The Big Smoke. Jason Nahrung
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Blake chortled. 'Yeah, she's so scary, ain't she? Wait.' He left the room, leaving them staring at each other, Kevin nervous, she seemingly amused, and returned shortly with a silver chalice, which he passed to Mel.
Kevin held out a hand. She pulled the blade from her boot. Blood splattered into the chalice. The wound closed before the cup was full, but she was satisfied.
Mel sipped.
Her pupils dilated to black: 'Fuck me.'
Mel filled her mouth again, then turned to Blake and kissed him, long and tenderly. The poet stumbled back, eyes shut, face turned to the ceiling, a thin trickle of blood running from one corner of his mouth. Mel wiped it with a finger.
Blake moaned. His face was swollen and ruddy, his eyes fevered and bulging, the whites webbed with scarlet veins.
'Dangerous, isn't it — tasting one of us?' Kevin asked. 'Bedlam and all that.'
'You're too young to have that many ghosts,' Mel said. 'Besides, I have an aptitude.'
'Aptitude? I had one of them once.'
She gave him a curious look, as though she should know what he meant, but didn't. Like hearing a song she'd heard once, but not knowing its name or even where she'd heard it.
'I guess I should thank you for asking,' he said. 'You could've put that spike in my heart and taken what you wanted any time.'
'Between you and me, I prefer the head, if you can afford the risk. Longer recovery time if you don't do any permanent injury.' She winked. 'And don't think I wasn't tempted. Not after that chomp you left in Greaser for me to heal. It was only the extremity of the situation that prevented me, that and your apparent contrition.'
'Oh, yes,' Blake whispered. His lips drew thin and tight, eyebrows almost meeting over the furrow as he stared at Kevin. 'Quite the time you've been having, chum. Making friends in all the wrong places. I think the Needle will definitely want to meet you.'
'How soon?'
'I'll get Greaser to set it up; once we're done.'
'I'll see Kevin gets to him,' Mel said.
'Um, we're meeting,' Blake said.
'He's all I've got for you tonight. That should be plenty of grist for the mill.'
'I want you here.'
'Viscounts have already taken a shot at him. VS will be all over it by now.'
'All the more reason to stay.'
'He needs to get to the Needle. You should come too.'
'I'm meeting.'
'And I'm not.'
For a long moment, they stood with gazes locked.
Blake blinked. 'Come, come, I have forgotten my hospitality.'
'Blake,' Mel said, but he was ushering Kevin out, his hand hot on Kevin's elbow, his breath gusting with the heavy scent of fresh blood.
Blake pointed at a hooting boy in velvet and said, 'Ambrose, our guest needs a drink. A little something for the road.'
Bella huffed, and the rest went quiet. Kevin could hear the candles flicker; the room was so silent.
'It's short for Ambrosia, don't you know,' Blake said, in a stage whisper that made his fawning gang giggle.
The blushing boy came to him, arms out, wrists up. 'Unless you prefer it somewhere else.'
Kevin shook his head. 'I've eaten.'
Mel touched his arm. 'It wouldn't hurt. You've been running on empty for days; that nip you took from Greaser hasn't even touched the sides. I can tell.'
'He's already had Greaser?' Ambrose said. 'That Snipe?'
'That Snipe is my friend,' Mel said.
'Sure, but—'
'The arm is fine.' Kevin pulled his knife.
'A blade? Really?' The kid looked crestfallen.
'The country boy is shy,' Blake said, and was rewarded with another chuckle from his flock. It did little to ease the air of anticipation, however; all gazes meeting on that pale patch of flesh in Kevin's grip.
Kevin cut the kid's arm, was rewarded with a quick intake of breath, from Ambrose and those watching; the wound gave up its liquid, and he lapped. If Blake had expected him to be squeamish about eating in public, well, guess again, wanker. Besides, he needed information, and neither Blake nor Mel was being overly forthcoming.
'Better than goon,' one murmured.
The connection came, a deeper current under the crimson rush. The boy — estranged from his parents on account of his homosexuality, working his way through art school, a living cliché — was one of Blake's three red-eyes, fed on blood passed around in a chalice. They and the rest of the gang called themselves The Romantics; they hung out in cafes and clubs when they weren't at university or working behind counters or dole bludging. They knew the reality of Blake's nature; that was why they'd joined his Murder. Blake needed a big gang of red-eyes and wannabes. There were other vampire gangs out there, gangs like Johnny Slick's Viscounts — hungry for turf, hungry for veins. It was only VS that kept them from tearing each other apart, by restricting the numbers of vampires and red-eyes, and enforcing hunting grounds to keep the factions apart. Certain bars and clubs, certain hospitals at certain nights of the week, made available to certain gangs outside their own little ecosystems of give and take. Making other vampires was strictly verboten unless the Old Man gave the nod for some act of loyalty. Mel was Blake's only vampire offspring. They had arrived together a few years back, on Blake's Grand Tour of the world; he called her his muse. Others called her his slave, his daughter, his second. Ambrose's blood didn't reveal what she called herself.
A part of Kevin — the loneliness, or perhaps merely the ever-present hunger — wanted very much to know. So compell ing, the thought of opening her flesh, there on her pale neck, firm yet soft, the taste of her, the life she'd led, the lives she'd consumed, and often he sensed, at Blake's request.
Kevin clung to Ambrose, his heart pounding as the blood and memories sizzled through his veins. The aroma of lust and blood clouded his senses. Hopeful faces peered at him. Bella's fleshy hand was at her throat, as though already feeling his fangs in her.
Hunger urged him to sink again into the boy, but he resisted.
'Another? More? A growing boy needs to eat.' Blake peered at him, face flushed with fervour.
And Kevin saw in Ambrose's lifestream:
Blake, thrashing Ambrose with his cane. The boy, naked crouched, his ribs and back striped and mottled with welts. Melpomene saying, enough, and Bella in the background, staring, with big, wet eyes. And Blake, pushing Mel away, and stabbing. And turning back to Ambrose, a single slash spilling crimson: 'suffer for your art, boy'. And Ambrose thanking him. Thanking him as Bella licks at the blood, and Blake takes her while he sprouts poetry, and Mel slowly heals, rumpled and forgotten
'There's more where that came from,' Blake said.
Kevin forced himself to let Ambrose go. 'I've had enough.'
The kid slumped and someone helped him to a nearby sofa. They watched the cut heal where Kevin had smeared his own blood on it. The boy was a red-eye, suckled on Blake's blood; despite the anti-coagulant in Kevin's spittle he'd have healed quickly enough, but Kevin figured he owed the kid something for the donation.
'In that case, get out.' Bloody sweat beaded Blake's forehead and upper lip. 'Out. All of you. Out!'
Blake scrabbled with shaking hands at a satchel hanging from a coat rack, and took from it a notebook bound in leather, and a long box, which he opened quickly, like an asthmatic digging for a puffer, and pulled free a fountain pen.
He saw Kevin staring and said, 'Nothing like the scratching of the nib upon parchment. So pure!'