Blood Destiny (12 page)

Nathaniel dropped low to scan more closely.

There were petty thieves and alcoholics who beat their wives, professionals who scammed their clients, and even one young woman who had gotten away with poisoning her rich husband, but Nathaniel wanted more. He needed much, much more. Where were all the criminals tonight? Where were all the seriously sick, depraved minds who flourished on the misery of others? Nathaniel headed further and further away 111

Blood Destiny

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from Dark Moon Vale, putting on a preternatural burst of speed.

It would be necessary to find a major city.

He flew for over an hour in an endless haze of fury, aimlessly letting off steam. He passed through New Mexico and Arizona until he finally landed in California, where he thought to try Hollywood, but he only found runaways, drug addicts, and patrons of prostitution.

His next thought was to head into gang territory, but he immediately realized that would be an all-or-nothing proposition. Such weak-minded types rarely possessed the courage to stand alone. It would be either feast or famine.

He'd catch an entire gang all at once or no one at all.

Feast. Where could he feast?

His blood was beginning to boil, and then all at once he made a sharp turn and began to descend.

The federal prison.

He easily dissolved the molecules in his body until he was only packets of quantum energy, rapidly firing waves of possibility, following no particular form. And then he moved right through the prison walls into the main cellblock and issued a powerful command to the guards to sleep. When he glanced up, he saw three rows of cells—all full of heinous, dangerous prisoners—just waiting for his attention. Predators of the human species.

Predators about to become prey.

He paced the walkways like a prowling lion searching for the perfect quarry, scenting their blood, reading their minds, until he finally came across a cell that interested him. A rapist 112

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and a child molester. Both had committed far more crimes than they had been arrested for, yet both still believed they were the victims—victims of a system that had the nerve to actually charge them with the crime they had been sentenced for.

He could read the tell-tale brain patterns of a socio-path: no remorse, completely self-absorbed, unable to see their victims as people...still reeling from the perceived injustice of their circumstances...and desperately missing the heady rush of their crimes. Sociopaths blamed everyone in the world for their circumstances except themselves.

Nathaniel slipped into the small, dingy cell, still invisible.

Although the tiny cubicle was relatively clean, by the sterile standards of a large government institution, the heady stench of antiseptic cleanser and human waste was overwhelming.

He immediately shut down his high-powered sense of smell.

It was late, and both inmates were sleeping on their narrow bunks, the guy on top, a heavy-set man with enormous biceps all covered in menacing tattoos. He had a scraggly goatee with a pointed tip hanging down from his chin, and Nathaniel easily retrieved his name from his mind—

Chris Taylor. Chris liked to beat and force himself on women.

Particularly, very petite, young women who had little strength to fight him back and even less life-experience to recognize the impending danger.

Nathaniel's pulse began to race, and his eyes narrowed into tiny slits of menace as he floated weightlessly to the ceiling and hovered above the vile man like a spider suspended from an invisible web, their bodies aligned face to 113

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face. It wasn't enough to take his blood or to rid the world of his stench; he wanted to see the fear in his eyes as he realized he was about to die. He wanted him to feel a mere pittance of what his victims had felt when he tormented them.

What Dalia had felt when Valentine tormented her.

Nathaniel pierced the veil of Chris's mind and gave him a strong mental command to awaken, even as he placed his bulging body in a state of paralysis.

Chris slowly opened his eyes, annoyed. It was late; why was he waking up?

Nathaniel snarled. The human had been enjoying a dream about a lonely woman he had been writing back and forth to for the past several months. He was looking forward to her first visit to the prison—looking even more forward to the money he knew she would start sending on a regular basis.

Her and the three others he had met through correspondence. And then the prisoner's eyes came into focus, and he saw the dark, looming shadow on the ceiling above him.

Nathaniel cherished seeing this particular image in the rapist's mind. His own reflection. A monster with gleaming red eyes and jagged, sharp teeth perched perilously above him like a stalking predator in waiting.

