Page 64 of Bite
Taylor isn’t in the library, but her pet is. The little bastard cracks one yellow eye at me from his perch on the sofa, hisses, then curls tighter and resumes his nap.
I should’ve fought harder on the cat thing, offered her more money to part with the animal. I’ve considered just tossing it out and hoping it wanders off, but the creature seems to give her some misplaced sense of security. So, I’ve let it stay… for now. But once she gets more comfortable, I may conveniently leave a door standing open.
I check the kitchen next. The head chef looks up when I enter, eyes sharp and wary.
“Taylor?” I ask, voice flat.
“She hasn’t been down, sir,” Flora replies, hands tightening around a mixing bowl.
I nod once and move on, blurring upstairs in a burst of speed to check Taylor’s room.
It’s empty.
Something cold winds its way up my spine. Not panic– I don’tdopanic. But I do hate the unknown.
“Are you looking for Miss Holt?” a housemaid pipes up from the doorway, a stack of folded laundry balanced in her arms.
“Where is she?” I snap.
The woman blanches. “She, uh… Miss Holt went out this afternoon. Requested a car to go downtown. I suggested we clear it with you, but she was rather insistent…”
I dismiss her with a flick of my hand and pull my phone from my pocket. The perks of owning Bite are considerable, one being that I’m granted unrestricted access to the entire system. Ican see every donor’s movements thanks to the trackers in their bracelets, pinpoint their location down to the square foot. Taylor has been scrubbed from the relays, but I cloned the database to my private software beforehand.
When I pull it up and click her name, her dot appears on the map, a pulsing blue glow somewhere deep in the city.
I zoom in, pinpointing her location to a dive bar in a shitty neighborhood. Another dot glows beside hers– another Bite donor, bracelet active. Bex Hamilton, the friend from the foster system.
This may work to my advantage.
“Wait,” I call as the maid turns to leave. “I’ll be needing a car.”
The driver is already pulling up by the time I hit the front steps. I slide into the back seat, fingers drumming against the armrest, eyes fixed on the pulsing blue dot on my phone screen. The car glides through the city, windows blacked out, world reduced to a wash of darkness and motion.
When we arrive at the bar, I pocket my phone and take a long look through the glass. The neon sign over the door readsCabo Cantina, though half the bulbs are dead and the rest flicker between turquoise and sickly yellow. I shrug off my suit jacket, undo the top buttons of my shirt, and roll my sleeves to the elbows. Less predator, more man. Then I step out into the night.
The bouncer takes one look at me and moves aside without a word. Inside, the smell is unbearable– lime, spilled beer, fried grease, and the harsh bite of cleaning chemicals that never quitemask the rot. Given our enhanced sense of smell, it’s a cocktail practically designed to ward off vampires.
I pause just inside the threshold, eyes rapidly adjusting to the low light. A TV drones over the bar, pool tables clattering near booths lining the back wall. I spot Taylor instantly.
She’s sitting across from her friend in one of the booths, looking almost girlish with the pink flush staining her cheeks. A half-empty margarita sweats onto the table in front of her, condensation pooling beneath the glass as her fingers toy with the stem.
She hasn’t seen me yet. I take my time watching her, savoring the thrill of the hunt.
Then she suddenly stiffens. Her head snaps toward me, eyes widening. They lock with mine, and the effect is instantaneous– her body goes taut, knuckles whitening around the stem of her glass. I advance toward her, unhurried, amused, watching her scramble to hide the reaction.
Adrenaline sharpens her scent, sharp and electric. I breathe it in as I step into her space, resting a palm against the lacquered tabletop.
“Good evening, ladies.”
Taylor’s hazel eyes are huge and luminous in the dim light. “James, Hi,” she greets, her voice coming out high-pitched and shaky. “What are you… shit, did you need to…” She yanks her sleeve up to expose her wrist, as if I’ll feed from her right here and now.
Adorable.
And oh so accommodating.
My little blood donor has adapted faster than I expected, given the stubborn defiance I’ve seen her exhibit from time to time. She’s cautious. Clever. A survivor. Traits that drew me in almost as much as her blood.
“No,” I reply, reaching out to gently tug her sleeve back down. Her breath catches, doe eyes blinking up at me. I hold her gaze, tilting my head slightly. “Mind if I join you?”
