Vampire Games by J. R. Rain

the sun had finally set. I knew this because I suddenly felt more alive than I ever had before, which is saying something. The second was that the deadbolt tore through the metal door frame, ripping sideways through the metal.
    The sound was god-awful loud. I looked casually back to the Paris look-alike. She was still texting, oblivious to life beyond her smart phone screen. I did, however, have the full attention of her little dog.
    I wiped the handle clean of my prints, stepped through the doorway, waved to the security camera, and headed over to the elevators, knowing full well that I wasn’t wearing enough makeup to even show up on camera.
    Sometimes it was good to be me.
     
     
     
    Chapter Twenty-four
     
     
    Allison answered her door with her own cell phone pressed against her. She waved me in without a thought. I wondered if she was aware that she hadn’t actually buzzed me in.
    The apartment was smaller than I had expected, but the monthly rent was undoubtedly quadruple my own mortgage. The door opened into a small hallway that led first to a smallish kitchen. Shoe boxes were piled on the counter and spilled over onto some stools, as well. The shoe boxes were printed with Jimmy Choo and Manolo and Valentino, words that were foreign to a single, working mother who lived in the suburbs.
    I continued following Allison into a smallish living room, where she motioned offhandedly for me to sit on an oversized couch. I was just figuring out how to offhandedly sit, when I saw something I probably shouldn’t have seen.
    A fresh cut along the inside of her finger.
    Normally, the sight of blood does little for me. Yes, I drink blood. Yes, it nourishes this strange body of mine. But that’s about the extent of it. I have a supply of the stuff at home. It was not generally a big deal to see blood.
    Until now.
    Now, the sight of her bloody finger did something to me that concerned me greatly. It stirred a hunger in me. Real hunger. My stomach growled and my mouth watered and I hated myself all over again. I forced myself to look away, gritting my teeth and grinding my jaw. I looked down at my own pale hands and was surprised to see I had balled them into fists. Purple veins crisscrossed just below the surface of my skin.
    A bleeding finger should not arouse a hunger. A bleeding finger should not arouse a need . It was just a wound.
    Unless, of course, you were a fiend.
    My stomach growled and roiled. It seemed to turn in on itself. Jesus, my sudden hunger was unbearable, unrelenting.
    “ Jesus,” I whispered, still looking down at my clenched fists.
    “ Are you okay?” asked Allison. She was standing nearby. I could hear her sucking on her finger now.
    My stomach nearly did a somersault.
    Jesus.
    I looked up, despite knowing that doing so might be a mistake. It was. Allison was still alternately sucking her finger and looking at the wound—and wincing. I didn’t wince. I stared. No doubt hungrily.
    It’s just a wound, a voice in my head said. The voice, I knew, was the last vestiges of my humanity. Just a wound. An injured finger. Nothing more, nothing less.
    Except I knew that it was more. So much more. The wound, and the resultant blood, represented so much. It represented complete satiation. Unlimited life. Unlimited strength. Complete and utter superiority.
    I blinked. Hard.
    Since when did superiority matter to me? Since when did I ever care to be better than others, or control them?
    I didn’t know, but that train of thought alarmed me more than my hunger. That train of thought was dangerous. Violent. Scary as shit.
    “ Oh, does blood make you queasy?” asked Allison.
    I blinked and might have nodded.
    She went on, moving her hand out of my line of sight. I tracked her finger closely, the way a cheetah might a wounded warthog. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I was cutting an apple when the phone rang. My mom. Always my mom. Especially with Caesar gone. Everyone calls me these days. Everyone feels sorry for me.