Free Bloodrush by Bryan Smith Page A

his joints and at the back of his head. It felt sort of like having a bad case of the flu, minus the fever. He would’ve welcomed a fever right now. His bones felt like they were turning to ice. His heart began to slow as a crippling lethargy overtook him. It felt like he was dying.
    Narcisa said, “You’re not dying. Not yet.”
    She was a few yards away now. Martha was still struggling, but Narcisa controlled her with impressive ease, propelling her forward with one arm bent behind her back. David’s head lolled forward as the two women came to a stop within a few feet of him. Martha changed tactics, lashing out at him with her free hand. Sharp fingernails raked across his face, opening gashes in his flesh that only dribbled a small amount of blood. David blinked slowly and dragged numb fingers over his shredded cheek, frowning at the miniscule flecks of crimson visible on his fingertips.
    He blinked again and squinted at Narcisa.
    She looked…fuzzy. Like something from a fading dream. Yet the intensity of her ice blue eyes allowed him to maintain some semblance of focus, penetrating the cloud descending over him like a halogen lamp penetrating dense fog.
    “You’re hurt, David. You need to drink. Now.”
    The fingernails of Narcisa’s right hand lengthened and became talons, then ripped open the captive woman’s neck. Blood jumped from the ragged wound, splashing the front of David’s stolen shirt. Narcisa’s nostrils flared as she glared at him over one of the dying woman’s shoulders.
    “Drink. Take her. Now.”
    David didn’t need to be told again. The smell of the blood was powerfully intoxicating. The heady aroma made his eyes pop wide open as it filled his nostrils. He grabbed Martha by the front of her shirt and yanked her toward him. She managed one more gurgling scream before he snapped his mouth open and clamped it over the still-gushing wound. He lapped up blood with an eagerness and greed that far exceeded even the horrible, aching need he’d experienced after being released from the chains. He made hungry sounds deep in his throat as he drained the blood from her in barely more than a minute. Martha’s corpse fell away from him and dropped to the floor with a heavy thud. He wobbled a little as he pushed away from the ruined door, grinning broadly as the infusion of hot blood woke up every nerve-ending in his system. He felt instantly wired and eager for more, as if he’d just snorted up several lines of really high quality cocaine. It felt like he had lightning in his veins. The rush was incredible. Mind-blowing. He had to have more, more, more, now, now, now .
    He touched his face, felt thin scars where fresh gashes had been mere moments ago. He ripped his shirt open and examined his belly and chest. There were puckers of raw, healing flesh where once there’d been holes. The wounds continued to heal as he stared at them, the puckers fading and giving way to unblemished, healthy skin. It was a miracle. He frowned. No. That was the wrong word. It was a religious word , purely the province of the holy. And he was unholy . He should be dead, but he wasn’t. No, wait, he was dead. He started laughing. It was so confusing. And yet liberating. The most glorious thing about it was that he didn’t much care. Life and death? Those were mortal concerns. He was like Narcisa now. A vampire. He was going to live—well, exist —forever. And he could do whatever he wanted. That kind of made him a god, didn’t it? He laughed harder. So maybe it was a miracle after all.
    Narcisa was laughing, too. Giggling, really. She sounded more like a naughty schoolgirl than an ages-old mass-killing supernatural creature. She was staring at him, very intently, and he realized she seemed to be reacting to the mad gleam in his eyes. One thing was very obvious—she liked what she was seeing.
    She abruptly spun away from him and fell atop the wailing janitor. Her mouth opened and her head snapped toward his neck. There