A Whisper in the Dark by K J Sutton & Jessi Elliott

Author:K J Sutton & Jessi Elliott
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
ISBN: 9781777006624
Published: 2020-04-28T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Four

Tossing and turning for a few hours, I finally pass out, only to wake shortly afterward to an unbearable pain in my gums. My fangs slip down, throbbing with a burning need that has me sitting up in a flash.

I can’t wait any longer—I need to feed. After everything that’s happened in the last twenty-four hours, it’s a miracle I’ve lasted this long.

Shoving my feet into my sneakers, I move to the door and slip into the empty hallway. Someone is snoring so violently that I can feel vibrations of it through the floorboards. Moving faster than human eyes—or inquisitive cats—can track, I’m out of the boardinghouse and jogging down the street in seconds. I pull my hood up as feeble protection against the sun’s luminescent gaze.

In the harsh light of day, it’s immediately apparent that Oldbel is a city of very few beauties—most of the buildings are rundown or fading. Weeds sprout through cracks in the pavement and there are broken windows everywhere I look. The only people that are awake are the addicts, several of which I slink past as they get their fixes in alleys or slumped against walls.

I’ve always thought of this part of New Ve as colorless, and it’s unfortunate to be proven correct.

Keeping to the shadows, I push my senses out until I pick up the scent of blood. A lot of blood, making its source unmistakeable.

A feeding unit.

Within minutes, I’m standing outside yet another dilapidated building. If I weren’t so desperate for blood, I’d walk away now. That’s probably what the owner of this site counts on—vampires who are too hungry, too desperate to care what this place looks like or whether it’s entirely legal. I exhale heavily, shame and embarrassment clinging to me, and cringe as I pull the glass door open and step inside.

Immediately, my nostrils are assaulted by a sharp mixture of blood and bleach. I try to focus on the mouth-watering metallic instead of the poor attempt at making this place seem clean. A quick glance around tells me it’s far from it.

The facility is comprised of just one room. The only attempt at privacy for the feedings are thin, stained sheets between each bed. The tiles are peeling from the subfloor and the walls have spackle patches all over them. There’s an enormous reddish-brown stain on the floor. Overhead, one of the fluorescent lights flicker. A fan hums in the corner, despite the chill autumn air outside.

I go through the motions of paying for and picking a feeder from the human waiting room. It’s a process new to me, as I’ve always had feeders brought to me at the mansion, but it’s straightforward enough.

My eyes immediately go to a middle-aged woman sitting in the middle of a row of chairs, wearing faded jeans and a wrinkled T-shirt with some whiskey brand logo on it that undoubtedly no longer exists. She’s knitting what looks to be a scarf, her hands working the multi-colored wool with her needles, but she’s looking straight ahead.

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