CHAPTER 1 Bride McKells meandered along the crowded street in the pulsing heart of New Chicago, moonlight and multihued shop lights blending together to create a sparkling canvas of dream and shadow. Chaos and calm. Red brick buildings stretched at her sides, each fairly new, no clear, breakable glass or blink-and-it's-inflames wood in sight. A shame. She loved peeking into shops and imagining owning whatever was being sold just as much as she loved the smell of pine.
Neither of which she would be enjoying anytime soon. Windows were now made of dark "shield armor," and wood was scarce.
After the human-alien war, everything had had to be rebuilt for strength and durability, even while resources had been limited, the world a shell of its former self. Good-bye extraneous use of pretty glass and sweetly fragranced timber. Now, almost eighty years later -- eighty years in which Bride had barely aged -- everything was comprised of unattractive, dirt-scented stone.
Not a bad smell, but when paired with the reeking public...Ugh. Every day it worsened. Perfumes and body odor, flowery laundry soaps and car exhaust. And food. Oh, God, the food, the spices. Her too-sensitive nose wrinkled in distaste. McBean burgers, fried chicken, and the ever-popular syn-milk...the list could go on and on. Mind on the task at hand, or you'll puke. Already bile rose in her throat, burning.
Deep breath in, hold...hold...deep breath out. Men and women, both human and nonhuman, bustled in every direction, some in a mad rush to reach their destination, some as unhurried as her. Only difference was, they were shopping for clothes and shoes. Bride was looking for her next meal: warm blood from a live, jugular tap.
Unfortunately, tonight's buffet was lacking. As usual. All those smells...Back to that already, are we? The bile threatened to spill over.
She supposed, to a human, finding a tasty meal among this stretch would be the equivalent of picking between oversalted pasta, the charred nibblets left in the bottom of an oven, or stale toast seasoned with week-old mayonnaise. Again, ugh. But hungry as she was, weak as she was becoming, she needed to feed. Soon. No matter how crappy the buffet.
Lately, though, she couldn't eat indiscriminately without severe consequences. Most blood -- human or otherworlder, it didn't matter -- now left her writhing in a dirty alley, vomiting and moaning in pain for hours. Why, she didn't know. She only knew it had started about a month ago and had yet to abate.
If she'd known another vampire, she would've asked what was going on. But did she know another vampire? Nooo. Except for movies and books, she'd never even seen another of her kind.
She hated -- hated! -- not understanding her own body.
Just one bloodsucker. That's all I need. Were they dead? Was she the last? Her earliest memories were of herself, alone, always alone, walking the streets of New Chicago, just like she was doing now, the words "Bride McKells" tattooed on the inside of her wrist, lost, hungry, starving actually, stumbling and finally falling against the pavement.
A human male had scooped her up without a word -- intentions unknown, even now -- and Bride's gaze had locked on the vein fluttering along the column of his neck. Her mouth had watered, her teeth had sharpened, and the next thing she'd known, she'd bitten him, gulping back every drop of crimson nectar she could. He had collapsed, but she hadn't released her hold on him. He had spasmed and gasped and fought, but still she'd maintained her grip. Only when he had stilled, his vein as dry as an empty cup, had she moved away.
Her strength -- instantly restored. Her eyesight -- unbelievably perfect. Her hearing -- exponentially better. Her sense of smell -- too strong, sickening, but filterable. Her touch -- ultra sensitive.
Her guilt -- raging.
She'd been a child in mind and body, perhaps no more than eight human years, starving, tired, desperate, and feeling utterly abandoned. Yet even with her limited understanding she'd known, beyond any doubt, that she'd just wrongly killed a man. And sadly, he hadn't been the last. Several years had passed before she'd learned to control her urges, to disengage before swallowing that final, life-taking gulp.
Now, nearly a century later, she should have been a wrinkled hag, doddering and senile, but she looked twenty-one and was stronger than ever. The people around her had aged, of course; most had even died. A few years ago, she'd had to fake her own death and come back as someone else. She could have traveled somewhere else, but hadn't. The only person she'd ever loved was here, somewhere. So here Bride would stay.
"Hey," a male suddenly said, keeping pace beside her.
Startled, she flicked him a glance and sized him up in less than a second. Sandy-colored hair, brown eyes. Young, probably early twenties. Several inches taller than her. Clean shaven. Looked about as dangerous as a stuffed animal. But if he was anything like her, he sewed razors into his shirtsleeves and pant pockets, proving just how deceiving looks could be.
