Sins of the Blood: A Vampire Novel Page 2

  Cammie peered into the mirror. Three long scratches ran down her right cheek, looking like war paint from a bad Western. Heather, Eliason's nurse, had taken samples from the scratches when Cammie arrived and then had dotted the wounds with hydrogen peroxide. It had stung and foamed—visible proof that the medication was fighting an infection.

  Just as she was.

  She looked tired. Deep circles ran under her gray eyes. Eliason had once told her that her eyes were her best feature—wide and innocent, changing color with her mood or her clothing. She never saw the color change, only the same dirty gray that she had seen each morning in the mirror.

  Blood had stained her brown hair black. She pulled out her ponytail and finger combed her hair. Some of the blood flaked away. She turned on the water in the sink, and ran matted strands under it, watching the blood stain the yellow sink. She forgot how much she [C&F5] needed a comb after an eradication.

  Of course, she had never planned to come directly to Eliason's office. But Whitney had insisted. They had to make sure the little girl was okay.

  A child. Whatever was that vampire doing with a child?

  Cammie ran a paper towel over her face, then tossed it in the trash. The blood didn't show up on her black sweatshirt, but two long brown streaks ran across the front of her jeans. No wonder the child had refused to get close to her. Whitney had grabbed the girl's stuffed dog, and placed them both in the back of the van. The child had seemed more comfortable in the darkness.

  Cammie had tried to talk to Whitney, but he had put his finger to his lips. Whatever she had to say, he didn't want said in front of the child.

  They brought the child to Dr. Brett Eliason. Eliason specialized in vampire cases and was on call for the center. He also ran a general practice near Westgate, only a few miles from where they had been. Eliason had managed to open a large office in a building next to the center. He was the only doctor, but he maintained a large support staff—three nurses, two receptionists, and his own lab technician. The lab tech was invaluable for her knowledge of rare blood diseases. Cammie had known Dr. Eliason since she started working for the Westrina Center, and in that time, his practice had grown from Center-related clients to others from the Westgate area.

  She leaned into the mirror and ran a finger over the shadows under her eyes. She could actually feel the sunken skin. The effect of not enough sleep.

  Too many dreams of vampires.

  This little girl wouldn't help.

  Cammie sighed and pulled back the heavy bathroom door. She paused in the hallway, as she always did, disoriented. The design of the hall played some kind of spatial trick on her. She could find her way into the bathroom easily enough, but finding her way back to the waiting room was always difficult. She glanced left at the double doors and the open L-shaped hallway, then decided to turn right, not because it looked like the correct direction, but because it didn't.

  She hated it when Eliason found her walking through his halls, searching for the reception area. After finding her on four separate occasions, he had given her a spatial relations test—psychology was his minor and his hobby—and she had flunked. He said she was the first bright person he had ever met who did not think in three dimensions.

  Halfway down the hall, past the oversized scale and the blood lab, she saw a sign pointing to reception. An odd thread of relief went through her. Eliason wouldn't catch her this time.

  A new receptionist sat behind the desk. She was young, maybe not even out of college. She wore a headset and spoke into it as she typed onto a computer keyboard. Behind her, the file room stood open, with rows and rows of file folders visible. Fortunately, they had arrived on a light day—Eliason only had two other patients in the office, and Heather had already taken them to the back.

  The narrow hallway opened into the waiting room. It was cheerfully decorated in the warmest shade of blue she had ever seen. Modular furniture formed groupings throughout, some centered around a table covered in books, another around a box of toys, and a third around an oversized television with the sound on low. Cammie preferred the high-backed chairs in front of the mock fireplace. They gave her comfort.

  Whitney sat on a modular unit, feet stretched out and crossed in front of him. His jeans were blood-spattered too, and the tips of his curls were wet. He looked older, somehow. There were worry lines around his mouth that Cammie had never seen before.

  He was reading an ancient, battered copy of Time with a picture of the fallen Berlin wall on the cover. He set the magazine on his lap when he saw her. "You okay now?"

