Page 9 of Blood Gift

“It’s not quite five o’clock,” he muttered.

“How did you know I was checking the time?”

“You’re predictable.”

I held back a sigh. “To answer your question, I wouldn’t know whether there are nice hotels since I didn’t feel as though I could afford one.”

His eyes were wide when he turned back to me, holding a glass of bourbon in one hand.

I could smell it from where I stood, and the aroma turned back the clock, and I was a child again, running up and down the halls with model airplanes, imagining I was a flying ace who shot down countless Germans and earned a chest full of medals.

I didn’t know back then that people like us didn’t do things like that. It was fine for humans to participate in war, but not us. Their lives were dispensable. Not ours.

While we had played, Father had enjoyed his bourbon. Along with the recreational activities he had shared with us when he felt we were old enough to understand.

He swirled the bourbon in the glass, sharpening the aroma. “Where did you sleep? Not in the car, I hope.”

“In motels along the way, of course.”

He did know how to get under my skin.

“Motels?”

The way he grimaced, I wondered if I should’ve told him I camped out in the car.

“Dominic, I don’t feel like getting into this with you right now.” I took off my jacket and hung it by the door. “You know my situation and why it isn’t a simple matter of spending the money to stay in a fine hotel.”

“You must realize I’ll do everything I can to keep you comfortable, to be sure your needs are met.”

The very idea sickened me.

As if I wanted to be under his thumb for the rest of my life, constantly reminded that what was mine was really his—and in the next breath, reminded that I was welcome to it.

Just the way he treated the situation with the apartment, which of course was half mine according to Mother’s wishes. He acted as though he were doing me a favor by stepping aside and allowing me to use what was mine. When he wasn’t using it for himself.

I took a deep breath and counted to five before answering. “That’s a generous offer, but I don’t think it will come to that. I’ll find a way.”

“You have no skills, brother.”

“Thank you for the reminder,” I growled, looking out the window in a vain attempt to distract myself.

“You’re too good to perform menial work, you know.”

“What makes you say that?” I turned my head just enough to look at him, standing there with his expensive drink and his smug, self-satisfied expression. “I’m no better than any other human.”

“Don’t call yourself that.” His words cracked like a whip.

“It’s the truth,” I insisted. “I have no power. I’m as normal as any of the people walking along Fifth Avenue.” I pointed out the window and down, toward the street with its throngs of pedestrians.

He scoffed, taking another sip of his drink. “You’ll never be one of them. You were born into greatness, and you’ve spent decades living life as you were intended to. There’s no going back from something like that.”

“Is this supposed to encourage me, or drive me to suicide?”

“Stop being immature.”

“Stop being condescending. And stop deluding yourself. I’m average. Normal. Human.”

I emphasized the word, if only to see the way his face fell when he heard it. Perhaps I was as immature as he’d accused.

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