"Sorry to rush at you like that. 'Cause I know it's uncool to approach a woman who's alone at night, but I'm not creepy or anything," he added, palms raised as if that proved his innocence. "I swear."
She quickened her steps, preferring a murderer to the sales pitch she suspected was coming. "Sorry, I'm broke." And sadly, that was the truth.
"I'm not selling anything," he said. "Swear to God!"
"All salesman say that -- right before they reveal an item I just can't live without." That never changed, no matter the era or season.
"Okay, maybe I am trying to sell you something, but it's not what you think. Honest."
It never was. She sucked in a breath, preparing to use her voice voodoo and compel him to leave, when she caught the vaguest hint of grilled chicken, cloned of course, and white rice. Nothing else. No spices. No other scents to clutter up her nose and burn her belly.
Bride cast him another quick but assessing glance. Clearly, he was fresh from an enzyme shower, not a speck of dirt on him. His heartbeat was strong, his energy levels high. The moisture in her mouth increased.
Maybe she'd be able to keep him down.
The thought was heady. Appearances are deceptive, remember? Maybe he'd make her sicker than ever. Only one way to find out. She softened her expression. "So what are you trying to sell me, hmm?"
"Well...me. Only, I'm available free of charge." Twin pink circles painted his cheeks, and his pulse kicked up another notch. Desire wafted from him, barely discernible, but there all the same. "I, uh, noticed you back at Sid's and thought I'd introduce myself."
"I wasn't at Sid's tonight." Last night, sure. It was her favorite hangout, a local bar that catered to sensitives -- otherworlders who were as overwhelmed by smells as she was. No perfumes were allowed. No illegal cigarette smoke.
She was a regular, and the otherworldly patrons assumed she was a human with a fetish. Yeah, that made them leery of her, but she let them assume it. While humans and aliens might cohabitate, that didn't mean they were comfortable with each other yet. But better to be feared than hunted. If nothing else, old vampire movies had taught her that.
"I know you weren't there tonight, but I saw you yesterday and then again as I was walking out tonight and you were, uh, passing by. So I ran after you," he admitted with a self-deprecating grin. "Impulse. Gets me every time. I'm Tom, by the way."
Points to Tom for being brave enough to approach her. She hadn't been asked on a date in months and had begun to think something was wrong with her. But...wait. She hadn't noticed him last night and wondered why he hadn't approached her then, if he'd been interested in her. Why now? Because she was on her own, seemingly helpless?
So suspicious! "What are you doing hanging out at Sid's? You're not the usual patron."
His cheeks reddened again.
Ah. Trying to nail otherworlder ass. Should have known. A classic pastime for today's youth. No wonder his scent was so unassuming. He'd picked up a sensitive before and knew how to go about it. "And you decided to come after me, huh?"
"Well, yeah. I'd really like to get to know you."
"Get to know you." Code for "fuck your brains out and never call you," perhaps. God, when had she become so cynical? Since her last boyfriend had dumped her for being moody and secretive, and her rebound hadn't called her, she supposed. "Why didn't you try and get to know me last night? Since you noticed me, I mean."
He swallowed, even missed a step and tripped forward. Thankfully he righted himself before he fell. "I was there with someone else and couldn't get away. But she was just a friend, honest."
Just a friend. Right. And I wouldn't like to nibble on your carotid.
Bride twisted to the side to avoid slamming into a woman in a hurry, a woman whose heels clacked faster and faster against the pavement in a booming rhythm that made her cringe. After a decent meal, she would be able to control the volume in her ears.
Her gaze slid back to Tom. Why not? she thought. He was young, but he probably wouldn't put up a fight when she came at him with fangs bared. He might actually like it. Kids were kinky these days. Of course, that would mean avoiding him for the rest of his life.
She could erase the memory of her eating habits from his mind if she only drank from him once. But if she were to go to him for a second helping, his mind would begin to build an immunity against her "forget me" suggestions. He would remember her and what she'd done, and word about what she was would leak. Spread. That's why she'd never been able to drink from her boyfriends, and why she'd had to sneak away every night from her only live-in to find a meal. That's also why he'd considered her secretive and ultimately booted her from his life.
Eating from the same buffet was a mistake she'd made few times bef...
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