On The Run With A Vampire

8. Lucien

CHAPTER 8

LUCIEN

Ms. Hartley is nothing if not full of surprises.

“Come again?” I say, certain I must have misheard.

She just grins at me. “It’s the only logical next step. We’ll head to the morgue and check out the body of the latest victim. That way, we can rule out if we’re up against another vampire or someone less supernatural.”

As plans go, it’s a sound one. It makes sense too. I just didn’t expect it from her. It’s very clear to me that Ms. Hartley isn’t entirely comfortable with my way of life or the situation it’s drawn us into. Yet here she is, suggesting we simply waltz into a morgue and inspect a corpse as if it were a casual visit to a museum.

What a fascinating creature she is.

I eye her suspiciously, half expecting her to retract the suggestion with a nervous laugh or a sudden change of heart. Instead, she meets my gaze with unwavering determination, her expression a lovely blend of curiosity and resolve.

She lifts her chin slightly when she speaks next. “We need to gather information if we’re going to clear our names. And seeing the body firsthand might give us clues that the police missed.”

Her words resonate with a practicality that surprises me. Ms. Hartley is proving to be a more formidable partner in this predicament than I had initially anticipated.

It’s been a long time since I was last genuinely surprised by a human, and I don’t mind it. Not at all.

“Very well. But we’ll have to be quick and cautious. The morgue isn’t the kind of place you want to linger around in.”

Ms. Hartley gives me a look that seems to say—to use the young human expression—‘well duh,’ before her expression turns wary. “And are you going to be…alright in a morgue?”

“How do you mean?”

She shrugs. “I just mean—well. Won’t it be like a buffet for vampires? All those dead bodies just lying around? What if it triggers something in you?”

I laugh. A real, genuine laugh that starts from the pit of my stomach and erupts up my throat like a volcano. I don’t think I’ve laughed like this in decades. “Ms. Hartley,” I say in between chuckles. “I’m aware that, until a few hours ago, you believed vampires were firmly in the realm of fiction and everything you know about my kind comes from—frankly, quite offensive—modern media, but I’m not some kind of uncontrollable monster.”

I shift slightly, one arm resting against the back of the sofa, my body angling toward hers. “Would you, for example, upon seeing a slaughtered cow in the middle of the street, immediately go and warm up your grill?”

“Ew. No. Of course not.” She’s shifted too, her body language mirroring my own. There are only two seat spaces between us now.

“Well, it’s exactly the same for me. My feeds need to be—for want of a better word—prepared in a specific way. A corpse at the morgue would be just as satisfying to me as a piece of roadkill would be for you.”

Ms. Hartley nods thoughtfully, her curls bouncing as she moves. They frame her face quite delightfully.

I blink and shake my head. Not sure where that thought came from.

Ms. Hartley, thankfully, doesn’t seem to notice. “When you put it like that…” Her lips curl into a sheepish grin, I notice a faint pink flush to her cheeks.

I can’t help but notice how alluring it is. How alluring she is. Her scent permeates my senses, and I swallow thickly, trying to suppress the instinctual urge that threatens to surface.

Focus on her mouth , I tell myself. Her words, I mean.

“Yes, when put in those terms, it does make a rather stark comparison, doesn't it?” I clear my throat and glance away toward my refrigerator. “And speaking of feeding?—”

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Ms. Hartley tensing up.

“—My injury is taking more out of me than I’d like. If I’m to recuperate faster, I’ll need to indulge in some—” I click my tongue, trying to figure out a way to phrase this delicately.

“Blood,” Ms. Hartley supplies for me. “You need blood. It’s okay; you can say it.”

“It makes you uncomfortable.”

“It’s your home. Whether I’m uncomfortable or not doesn’t matter.”

I frown. “That doesn’t?—”

“Just do what you need to do.” She turns away and hugs her knees to her chest, deliberately avoiding looking at me. “Do you mind if I put the TV on? I think I need a bit of a distraction.”

“Go ahead,” I say as I push myself up from the sofa and make my way toward the refrigerator.

I hear the low hum of my television flickering to life in the background as I pull open the refrigerator door and scan its contents.

Hm.

Not great.

It seems I misremembered exactly how many blood packets I currently have because there are just three sitting on my shelf. They’ll last another 48 hours at best, at which point I’m going to have to find something a little more substantial to sink my fangs into.

