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Garreth squatted on his heels. The smell of the rat reached him, a sharp
rodent odor, strong but not quite strong enough to mask the tantalizing scent
of blood. He steeled himself to touch the creature. Blood is blood. He drew a
breath, smelling that blood . . . and reached for his prey.
The rat's fur felt rough and spiky in his hand. He waited for it to
struggle, but the creature submitted to being picked up, hanging quiescent in
his grasp. One wrench would break its neck, or a bend of his elbow bring it to
his mouth, but he hesitated. Rats carry disease. How did plague and rabies
affect vampires? Were they immune, or would the disease organism be destroyed
by passing through his digestive system? This rat looked healthy enough,
bright-eyed and fat.
The blood smell of it was overwhelming. Hunger maddened him. He had to risk
drinking from it. He remembered the switchblade in his pocket. That would keep
him from having to actually bite the rat. But what then?
The rat remained quiet. Garreth stood, carrying it, and looked around for
inspiration. Draining the blood into the palm of his hand and licking it up
from there sounded not only slow but primitive. He had never liked camping out
with all the loss of physical comfort that meant: digging latrines, boiling
water, bathing in a bucket. He wanted something more civilized now, too.
His gaze fell on a trash barrel. He carried the rat to it and looked in.
Almost on top of the litter inside sat a foam cup of the type used for coffee
carry-outs. Lipstick, looking brown in the twilight of his vision, printed one
edge of the rim.
After this, he decided, he would bring a cup of his own, maybe one of those
collapsing things for camping, something that fit easily and inconspicuously
in a pocket. But for now, he set the cup on the customs counter, then, using
both hands, broke the rat's neck and brought out the switchblade.
The blade opened with a snap. A pass of it opened the rat's throat, and
Garreth held the rat by its hind legs, letting the blood drain into the cup.
Its smell set his stomach churning in anticipation, though his brain still
recoiled. Blood is blood, he reminded himself. Blood is Life.
And when the rat stopped dripping, he resolutely picked up the cup,
lipstick away from him, and gulped down the contents before he had time to
think further.
Any worry that he might throw up vanished immediately. The first swallow
ignited a wild appetite for more. At the same time, though, it tasted flat,
lacking, as though he drank simple tomato juice when he expected the peppery
fire of a Bloody Mary. His skin crawled. What he really wanted, of course, was
human blood. But this will do and it's all you're getting, beast. He drained
the cup to the last drop and went hunting another rat.
8
"Mik-san!" Harry came up out of his desk chair grinning from ear to ear.
From around the room, other detectives converged on Garreth, pounding him
on the back. Serruto came out of his office. "Is that our Lazarus behind those
Foster Grants? You're looking pretty good, Mikaelian. Did you see the doctor
today?"
"Yes, sir."
"What does he say about when you can come back?"
"I'm back now. Really," he added, handing over the evaluation form from the
doctor. He took off his glasses and hung them on the breast pocket of his suit
coat. "I checked out okay. I'm cleared for full duty." Or at least, he had
been after "persuasion" helped the doctor perceive the readings for
temperature, pulse, and respiration as normal.
Foreheads furrowed in surprise around him Harry looked concerned. "Only a
week after the attack? You still look pale, and you seem thin."
"I'm on a diet. The doctor approves."
Serruto read the form. "He thinks your neck is healed?"
Garreth tilted back his head to show the scars above his collar, still
livid but obviously in no danger of tearing open with exertion. "I agree it's
incredible, but my mother's people were always fast healers, and I've been
doing nothing since Saturday but sleeping and eating, and drinking an herbal
tea my Grandma Doyle swears by."
He saw by their expressions that they put little credence in the herbal
tea, but otherwise swallowed the lies. Garreth fought down a pang of guilt. He
could not very well tell the truth, could he? That he had slept days but spent
nights decimating the rat population on the Embarcadero, feeding the little
corpses to the fishes in the bay. He hated admitting it to himself-it seemed
like a savage, desperate way to be living, and he had come close to being
caught last night by a watchman. He had had to crouch behind a pile of crates
with breath held until the man walked out of sight. Garreth's chances of being
seen increased with every night. He needed to find some way to hunt less
often.
Serruto read the form again. "I don't know," he said doubtfully.
Garreth met his eyes as the lieutenant looked up and stared steadily into
them. "I'm fit, the doctor says. You believe him, don't you?" It was a cheat
and Garreth's conscience bothered him because of it, but he used it anyway. He
wanted to be working.
Serruto stared back, then returned the form. "If the doctor says you're
fit, who am I to disagree? Okay, everyone, the reception party is over. Back
to work." He beckoned Garreth toward his office. "Come in. You, too, Harry."
It was about what Garreth expected, a short lecture which could be [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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