Hunting Kat by Kelley Armstrong Page A

invulnerable, but not immortal? That I’ll die when I’m a hundred, like everyone else? Or will I live to three or four hundred, like real vampires? If I do, will I keep aging at a normal rate, and turn into some hideous old hag? Marguerite doesn’t have any answers, just keeps saying it will work out, which means she’s just as concerned as I am.
    I try not to think about all that. I’ve got enough to worry about with my life now. Hungering over humans. Drinking blood. Fearing that the Edison Group will find me again. Worrying that I’ll screw up and get caught.
    Even without the Edison Group problem, there’s so much to stress out about. What if I get hit by a transport and the paramedics take me to a hospital where, whoops, suddenly I’m as good as new? What if people figure out I’m a vampire? Would they kill me? Experiment on me? Lock me up? Would I be any better off than if the Edison Group did catch me?
    So, no, I’m not nonchalant about it. I’m dealing. Kind of. Today we were heading to New York to meet other vampires and get some answers about the genetic modifications and about how to handle my situation. So today was definitely going to be a good day.
    As for hunting humans, I’m not nonchalant about that, either. When the time comes, even if it doesn’t have lasting effects on people, I expect I’ll feel guilty about it. Marguerite does. But I still need to hunt. I feel that in my gut, a gnawing restlessness, like when I haven’t done a workout in a while.
    When the feeling gets bad, no amount of canned blood helps. I’ll be walking along and I’ll smell something unbelievably good. I’ll start salivating, stomach growling, and I’ll turn to see, not a plate of freshly baked cookies but a person, maybe even a friend. I can’t describe how that feels. It’s bad. Just bad.
    I finished my drink and went inside. Marguerite was in the bathroom putting on makeup. I perched on the counter, watching her as she applied pale lipstick to a mouth that was already a perfect pink bow.
    “So who’s the hot vampire in New York?” I said. “A tall, dark Napoleonic soldier you met during the Civil War? Sheltered him from the witch hunts? Got separated on the Titanic , each floating off on your own icebergs?”
    “History is not your strongest subject, is it, mon chaton ?”
    “I’m improvising. So who is he?”
    “There is no he. I want to look nice for people I have not seen in a while.”
    “Uh-huh.”
    I looked in the mirror—yes, unlike Hollywood vampires, I can see my reflection. Beside Marguerite’s fragile porcelain perfection, I always feel big and clumsy. Seeing us together, though, the difference isn’t that obvious. I’m only a few inches taller, and skinny enough that I can snag her designer shirts and leather jackets. No one ever mistakes us for sisters, though. My golden brown hair, green eyes, and lightly bronzed skin guarantee that.
    I reached for her makeup bag. She snatched it away and handed me lip gloss.
    “When you are seventeen,” she said.
    “I may never be seventeen.”
    “Then you will have no need for makeup, will you?”
    I sighed. Marguerite can be unbelievably old-fashioned sometimes. The perils of having a guardian who grew up in the nineteenth century. On this point, though, I don’t really care. I’m a jock, not a cheerleader. Makeup is a pain in the ass. Well, most times. I make an exception for dates. Not that there’d been any of those since I turned. Let a guy nuzzle my neck and he might realize I don’t have a pulse. Marguerite says guys won’t notice, but I’m not ready to take that chance.
    I wandered into the bedroom, picked up the keys and jangled them. “Don’t forget I have my license now. Better hurry or I’ll go to New York without you.”
    She didn’t peek out of the bathroom. Didn’t call after me as I walked out the door. Didn’t even ring my cell as I drove our little rental car from the motel lot. She knew I wasn’t going far. There