Blood Ties Book One: The Turning. Jennifer Armintrout
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invitation.
He merely shrugged and said, “Because without a kill order, I don’t get paid.”
“A kill order?” How much more like a bad horror movie could this possibly get?
“If you decide not to ask the Movement for membership, I’ll report you. You’ll be processed in their system and a kill order will be issued a few days later.” He shrugged again, as if he couldn’t care less about the conversation. “I suppose you could make a run for it, but until I have that order in my hand, I’m not going to do anything to you. I don’t work for free.”
I was about to argue that he could just kill me, then report me. Luckily, the common sense which seemed to have deserted me in the past few weeks found its way back, and I held my tongue. “How very Han Solo of you.”
He didn’t smile or laugh. In fact, he looked even more grave than before. “It’s up to you. Petition for membership or die. I can get them on the phone right now.”
“Fine.” I ground my teeth over the words. “Can I make an informed decision at least?”
He frowned and cocked his head, studying me from the corner of his eye, as if this were a trick. “What do you propose?”
I chose my words carefully. “Give me a chance to read The Sanguinarius and have some time to let all this sink in. I didn’t believe in vampires or monsters before tonight, and I’m in what we in the medical field call ‘a state of shock.’ It’s only fair to know what I’m getting into. Besides, I’m a smart girl. I’m not going to join up with some organization just because you claim they’re the good guys.”
“They are the good guys.” There was no amusement in his tone, just absolute conviction in the truth of his words.
I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, well that’s what the Nazis said about themselves.”
He slowly rose to his feet. Power, dark and barely leashed, emanated from him. And that, combined with his physical presence, made him more terrifying than John Doe had been as he’d sunk his claws into me.
Of course, John Doe hadn’t been this hot. Somehow, my physical attraction to Nathan made him seem more dangerous.
But he didn’t attack me. He just invaded my personal space and shattered my comfort zone. He leaned down so our noses practically touched. “How do I know you’re not stalling so you can get back to Cyrus and gain his protection?”
“Because until you mentioned it, the thought hadn’t crossed my mind.” I don’t know if he expected me to cower or cry or melt into his arms, but I could tell by the pronounced blink of his eyes that I’d surprised him. “Give me a couple of weeks. You can even check in on me. I’ll give you an answer at the end.”
“Or you’ll run screaming.” He tried again to frighten me, but I was confident he wouldn’t kill me tonight. Something in the way he raked his eyes over my body, like he did now, raw and hungry, told me he had something of a soft spot for women. Or a hard spot, depending on how you looked at it.
A deliberately slow smile played across my lips. “Do I look like the kind of girl who runs away from trouble?”
He folded his arms across his chest. “You ran away from Ziggy.”
Touché. “Yeah, but Ziggy had an axe. Are you going to kill me with your bare hands?”
He grinned. “I’m good with my hands.”
Holy hormones, Batman.
The door to Ziggy’s room burst open, and Nathan instantly stepped away. The teen stalked angrily into the kitchen, middle finger raised toward Nathan as he passed.
“I know, I know, I’ve got an early class, I should get my rest,” the boy called. “Psych 101, I so need to be awake for that. I’m just making a sandwich before bed.”
“Bed?” I asked stupidly, checking my watch. Ten after ten. “I have to go.”
Nathan followed me to the door. “Have you thought of what you’ll do should Cyrus come looking for you?”
I hadn’t. “I’ll tell him to go away, that I gave at the office,” I said, my uneasiness at the prospect betrayed by my forced laugh.
I couldn’t stand the thought that I shared a plasma-level connection with the monster who’d attacked me. It was bad enough he’d invaded my nightmares. His blood had become part of me, too.
Nathan studied my face for a moment, and I stared back, unable to discern a single emotion. He’d probably practiced hiding his feelings for so long that even he couldn’t find them. He looked away and handed me my coat. “If you need anything, you have my number. And this,” he said. He held out The Sanguinarius.
I took the book in one hand and awkwardly tried to slip into my coat with the other. He moved behind me to help, and it took all my self-control to keep from leaning against him. What could I say? It had been a long time since I’d engaged in threatening, pseudo-sexual banter with anyone.
“Thanks,” I said quietly, putting my hand on the doorknob.
“One more thing,” Nathan said. “If you need blood, please come to me. I always have some to spare. Just don’t go outside afterward. In the daytime, I mean. In fact, you should probably start avoiding it entirely. I’m sure after a while, even if you hold out from feeding, the change will complete itself on its own. I’m always here, if you need…help.”
“Thanks, but I don’t have any desire to drink blood.”
“You’ll feel it soon,” Nathan warned as I descended the stairs.
“Feel what?” I was more concerned by the prospect of the snow on the ground outside than his ominous tone.
“The hunger. You’ll feel the hunger.”
Four
When Carrie Met Dahlia
I didn’t give Nathan’s warning much thought until the night the hunger came over me.
I’d spent the week doing my best to live life as though nothing had changed. Faced with what might be the last fourteen days of life before submitting myself to the Movement’s judgment, I was going to savor them.
Of course, I read The Sanguinarius. It was as dry and Victorian as Lord of the Rings. I reminded myself that the course of my existence was dependent upon finishing this particular book.
Nathan called to check in on me every night. I cursed myself for having a listed number. Sometimes his call came after I’d gone to work, and soon I found myself actually looking forward to the end of my shift so I could hear his voice on my answering machine. But by the end of the week, my spare thoughts—no, my every thought—had turned to blood.
To get through my night shifts at the hospital, I snacked constantly. Coffee, pizza, popcorn, anything with a substantial aroma that covered the smell of blood. A few nurses made envious remarks about my ability to eat so much and never gain weight. I barely heard them. The obnoxious thumping of their pulses was all I could hear.
Blood became an all-consuming distraction. I took numerous, drastic measures to ensure the safety of everyone around me. On my frequent breaks, I locked myself in the staff bathroom and used a razor blade to make small, shallow cuts on the inside of my arm. Then I licked away the blood that welled up. It did little to slake my thirst, but the resultant marks piqued the interest of the psychiatry resident. I spent a great deal of time avoiding him and his softly spoken invitations to talk about my “recovery.”
Despite my hunger, I couldn’t stomach the thought of drinking human blood. Once or twice, in desperation, I’d snuck a vial drawn from a patient and brought it home with me. But the threat of tiny viruses just waiting to take up residence in my body made my skin crawl. I poured the blood down the sink