  No, she wasn't. She felt oddly light-headed and a strange fear had formed in her stomach. "How come they didn't tell us there was a kid."

  Whitney's expression hardened for a moment. "They probably didn't know. The report could have come from anywhere. Some woman he picked up or a grocery store clerk."

  "But someone had to investigate. Someone had to know."

  "Cammie, they knew we would take care of it. Kids aren't that unusual, you know."

  Cammie sat on the edge of the unit next to Whitney. She didn't lean back. "Not unusual? I have done forty-eight eradications and I've never encountered a child before."

  "They might have been in school. The Center tries to plan these things when no one else is home. This little girl is too young for school."

  She was too young to see that, too. No child should have to witness that kind of blood-letting. Cammie put a hand to her forehead. A headache built behind her eyes.

  "Cam, look. We go in, do our job, and leave. How many times have you stayed to investigate the house?"

  "That's not part of my job."

  "No," Whitney said. "It's not. So how do you know how many children you've encountered?"

  The bloodstains were worse around his ankles and on the hem of his jeans. She wanted to lean against his shoulder, but didn't. "How many children did you see before you started working with me?"

  "Three." His voice sounded odd, strangled. She looked up. His tongue was playing with his lower lip. He always did that when the memories got too bad for him.

  Her headache had grown worse. "There can't be children," Cammie said. "Vampires are dead. Are you telling me they kidnap kids and keep them for some strange reason?"

  "Jesus." Whitney closed his eyes. Cammie recognized the expression on his face. She had seen it once before—when a neighbor had stopped them on the street before an eradication. He knew something. Something he didn't want to tell her. He ran a hand over his face and then looked at her. "You need to talk to Anita, Cam," he said.

  "Why don't you tell me? You're my partner. We're best friends."

  He half smiled. The look didn't reach his eyes. "I can't."

  "Why not?"

  He rolled the magazine into a club, then unrolled it, flattening it against his legs. "Because," he said slowly, "I told Alyse."

  Alyse. His mysterious first partner. The one he would never talk about. When Cammie would ask about her, Whitney would always reply, She decided to leave for the same reasons most eradicators leave.

  Only Whitney had never left. He had stayed at the Center longer than any other eradicator. Some had gone into administration, but Whitney remained on the streets, fighting with his fists and his stakes for over five years.

  The swinging door that led to the examining rooms opened, and Eliason came out, holding the little girl by the hand. He looked tall by comparison, his chocolate colored skin looking black against the girl's. His lab coat was open, revealing a denim work shirt and well-tailored jeans. He looked, as always, as if he had just dressed for the day.

  The little girl clutched her stuffed dog to her left side, its fabric head crammed against her heart. Eliason crouched, spoke softly to her, wiped a strand of hair from her forehead, and then smiled. He had the gentleness that Cammie always thought doctors should have. He had asked her out numerous times, but she had refused; she didn't want to learn that his gentleness was false, a pretense for patients and nothing more.
br />   He stood, left the girl by the swinging doors, and came over to Cammie. "She's clean," he said. "Not a mark on her. Her blood is her own, and it's infection-free. She's well fed, well nourished, well cared for. She's also in shock. She might be one of the lucky ones. She hasn't said much, so maybe she'll forget all this. But I think you need to take her to the Center right away. They should be able to get her settled somewhere before the pain really starts. Those all her possessions?"

  "She had a room full of stuff," Whitney said.

  "Get that and bring it," Eliason said. He didn't look at Whitney. He was watching Cammie. "She needs as much of her home as you can salvage."

  "Home?" Cammie choked the word out. A place that smelled of rotting blood, and filled with the presence of a man no longer human. Eliason was calling that home?

  He put his palm against Cammie's face. She resisted the urge to lean into him, to let him comfort her like he had comforted the little girl. "Home, Camila," he said. "It's all she ever knew."

