Free Blood Sacrifice by By Rick R. Reed Page A

it—literally—teeth gnashing, saliva making of the paper upon which she has drawn her visions nothing more than graying pulp, he might perhaps begin to touch what she can do in her humanity, with feelings that have long since become alien to him, to all three of them, to the entire race of beings he calls brothers and sisters. By ingesting her art, perhaps he could begin to feel what makes her human, in a way similar to the manner in which he feels things as blood from his victims pumps down his throat and fills his veins and brain with their memories and experiences, with core images of what makes them alive. The temptation was a fierce, burning desire.
    But he stopped.
    He could not destroy her, not the vision she had splattered or drawn with precise detail on paper, on canvas.
    And yet the red aura surrounding her called to him with the voice of a siren. Calls still with a fire so intense it could destroy him. The flames are a peripheral orange blur, caught by dangling threads of consciousness. But if he took this woman’s lifeblood, he would take also her abilities to create things he could now only dream of fashioning himself. For once, Terence, purveyor of pleasure and pain, the greediest of his little three-pronged family, has shown some restraint, demonstrated respect for talent and sensitivity that would forever be beyond his reach.
    But the hunger remains. And he is so lost in his thoughts that he almost misses its solution, almost loses out on a prime opportunity.
    Terence stops the bike, looks back.
    And there it is—the answer to his needs.
    Smoke rises from a black metal trash can, its sides rusted. Back from it, in the entryway of a warehouse, silent this late at night, sleeps a man. Black. Nappy hair poking out of a coat wrapped around him like a cocoon. Terence feels the heat of his blood and the thudding of his heart. Music. He considers the coat wrapped around him so tightly for only a second: why so cold on this hot night?
    Quietly, with stealth perfected through years of practice, Terence dismounts and moves the bike to a wall, hiding it in the shadows. He walks with purpose toward the sleeping man, a silent force, a whisper of black against black. Invisible.
    He stands above the man, looking down. There’s no beauty here. No sexual rush. Yet, the throbbing of his life force is hypnotic and Terence wants to savor the moment, letting the desire and hunger build. It’s so much better that way: slow, steady, delayed gratification. Like the most perfect sex.
    Terence knows he can bring a chill this slumbering man has never dreamed of. He descends, gliding, so quiet the man does not murmur or awaken. Gently, like a mother unwrapping her baby from its blankets, Terence opens the coat. The smell is putrid, body odor rising up, sweat and defecation. But underneath it, the sweet note of blood, warm, with a tang of copper, awaits. Terence squats down as the man’s eyelids flutter and for just a second, their gazes lock. He lifts the man like a lover, like the mother in a pieta, and lowers his head to his throat. The man cannot even struggle or scream as razor-sharp fangs pierce the dark flesh.
    And then the blood is spurting in steady jets into Terence’s mouth. It is delirious. It is delicious.
    And the man is emptied as quickly of his life force as he earlier had emptied a bottle of cheap fortified wine.
    When he roars off on his Harley, there is nothing left of the homeless black man but a pile of ragged clothing, bones, hair, and pieces of flesh too tough for Terence to digest.

Chapter Four
    1954
    When Edward awakened, milky gray light streamed in through the open airshaft window. Borne on a cold breeze was the smell of the apartment below, something greasy and fried. Edward stirred and even the simple movement of turning away from the window set his head to pounding.
    God, how much did I drink last night?
Edward put a hand to his forehead, where pain bloomed behind his eyes, expanding and insinuating