Chosen (Anna Strong Chronicles #6)

Chosen (Anna Strong Chronicles #6) Page 46

It grows deathly quiet around us. I can almost taste the excitement. This is the spectacle they came to see.

Lance fights at first, tries to break away. I am stronger. There's a breathless rush when his blood pours into my mouth and it seems I cannot swallow fast enough. Then, as his heartbeat slows, I take my time. He is losing himself in the pleasure of surrender. His knees buckle and I lower him to the ground, folding myself around him so he is like a doll in my arms. His thoughts are neither fevered nor bitter, his blood as sweet as I remember.

And I remember.

I remember the first time I saw him-at Glory's, a face like an angel. I remember the first time we made love. It was frenzied, passionate, our desire so intense, the bloodlust so high, we barely made it out of our clothes. I remember other times when we went slow, making love the way humans do. Enjoying our bodies and letting simple tactile senses, touch, smell, drive us to the edge. We gave each other so much pleasure. I am glad ending it this way spares him pain.

I wonder what he is remembering. His thoughts are cloaked in shadow, growing dimmer. When I try to reach him, I catch a flash of unfamiliar faces. His parents, perhaps, and his sister and brother the way they must have been the last time he saw them. So long ago.

And then even the shadows are gone. I don't stop until I feel the last flutter of his heart, savor the last drop of his blood as it flows out of his body into mine. I know it is the last because of the texture and taste. Lifeblood is mead and tastes of the earth and life. This is water and tastes of tears and death.

I, the human Anna, hold him for a long moment when it is over. I wish I felt sorrow. A part of me is devastated at what I am capable of. At what I've done. A part of me knows this is my nature. I can't fight it. I'm not sure I want to anymore.

Turnbull approaches me first. He offers his hand to help me to my feet. At this moment, I will accept nothing from him, not even the simplest act of courtesy. I close Lance's eyes, already filmed and cloudy, and stand up and away.

When I look back down, it is no longer the Lance I knew, but the husk of an elderly man. His skin sags, his hair thins to long, silver tufts. His face morphs into a gaunt mirror reflecting the rictus of death. Was it only a week ago when we were in Palm Springs and he told me his story? It was 1925. He was born in South Africa in 1925.

I turn to face Turnbull. "I want his body shipped to his family in South Africa. There is a woman in Palm Springs who will know how to reach them. I will see you get the information. Will you take care of it?"

"Yes."

He is uncomfortable, as if unprepared for this outcome. When I look around at the others, the same expression of incredulity is mirrored on the faces staring back at me.

They all expected me to lose. Even Turnbull.

"Don't I get a big gold belt? Or at least a trophy?" Sarcasm is the only way I have to give vent to my outrage. It's either that or tear Turnbull's head off.

Chael is the first to speak. This was an unfair pairing. You obviously had history with this one.

The vampire had retreated at Lance's death, now she's back. And thirsty again for a taste of this one's blood. Wasn't that the point, Chael?

I step up to him. Lance wasn't a good enough fighter? Then let's you and I have a rematch. I have no history with you.

There is a stirring among the others, a collective gasp. No one has ever challenged one of the thirteen. The surprise quickly turns to a thrill of anticipation. Lance was disposed of too quickly. There is still bloodlust to be satisfied.

Chael feels the group's enthusiasm swirling around him like sand in blowing wind. They want him to accept the challenge. Put this upstart in her place.

He also feels the depth of my fury.

He addresses them like a teacher admonishing unruly students. There is no contingency in the Grimoire for a second challenge. We are bound by the outcome of the first. It is so written.

He says it like he is disappointed but can do nothing but abide by the rules. Rules he, moments before, called "superstition." The smell of him tells me something different. It is acrid and sharp. The smell of a coward.

At that moment, I know. As old and revered among vampires as these thirteen are, they are jealous of their lives and not quick to put them in danger.

In that respect, they are no different than humans.