  Whitney knelt and extended his hands. He looked like a big kid himself. Cammie had never suspected such empathy from her partner. "Come on, hon," he said. "I'll take you some place safe."

  "Her name is Janie." Eliason's thumb traced Cammie's cheekbone. His dark gaze remained on her. He was one of the handsomest men she had ever seen, with high flat cheekbones that suggested some Native American blood, a broad nose above a sensitive mouth.

  "Janie," Whitney said, hand still outstretched. "Come with me."

  Janie wrapped both arms around her dog, rested her chin on the animal's head, and shuffled forward. She brushed near Eliason, but when she saw Cammie, she scooted away.

  "It's okay," Whitney said.

  Janie continued her walk, occasionally throwing Cammie a frightened glance. When she reached Whitney, she buried her face in his sleeve.

  "I guess you've been elected to pick up her things," Whitney said. "I'll meet you back at the office."

  Cammie nodded. She watched Whitney take Janie and lead her outside. Cammie watched through the window as the two of them went to the van. Now that Cammie was no longer riding with them, Janie chose to sit in front.

  "First kid?" Eliason asked.

  Cammie returned her attention to him. The slight callus on his thumb felt good against her soft skin. He smelled faintly of Ivory soap. "How did you know?" she asked.

  "Because eradications usually don't shake you. They usually give you a strange kind of joy."

  Joy. She would never use that word for the bouncy nervous energy she felt after she performed an eradication. Joy. She rejected the word. Eradication was state-sanctioned killing. She should not find joy in that, even if it was her job.

  She didn't want to think about that. "How come you and Whitney weren't surprised by that girl and I was?"

  Eliason ran his thumb across her lips, then let his hand down. "That's something you have to ask yourself, Cammie."

  "No one said anything about children. In all those months of training, no one said one word."

  "They didn't have to," he said. "You should have already known."

  Chapter Two

  The ferry let him off at Pier 52, a huge empty building that had the chill of a bus terminal. He walked down the ramp, along with families with children scampering in front of him, teenagers in prom clothes going into the city, and studious women carrying paperbacks and wearing the rubber-soled shoes of people who spent the evening on their feet.

  The cold mist off Elliot Bay felt good. Lately,[C&F6] sunshine made him uncomfortable. An itching started under his skin,[C&F7] as though a thousand tiny ants were crawling through his veins. These days, his body felt as if it belonged to someone else. His sense of smell had grown stronger, and he could often scent the sickly, sweet odor of illness before he saw someone coughing around a corner. The new awareness made him uncomfortable, made him act in ways he wasn't sure he liked.

  Like Candyce. He rubbed a hand over his face, trying to block the memory. Candyce. The reason he had come up here.

  The ramp sloped to an iron railing that led to wide metal steps. Most of the ferry's passengers went inside to avoid the drizzle. He stayed out and took the stairs to street level.

  The road was wider than he expected. Cabs parked in a designated area, waiting for passengers. Ben doubted they would get many on a Saturday. He pulled the piece of paper out of his pocket, stared at the address, and debated. Then he decided that he wanted to walk.

  He had spent the last two days exploring Seattle, always avoiding the downtown. The night before he had slept in a cheap roadside motel on Bainbridge Island, squirming at the light that leaked through the too-[C&F8] thin curtains. The island was too suburban, too yupped for him. The neat row houses, the expense cars in the driveways[C&F9] , the boats in the bay. He hadn't expected the Seattle area to be so clean. Even the university section, with its funky coffee shops and clothing stores, had an air of wholesomeness.

  It made him uncomfortable, and he found that odd. Eugene, the city he had grown up in, was cleaner, smaller, and even less diverse. But he knew the city's darker regions. He knew the smoky underground bars, and the places along the river where people bought drugs. He knew how to find a hooker, and he knew how to find someone who had disappeared.

  Like Steve. Steve had gone to Portland with men that Ben wouldn't associate with. Only now,[C&F10] he seemed to have no choice. Less than a week ago, he had been a college graduate, at the top of his class, looking for work. Now he was wandering the streets of Seattle in search of a group of people he would have snubbed a few days before.

