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“It’s okay,” Jackson assured, raising a calming hand.
“Holy fuck, how is that thing alive?”
The clattering bucket sped up. Tim’s flashlight swung in their direction from the room’s far corner. Soon all three would converge on him—or race for the lift. Since neither outcome fit into Jackson’s ad-hoc plans, he got up, took two giant steps, and leveled a massive right hook at Carl’s jaw—all in a single fluid motion that felt more like a dance move than the contorted attack that it was. The large man keeled over onto one of the ornate tables, which collapsed in a mass of splinters.
The bucket clanged to the ground. Not so the mop. The moment Jackson turned around, he spotted the handle coming for his head in a wide arc. Jackson grabbed it and yanked hard. Terry jerked forward. His feet tripped against Dominique’s side as Jackson’s fist rammed home into Terry’s gut. With a loudoomph, the redhead doubled over and came down on top of Dominique, who jerked up, his wasted arms flailing, mouth gaping, and blood-caked hair standing on end.
“Welcome back,” Jackson said as he shook out his hand. Pointing to the man squirming by his side, he added, “Lunch is served.”
Dominique stared. At him. At Carl spread-eagled in the debris. At Terry groaning beside him. Then he saw his blood-covered hands. He held up the bony claws in front of his emaciated face. A dry hiss rattled in his throat.
Jackson was grateful there wasn’t a mirror handy, and he congratulated himself for remaining so calm. He kept his gaze locked on Dominique’s eyes, which remained human and very much confused. “You’ve been bled out all night. You need to—”
A small sound made him spin around in time to see the shadowy figure of Tim wielding a large tray in two hands. “You touch my brother, you die, you asshole!”
As Jackson snapped up his arm to block the blow, he spotted Terry staggering to his feet and reach for the discarded Bowie knife. Jackson spun to kick it away past the bewildered Dominique just as the tray crashed down on the finger stumps on Jackson’s right hand. Pain shot all the way up to his shoulder, but he ripped the tray out of Tim’s hands and whapped it against the side of the boy’s head hard enough to make him reel and trip. Terry charged him with an outraged yell, but a hard kick to his solar plexus pitched him into a group of chairs which scattered on impact. Both brothers groaned but stayed where they landed. Jackson flung the tray away.
Dominique crept backwards on the trembling spindles of his arms and legs. The pants flapping around his bony hips threatened to slide off and hobble him. He continued to hiss, his vocal cords sounding like they had withered away to the consistency of dental floss. Raw panic lit his enormous eyes.
“Easy,” Jackson cooed and made quieting motions with his hands. “Easy. You’re going to be okay. Relax.”
Dominique halted his retreat, but it was hard to tell if that was because of Jackson’s words or his strength giving out.
“You’ll feel better in a moment, I promise.” Jackson retrieved the knife from under the sofa. Dominique hissed again, but this time the sound shifted, darkened, and morphed into a deep, wet growl.
The small hairs all over Jackson’s body rose in primal alarm. “Easy,” he whispered, backing away. “Easy.” Without letting Dominique out of his sight, he crouched beside the still-unconscious bulk of Carl and brought the knife edge to the man’s wrist. He made a shallow scratch, barely enough to draw a line of blood.
Dominique’s eyes riveted to the injury. The growling stopped.
Jackson eased out of the way. “This is what you’re hungry for,” he murmured, his voice just this side of unsteady. A part of him recoiled at what he was doing. Only a small part, though, and growing fainter by the moment. “You know you want it. Go and get it.”
The vampire’s gaze flickered to him, and his mouth opened a little wider. Then the fresh wound captured his attention again. He crawled forward as though fighting the pull of an invisible string.
Jackson wiped the back of his hand over his mouth, ignoring the soft tremor in his fingers. If this didn’t work…
Dominique was still undecided when Carl came to with a groan. He blinked at the surrounding shapes in the reflected half-light. When he realized what hovered over him, he yelped and tried to roll away.
The starving vampire pounced with a speed that belied his withered body. Pinned to the ground, Carl thrashed and screamed with unmitigated fear. The whites in Dominique’s eyes disappeared. For another small eternity, he hesitated, and Jackson rode a razor’s edge between raw terror and roaring anticipation.
Then indecision poured out of Dominique the way his blood had poured out of him all night. He shoved the terrified face aside, drove his teeth into the fleshy neck, and fed.
38
The Space Between
“Areyoubackyet?”
The words slithered between his thoughts like eels. He understood them, but their meaning eluded him. As did the identity of the man who spoke them. He thought he knew him, this bronzed, muscled creature with the cutting bright eyes. He thought he could trust him. Which is why he tried so hard to understand.
“Guess not,” said the man and glanced at his watch again. “Just relax. It’ll come.” But the worry in the pinched face told Dominique that maybe it—whatever it was—might not come.
Dominique looked around for “it.” Evergreens towered like fragrant walls, holding back a flood of shadows. They were alone here. The man sat on top of a picnic table. Dominique stood before him. Every few seconds, the sound of a car passing somewhere out of sight overpowered the wind soughing in the branches.
His companion muttered below his breath, and Dominique turned back to him.
“The sun’s been down five minutes. Talk to me. Do you know who I am?”
“A friend.” The words rolled like pebbles in his mouth.