I glance over in Ms. Hartley’s direction. She is, of course, off-limits. Though I’m not entirely sure why. What is stopping me from simply sinking into that tantalising spot of flesh on her neck and being done with all of this? The S.B.E.F. are a pain, yes, but I’ve been evading them successfully for decades; I’m sure I can continue to do so long enough to reach safety.

For some reason, though, the thought of doing that leaves an unpleasant taste in my mouth. Like month-old blood. Curdled and stale. I don’t like it.

I reason that it must be because I’ve brought enough upheaval into Ms. Hartley’s life; draining her blood would simply be overkill at this point. Rude , even.

But I will have to find someone to feed on soon, and I don’t imagine she’ll be pleased with that. Nevertheless, it’s unavoidable. Me getting to full strength with the S.B.E.F. breathing down our necks is a necessity, and Ms. Hartley will just have to accept that.

I swipe a blood packet from the shelf and tear it open. I take a deep breath, steeling myself against the surge of hunger that crashes over me as the scent of blood hits my nostrils, and then gulp the packet down.

I’m not usually so uncivilised, but needs must. The pain in my back lessens slightly to a dull, throbbing ache as the blood works its way through my body.

A soft gasp pulls my attention, and I look over to find Ms. Hartley peeking at me from the sofa. Her mouth is open, full lips parted in a slack ‘o’ shape, and her eyes are wide.

She doesn’t look afraid.

In fact, I think I spy a dash of intrigue simmering behind her eyes. And…is that desire? No. Can’t be. I must be mistaken.

Anyway, the flash of definitely not desire is gone as quickly as it came, leaving only curiosity behind.

“Uh—” She swallows quickly, her gaze not leaving mine for even a fraction of a second. “You’ve got some—” She lifts a hand and taps pointedly just below her lip.

I mirror her movements and sheepishly swipe away the droplets of blood currently trickling down my face. As I said, I’m not usually so messy.

“It’s been a rough evening,” I say by way of explanation as I close the refrigerator, trying not to think too hard about how I’m down to just two measly blood packets. Two!

“I hope that didn’t frighten you.”

“Oh, no. Not at all.” Her voice is unnaturally high, her cheeks still flushed. “Don’t feel like you have to stand over there to, um, finish your drink, by the way.” She clears her throat and then gestures to the copious amounts of space on the sofa next to her. “Come and sit down.”

“You promise not to faint at the sight of some blood?”

She scowls at me. Or, at least, she attempts to. There’s a mischievous sparkle behind her gaze that betrays her as she rolls her eyes. “I promise.”

I hesitate for a moment, and then, still clutching my half-empty blood packet, make my way back over to the sofa. She looks over at me, brown eyes zeroing in on the blood packet in my hand. My lips start to twitch upwards into a smug smirk even as I feel the tiny pinpricks of disappointment.

I knew it’d be too much for her.

“I swallow down a sigh. “I’ll go back?—”

“Do you like it?” Ms. Hartley asks, head tilted to the side, eyes wide. “The taste of blood, I mean. Do you genuinely like it, or is it more of just a necessity?”

I blink at her. “Excuse me?”

“I mean—” She shuffles closer to me on the sofa. Much closer. I don’t think she’s even realised how close she’s gotten. “Does it taste nice? And—well. Has it always tasted nice? Or is it an acquired taste?” Her knee brushes against mine, and she freezes, her breath catching in her throat.

Something shifts in the air around us. It’s almost as if Ms. Hartley has remembered she should be terrified of me.

And why don’t I like that?

“It’s not exactly a fine wine,” I say smoothly, trying to inject some lightness back into the air. “But there are nuances to it, yes. Some flavours are richer than others, depending on the person.”

“Depending on the person,” Ms. Hartley echoes.

“We don’t have to talk about this,” I say, my tone sharper than I’d intended. “You’re clearly uncomfortable, so why don’t we find something to distract ourselves with?” I gesture to the television, where an advertisement for a car insurance company is playing. “Something decidedly less blood-centric.”

Ms. Hartley opens her mouth like she wants to argue—about what, I’m unsure—but then she clamps it shut, turns to face the television, and says, through pursed lips, “Fine.”

She slides away from me, putting two deliberate seat cushions between us, and I immediately feel the lack of her.

I frown as Ms. Hartley begins stubbornly perusing my television channels. Another feeling I haven’t felt in a very long time begins to stir inside me. Unfortunately, it’s been so long that I no longer have a name for whatever emotion it is that’s currently choking me from within.

Because what is it called when you feel compelled to do or say something, just to put a smile on someone else’s face?

And why would I do just about anything to see Ms. Hartley smile right about now?