out and snap her neck. It feels like something inside me is pulsing with fire, and sweat is literally dripping off me as I try to rein myself in. “I. Said.NO!” I yell louder than I intended, making her take a cautionary step back. Even I widen my eyes at how intense my voice sounded.
She hesitantly smiles at me and gestures for the nearest table. “Grab any seat you like. I’ll be right with you.”
Feeling like a real asshole, I slide into a booth near the back, my hands shaking as I press them flat against the table. The Formica feels too cold, every tiny imperfection in its surface standing out with excruciating detail. I can see the material’s molecular structure, and I can sense the years of wear compressed into patterns that shouldn’t be visible to human eyes.