Chris's huge muscles contracted as he went to swing at the creature, undoubtedly hoping to latch onto Nathaniel's throat and strangle the breath out of him as he often did his victims, but his arms wouldn't move. They just lay at his side like 114

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lead, a pair of heavy dumbbells with far too much weight on them.

Nathaniel met his gaze and burned a clear, vivid picture of his lethal intentions into the prisoner's mind, sending him detailed images of his own mangled throat. He almost lost the opportunity to kill the man as Chris's heart began to pound hysterically, beat irregularly, and seize with panic. The precursor to a heart attack.

Nathaniel was disappointed.

He would have to kill him far more quickly than he wanted.

In a frenzied attempt to call out to his cellmate, Chris struggled to open his mouth, but no sound came out.

"Do you mean to scream, Chris?" Nathaniel hissed, snapping his fangs at the terrified man, his mind a wild haze of rage and retribution. "I would think someone as strong as you would just take his death like a man. You do so enjoy a good cat-and-mouse game, do you not?"

Despite the heavy ropes of paralysis binding him to the paper-thin mattress, Chris shook uncontrollably from head to toe, sweat pouring from his pores like droplets of dirty water gushing out of a semi-clogged shower-head.

Nathaniel lunged so quickly that his movement was a blur.

He tore a sizeable chunk of flesh out of the man's throat, shaking his head furiously from side to side like a rabid canine as he wrenched it free in order to inflict the most pain possible. Chris convulsed in agony as he watched the enraged creature spit a huge section of his own throat out on the floor.

It was then that Nathaniel noticed Martin, Chris's short, stocky cell mate, standing next to the bed with some sort of 115

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makeshift knife in his hand. The roommate lunged at the vampire, swinging wildly with tremendous force, certain he was about to score a victory.

Nathaniel stopped Martin's hand in mid-air. Using only his mind, he slowly turned the hand around, pointed the knife back toward Martin's face, and gave the prisoner a powerful command using the full force of his voice—a dark intonation of absolute power and seduction. "Martin, you will use that blade to gouge out your left eye now; but do keep your right one intact so that you don't miss Chris's farewell. I know how deeply you enjoy watching others suffer."

Martin's eyes grew wide with fright as he realized that he no longer controlled his own hand, and Chris's heart skipped several beats before it began to pound again like a heavy bass drum in a marching band, the sound so loud it could be heard across the room...a sharp, tightening vise seizing his chest.

Nathaniel shook his head with disgust. "You really have no heart at all, do you, Chris? I'm disappointed." He sighed. "Of course, you shouldn't mind at all when I remove it then, should you?" He held his hand in front of Chris's face and slowly allowed his nails to extend into claws, until five serrated talons were unsheathed right before the prisoner's terrified eyes.

Chris turned a ghostly shade of white, and his tear-filled eyes began to seize along with his heart, rolling back in his head with fright.

Ripping effortlessly through the outer layer of the orange jumpsuit, Nathaniel began to slowly carve a circle into the 116

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man's chest—just above the pitiful, failing organ. "This is for Ashley," he said as he sliced off his nipple and flicked it at Martin, who was now shaking in violent contortions of agony as he stabbed at his own eye relentlessly, dark blood pouring from the socket in shady pools of anguish, staining his already tortured face.

"And this is for Sheila," he continued. He slashed a deep vertical gash from Chris's chest to his stomach, and then he reached in and broke off a rib. It cracked like a flimsy chicken bone before Nathaniel flicked it across the room. "And this is for Lisa...."

He continued, name after name, rib after rib, until he tired of the game. Finally, his eyes glowing a feral shade of crimson red, spikes of rising menace flashing in his pupils, he reached in with all five claws and withdrew the useless heart.

He held it up in front of Chris's face, and both inmates watched in horror as the dislodged organ continued to beat and sputter. "And this is for me." He hissed with satisfaction.

And then he bent his dark head, long blue-black hair falling forward in cascading waves of darkness...

