Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 116618 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 583(@200wpm)___ 466(@250wpm)___ 389(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116618 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 583(@200wpm)___ 466(@250wpm)___ 389(@300wpm)
I have two options. I can go to one of the blood banks that operate under the guise of paint stores. They’re run by vampires, of course, giving out human blood in paint cans. The problem with these places is that you can’t be sure if they’re, well, morally sourced. Vampires don’t need to kill humans to survive, but we do need their blood. There are some people who will willingly give their blood—humans in the know—but it takes connections to find them. When you’re dealing with a paint store, most of the blood supplied is from people vampires have gone out and specifically killed.
And yes, I know, that’s what we’re supposed to do. It’s in our nature. But it’s hard to operate in this world, to blend in and befriend humans and then turn around and kill them for food. There’s a reason most humans don’t become best friends with a cow.
There was only one time where I had to kill someone, but I didn’t do it on purpose. I was attacked walking home late one night. A man who thought it might be fun to violate the woman he just saw on stage. He cornered me near a construction site and I fought back. It was self-defense—at first. Then bloodlust took over. I fed and fed, then got enough sense to call my friend Abe and get help covering it up.
That’s who I need to call now, though I’ve been putting it off for one reason or another. Probably because I know I’m going to get a talking to. He’s a doctor and lectures are his forte.
I pick up the phone and dial.
“Van Helsing,” his lightly accented voice says through the line.
“Abe? It’s Lena.”
A pause. “I had a feeling you’d call.”
Abe has always had better intuition than most. He’s been alive and pivotal to the vampire community through many centuries, even inspired a character in Bram Stoker’s Dracula.
“Can I come over?” I ask. “I’m hungry.”
Abe’s place is out in Malibu, on a beautiful fog-shrouded stretch of the coast. A burgeoning playground for the rich and corrupted, as well as the perfect cover for a colony of vampires. Abe started it with us in mind, wanting a place that vampires in the area could live and feed without suspicion. Says he was inspired by a friend up in San Francisco who runs a similar situation. Aside from his main house with the many guest bedrooms, there’s a tract of housing that extends into the canyons on the other side of the Roosevelt Highway where many vampires live full-time.
I’d lived there when I first moved to Los Angeles. I didn’t arrive alone—my father came with me, and he knew Ezra, one of Abe’s friends, quite well. Made him promise to take care of me, show me the ropes of how to be a vampire alone in a big city.
After a few months, though, I started getting singing gigs and I wanted to be closer to the city. Still stayed in touch with Abe and the rest, depending on them for help with ethical feedings, but I haven’t been out this way for quite a while. Being around humans all day, being with Marco, has gone a long way in making me forget what I am.
Until the hunger strikes.
Abe’s home sits on a pristine stretch of beach, a modernist structure of glass and concrete that seems to grow from the cliffside itself. As I pull into the circular drive, I see lights glowing warmly through the fog, beckoning me inside.
Abe is already at the door by the time I’m walking up, the sound of the ocean surf drowning out the click of my heels on the smooth pavement.
“Lena,” he says warmly in his cultured accent, holding out his arms.
I step into his embrace, finding comfort in his grasp. He smells like cedar and ocean spray with a touch of bergamot, probably from his beloved Earl Grey tea.
“Hello, Abe,” I say, smiling into him. I pull back and give him the once over. Though he seems the same—floppy red-orange hair, bright, intelligent eyes behind his glasses that are only there for show—he looks spiffier than usual. Abe is usually a fairly modest man, something he blames on being Dutch and then spending centuries in England, but today his navy suit looks impeccable. “New threads?”
“My current company insisted I dress better,” he says wryly. “You must come in and meet him. He’s a musician, you know, among other things. I would love to see you do a duet on the piano.”
He brings me inside the house and to the living room that leads out to an expansive deck and the fog beyond, where three figures emerge from the shadows. Two I recognize as Ezra—charming smile, dark hair, perpetual stubble—and Adonis—a giant at six-five, thick black hair, amber eyed. But the third figure takes my breath away as he steps into view.