The Kindred

Deadpan, he said, “But I can’t if you’re not here when I get back.”

Knowing what he’d done to her—and why he’d done it—sent fury erupting to the surface. Blind with rage, Gaby swung at him, but he ducked and the momentum turned her so that he caught her back to his chest.

“Easy now.” His whisper held amusement.

“You miserable fucking jerk!” She considered maiming him. “It wasn’t enough to leave me wanting you. No, you had to go and amp it up.”

“Take what you feel, multiply it by a hundred, and that’s what I’m suffering, too.” His lips teased her ear as he spoke softly to her. “Be here when I return, and we’ll both get some relief.”

“Fuck you.”

His sigh was long and filled with frustration. “If you’re going out, do you need any money?”

Her spine snapped straight so fast that it hurt. Without thinking it through, Gaby stomped his foot, and when his hold loosened, she brought her elbow back hard into his midsection.

He wheezed—and released her so he could fold in on himself.

Breathing hard and nearly blinded by her pride, Gaby spun around to face him. Through her teeth she ground out, “I will never, ever take money from you.”

One hand rubbing his ribs, his expression a mix of pain, anger, and resignation, Luther slumped back against the wall. “You could have just said no.”

Well, yeah . . . she could have. Gaby eyed him, saw she’d truly hurt him, and wilted.

Now feeling guilty, Gaby reiterated, “I don’t need your money.”

“You have your own?”

“Yes.” Oh God, now he was going to ask her how she got money. Gaby waited, her brain churning for possible explanations other than the writing and drawing of a popular underground graphic novel.

But all Luther said was, “Good. But, Gaby, if you ever do need anything, I hope you’ll come to me.”

And with that, he turned and went down the stairs and out the front door. Before closing the door behind him, he said, “Remember to lock up when you leave. You can take a spare key from the basket on top of the refrigerator.”

Gaby stared down the stairs at the closed door.

Why did he have to be that wonderful? So macho but so caring, so capable and still pure of heart.

She didn’t deserve him, but she wanted him. And he wanted her.

Then she thought of that small child she saw in her drawing. The kid was still safe, for now. If the child had been in imminent danger, duty would have sent her for it.

She had to believe that.

Gaby thought of a person vile enough who, for twisted reasons unfathomable to the sane, would want the child. It sickened her, but she feared that the same bloodsucker who had already been at work draining others now wanted the child for nourishment.

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