And he drank.

Nathaniel drank until there wasn't a drop of blood left in the body, and then he slowly turned his head to the side as a fiendish grin crept over his blood-drenched mouth. "How good of you to await my attention, Martin. I do apologize for keeping you. Now let's see that eye."

Nathaniel floated down from the top bunk, bending over the mutilated face to study Martin's work as he descended. "I suppose it will do," he sneered.

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Landing upright, he walked casually back to the end of the cell, leaned against the wall, and crossed his arms in front of him. He released Martin's paralysis in order to allow him a few strangled whispers and groans: It really made no difference—

the man was far too terrified to scream and in way too much agony to put up any worthwhile resistance.

Nathaniel waved his pointer finger back and forth in a scolding motion. "Now, Martin, you aren't really supposed to have that knife in here, are you?"

Martin shook his head, his one remaining eye glazed with fear.

"Then perhaps you should put it away."

Martin's one eye grew big. He shook uncontrollably and tried to back away from the vampire. Obediently, he bent toward the bottom bunk and began to slip the knife under the flimsy mattress.

"Not there," Nathaniel hissed.

Martin froze. Terrified. Not understanding.

"You are a child-molester, are you not? You like young boys?"

Martin trembled and began to mouth the word please over and over again, begging for his life.

Nathaniel sighed. "How shall I say this?" His dark eyes met Martin's. "Why don't you put it...where you so like to put things." He glared at the prisoner, then turned his head away, not wanting to see the vile act. Martin obediently shoved the jagged, bloody knife deep into his own back-end, and howled in agony.

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"You find such torture enjoyable, yes?" Nathaniel winced.

"I must admit, I don't get it, but then to each his own...."

Martin fell to the ground, writhing in pain, and sobbed like a baby.

Nathaniel waved his hand to silence him and rolled his eyes. "It is always the weakest of your species that prey on the vulnerable. You disgust me. I no longer wish to play." His face turned hard and cruel. "So crawl to me, then, like the animal you are." He hissed his next words with venom. "Crawl to me, Martin, and welcome your death."

The short, brawny man tried desperately to fight the command, but his body could not refuse the compulsion. He began to crawl slowly, blood flowing out from his body like a river of retribution as he continued to convulse in agony...until he was finally kneeling at the vampire's feet.

Nathaniel crooked his hand upward, encouraging Martin to stand. It was an excruciating exercise for the suffering man, but he had no choice.

"Very good," Nathaniel said, and then he tapped his own two fingers under Martin's chin, back side up, gesturing for Martin to raise his head and expose his throat. "Ear to shoulder, my good man, I would rather not have to touch you while I feed." Sniveling like a baby, Martin slowly complied; he gasped for breath and begged for his life even as he did so.

Inflicting as much pain as possible, Nathaniel viciously ripped out the man's throat and drained his body of blood.

The vivid image of Shelby lying on the stone slab in the dark burial grounds of his people—the appalling vision of Dalia 119

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writhing in agony on the stone slab in the wicked cavern of the Dark Ones—each spurred him on like a tribal war cry.

Demanding that he kill.

Again and again.

He went in and out of cellblocks, ripping out throats, gouging out hearts, drinking until there was no blood left in his victims. Until he finally dropped them to the floor like sacks of rotten potatoes.

Until there were seven bodies behind him.

As he entered the next unit, his mind completely immersed in a killing frenzy, he noticed that there was only one inmate in the room, and the young man had already awoken from the noise of the struggle in the cell beside him. He was crouched in a defensive posture at the back of the room, arms up, poised to strike. His fists were clenched into tight little balls, just waiting to see what rounded the corner.

As Nathaniel leapt the distance between them, landing in a predatory position in front of him, the man's mouth flew open in a moment of utter shock and horror. It was all the time Nathaniel needed. Before the inmate could react, Nathaniel sank his sharp fangs deep into his throat, anticipating the sweet taste of the thick, dark liquid.