  You got it, man. You got it real bad, Steve had said [C&F11] last night. Ben had found him in a bar in Portland—the Keg. At least, that had been its name once. Someone had removed the sign, but the letters remained on the outside of the building in paint splotches brighter than the rest of the paint job. The interior was dark, cigarette smoke so thick it shaded the lights.

  People sat at tables, staring into the Pit, where Steve and his friends hung out. The Pit smelled of sex and cum and blood.

  He had an erection the entire time he spoke to Steve—and Steve had noticed. He had smiled. I know some sweet little bitch who can ease you.

  Ben had pulled away. Candyce was still too near. Her cry of pain and his powerful, shattering orgasm still echoed in his head. I'm going to Seattle. I can't stay here.

  Steve had smiled. Ben couldn't see his eyes in the darkness. Sure you can, Steve had said. Ben didn't remember the Steve he used to know having such self-assurance. Ben had searched him out here because they had had similar pasts, similar outlooks. But sometime after Steve's disappearance, the outlook had changed. He didn't know Steve at all any more. Stay here. Free food. Great sex. All you got to do is sit in the Pit six nights out of seven. Not a bad life.

  Ben glanced around. Most people had a glazed look. In the corner, near the empty fireplace, a woman had pulled up her skirt and was sitting on a man's lap. He could hear her moans from across the room. The sexual excitement it aroused in him made him uneasy. He tugged on his jeans and adjusted his position on the chair. He couldn't stay here six nights out of seven. He had to go somewhere, do something. He hadn't spent all those years in school to throw it away because his hormones had run wild.

  Steve seemed to catch the distaste Ben was feeling. Running away won't change anything.

  I'm not running, Ben had said. God, Steve. I got a future ahead of me. I can't spend the next year in a bar, letting someone else take care of me.

  Steve's smile had grown. Yeah, right. He bent over a bar napkin, took a pen out of his pocket, and scrawled something down. Look, you get up there and you feel lost, I got some friends who can help you. Show 'em this note. They'll let you join 'em. They're ambitious, just like you are. You'll fit right in.

  Ben had pocketed the note, thinking he would never use it. But he held it now, wondering how Steve's friends could help him. He hated being bored, and lost, and aimless. He had a B.A. from the University of Or
egon in pre-law, with grades high enough to get him into any law school in the country, but the idea of continuing his education—walking across campuses in the sunlight—made him cringe. Maybe he could find a job as a waiter. Something he could do at night until his sensitivity to sunlight eased.

  He would have to find an apartment, but he hadn't found a place in Seattle that welcomed him yet. He couldn't go back home and face his parents. Not after Candyce.

  The steps finally brought him to that dark, wide road. Cars zoomed past him. A handful of other ferry riders stood at the crosswalk, staring down the curve in the road as if they could see where the cars stopped.

  Candyce would have told someone by now. She would have to explain the bruises. He took a deep breath and shook his head. Even he couldn't explain the bruises.

  He loved her. A man didn't treat the woman he loved that way.

  Finally the stream eased enough that he could dodge across, passing the lonesome cabs, and jumping over streetcar tracks, until he was on a sidewalk that sloped up. Toward life.

  A gray government building stood to his right, with a hotel to his left. As he walked, a tall, thin man flanked him. Ben resisted the urge to check his wallet.

  "Hey!" the man called. "You just get off the ferry?"

  Ben hurried to the cross street. Another block up, he could see people ambling down a tree-lined street.

  "Hey!" the man called. "I'm talking to you."

  Even from his position ahead of the man, Ben could smell the alcohol. Cheap stuff, overlaying the odor of the man's unwashed clothing and skin.

  "Did you just get off the ferry?"

  The crawling feeling had returned, even though the sunlight wasn't there. If he closed his eyes, he could Candyce's shocked face, taste the warmth of her just before the orgasm pulsed through him.