Blood Ties Book Two: Possession

“Father Bart and Sister Helen,” the girl whispered tearfully. “They—”

“I know what they did to her.” He turned his head and reached for the wall for support. “Cover her up.”

Hello, conscience. We meet again.

When the girl returned to his side, she was trembling. He wanted to strike her for her weakness, as he would have in his former life. Now, he doubted he could lift his arm on his own. Shameful as it was, he relied on her. It wouldn’t do much good to put her off helping him.

“The rectory is downstairs.” She sniveled pathetically as she opened a door. Shag-carpeted steps led down into darkness. “I think that’s where they’ll keep us. It’s where they’ve been keeping me.”

His mind raced, trying to piece together the information he remembered from his former life, and how it might apply to his current situation. “And who are ‘they’?”

“Monsters.” The word came out as less than a whisper.

He wished he could push her down the stairs. Unfortunately, that would send him tumbling, as well. “Yes, vampires. I know. But who are they?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know what you’re—”

“Who are they? Who are they allies with? Are they the Fangs or the Celts or the Coveners?” He searched his memory for the names of other vampire gangs, and his heart seized in fear. “They’re not Movement?”

What a stupid question. Of course they weren’t the Movement. It wouldn’t make sense for the Voluntary Vampire Extinction Movement to bring vampires back from the dead.

Unless his new, human existence was some form of sadistic punishment they’d dreamed up. If it were, he could guess who’d moved his name to the top of that list.

The girl helped him down the stairs to a cinder block apartment with a cot, a reclining chair, a dented aluminum TV tray with a half-eaten microwave dinner and a copy of the TV Guide, turned to the crossword puzzle, atop it. A small bookshelf supported a television and a few books, with a bottle of holy water and a rosary nestled in the corner.

Cyrus gestured to the water. “Hide that.”

The girl propped him against the wall before moving to do his bidding. “Why?”

“Because there are a lot of vampires upstairs, and they apparently didn’t search this room thoroughly. Any potential weapon we can find would be nice to keep.” He frowned at her as she picked up the bottle and walked past him, not sparing him a glance. “What’s the matter with you?”

“Nothing.” The word was accompanied by a hysterical, terrified hiccup. “Aside from being kidnapped by vampires and watching my two best friends murdered.”

He wrinkled his nose at the thought. “If your two best friends were a nun and a priest, I’d say something is definitely the matter with you. But I meant why won’t you look at me?”

This forced her to do so, her eyes wide behind a few slashes of mousy-brown hair. “Be-because you’re naked.”

It had been a long, long while since he’d had a good laugh at another’s expense. He thoroughly enjoyed laughing now, though he wobbled precariously against the cinder blocks at his back. “Oh, let me guess. You’re a sister, too, Sister?”

She blushed as if the thought was preposterous. “No.”

“It’s a shame. I always found nuns to be the most fun. They’d all say no at first, but they’d be begging for it by the time I was through.” He shrugged and ignored her sob of horror. “I want to use the toilet and have a bath. You’ll have to help me. And then you can find some of the preacher’s clothes for me.”

“What if they come down here?” She clutched his arm, apparently more afraid of their captors than his naked flesh.

“I’d suggest you drop the innocent act quickly. They’re more likely to let you live if you’re an active participant.” He shook her off, then promptly fell to the floor. He couldn’t stand the sound of her sharp, pitying gasp, so he tried to crawl.

“Let me help you,” she said quietly, kneeling at his side. And, because he was so damn weak, he let her assist him to his feet.

The bathroom was small, nothing like he was used to in his former life. But it had a bathtub, and the hideous orange shag carpet didn’t creep past the doorway. If it weren’t for the unevenly patterned tile floor, he’d almost say this was his favorite room yet.

He endured the humiliation of another human helping him to use the toilet, then the girl set about turning on the rusted taps to fill the gleaming, porcelain tub.

She helped him into the water, and he hissed at the sting of it on his skin. She didn’t seem to care, her thin arms quaking with obvious exhaustion as she lowered him into the tub. “Will you be able to sit up?”

“I am seated in a veritable cauldron of scalding water. I’ll endeavor to keep the rest of myself out of it, yes.”

She left him alone with his thoughts then, and there were a fair amount of them. Too exhausted to do little more than think, he considered the steps he would take now. First, he’d find out who had done this to him. Then he’d contact his father. Unless it is Father who has done this. That wasn’t as far-fetched as he’d like to imagine. What didn’t make sense was why dear old dad would bring him back as a human.

Of course, it might not have been his father at all. Cyrus prided himself on being a well-known name among vampires. Perhaps a fanatical group had raised him in hopes of fame or a favor.

Or for a sacrifice.

It wasn’t unheard of. He’d helped his father sacrifice vampires for centuries. But the key word was vampire. Why was he human?

He had just gotten comfortable when a soft knock sounded.

“What?” He picked up the nearest object—a bar of soap—and flung it at the door.

The Mouse came in with a pile of neatly folded clothes. “Father Bart was shorter than you. And fatter.”

“Pick up the soap.” Cyrus watched as she bent to retrieve it. Nothing to write home about, he decided, tilting his head to study her backside.

In the past, he would have fed off her. She had long, slender legs that would have been heaven wrapped around him, and hair just the right length to pull and bare her throat for a bite. But her face was too innocent, her whole manner too timid. Her faded cotton sundress told endless tales of trips to Wal-Mart in Daddy’s pickup truck, Garth Brooks blaring over the roar of the road through the open windows.

The vampire Cyrus would have taken his pleasure and her blood in one night, and she wouldn’t have lived to see the dawn.

He missed blood more now than when he’d drifted aimlessly on the other side of the veil. He didn’t want to think of it anymore.

When she stood and handed him the soap, he snatched it away. “What are those?” he snapped, gesturing to the clothes. “Polyester?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, read the bloody tags. Are you completely worthless?” He grabbed the shirt from the top of the pile and scanned the care instructions before flinging it aside in disgust. “I only wear natural fiber.”

The girl nodded uncertainly. “I don’t think Father Bart had any—”

“The dead priest is not my fucking problem!” He slammed his fists down on the water, sloshing it over the sides of the tub.

The Mouse shrank away, screaming. It lifted Cyrus’s spirits considerably to see the girl frightened.

“Get out. If you can’t find anything suitable for me, you’ll have to ask those morons upstairs.” He leaned against the curved back of the tub and closed his eyes, savoring the girl’s litany of pleas as she cowered on the floor.

Max arrived five hours later. I was buried beneath the covers on Nathan’s bed, clinging to his scent like a life raft and trying to ignore the bedside radio he always kept on. The classic rock station was in the middle of a Fleetwood Mac Rock Block. “Gypsy” was just finishing up when I heard the front door burst open.

“Carrie?” Something heavy hit the floor in the living room. Probably the duffel bag Max always carried with him. Loud footsteps ran down the hall and I climbed from beneath the blankets in time to see him skid to a stop at the doorway.

“What’s going on? Where’s Nathan?” Max scanned the room as if he’d see him there.