Bloodbank (Monterey Shorts) by Angel Mark C.; Kemp Chris; Schmidt Shaheen

Author:Angel, Mark C.; Kemp, Chris; Schmidt, Shaheen
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: ANAMedia International
Published: 2011-07-13T04:30:00+00:00

***

Kamil turned away from his stargazing, stepped into the tiled shower at Bernardus, and closed the glass door to the sunken basin. He turned the hot water on and stood under it waiting for the warmth of the stream to penetrate his time-hardened skin, taking the edge off the perpetual chill of his cold, undead body.

Barely a month had passed since he had last swallowed blood, but the cravings were back and had grown to almost consume him. He rubbed his elongated upper incisors as he contemplated the purpose of his visit to Carmel. It certainly wasn’t recreational—say a round of golf or a tour of scenic vistas. No, it was a matter of life and death for the mortals who would fall victim to him if he didn’t find a less lethal way to quench the Thirst.

Shutting off the water, Kamil shook the moisture off himself in the shower stall. He did it with the motion of a dog, but at the speed of a hummingbird, and then stepped out and looked toward the mirror: it revealed nothing—no sign of his olive Mediterranean skin, no sign of his kinky black hair; no sign of his muscular frame; no reflection at all.

That didn’t bother him, although it seemed a shame that he couldn’t see his own features beneath the finery he had draped over himself, the most attractive items garnered from a myriad of past victims. Tonight he wore a red silk shirt and gabardine slacks from a successful London businessman; a vintage tie from a nineteenth-century Italian noble; patent leather shoes from a Chicago mobster, and fine silk socks from a Burmese banker.

Kamil placed a handsome tip on the mahogany bedside table and left the room, hunger gnawing at him. Summoning his strength, he sped off through the shadows toward the village district of Carmel-by-the-Sea, where the nightlife was underlit, if not subdued.

Where might Lilac be?

By the time he had reached the damp darkness near Eighth Avenue off Lincoln, just a block or two from downtown, Kamil had yet an inkling of how to find the woman who might offer him salvation. He did, however, find another.

At first he tried to ignore her by averting his senses. But it was too late—he had seen it and it was irresistible.

She wore a snakeskin jacket that was to die for.

Kamil’s desire for the jacket overwhelmed his willpower to stifle his instincts and he gave in to the Thirst: slip, skip, and slide into the shadows, a hundred paces in mere seconds, no mote of dust disturbed. Now, mere inches behind his oblivious victim, he placed his hands on her shoulders. She flinched, but he soothed her with the power of his mind and hushed her softly as he turned her toward him.

He caressed the snakeskin that she wore. Her eyes met his and she seemed to recognize something in his look.

“You can’t resist it, can you?” she asked knowingly.

He leaned toward her and, as if captured by a secondary thought, brushed

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