Page 49 of The Vampire's Thirst
Still playing catch-the-knife, Lort charged. Roark slipped to the side, arms up, abs tight.
Roark waltzed around the general a few more times.
“Come on, bastard shifter. Fight.”
“In good time, General.”
They drew a crowd. Males and females gathered around, leaving only enough space for the combatants to go at it. It didn’t help Roark’s ego that the bystanders cheered for the general.
Lort thrust forward, stabbing into his gut.
“Good one.” Roark ignored the pain to circle again. The male was fast.
Roark spun, kicked, and slashed but missed his target.
Yeah. Fast.
When the general lunged, aiming for his gut again, Roark deflected the blade with an arm-elbow move. The maneuver cost the vampire, leaving him open for an assault.
Taking advantage, Roark charged, rotated, kicked, and struck relentlessly. Feinting with his knife, he used his free hand to take the general to the ground.
Once Lort was flat on the mat, Roark kneed his chest, pinching his neck with the blade tip. “Point, game, match.”
The victor immediately jumped up, releasing the general, who snapped to his feet seconds later.
“How are you with hand-to-hand? Breed gifts allowed.” The vampire general pulled back his lips, revealing fangs as he flashed behind Roark to catch him in a headlock, preparing to rip out his throat.
So, the competition wasn’t over yet. This male held a grudge.
Roark half-shifted to eagle, talons punching out. He rotated his body, shoved a shoulder against the vamp’s chest, and placed his leg behind Lort’s. After flinging the general backward, Roark stepped away, crouching, waiting for the next assault.
“Better than I am with a knife.”
Chapter Eleven
When Chiara dropped the I’ve-killed bomb, the car swerved. Dax righted it but insisted on an explanation.
Once she recovered from the automobile accident, the hospital sent Chiara Bianchi—she hadn’t taken the name Flores yet—to a state agency where her life forever changed. In time, they moved her to a foster home.
She spent six years there until…
The agency promised her the family was respectable, a dream placement. Hardly. Nightmare on Elm Street was more like it. Except this was Ellen Grove Avenue.
Chiara possessed two pairs of pants along with two shirts, which her foster parents expected her to launder daily by hand. The washtub was outside. No matter the weather, she scrubbed her few belongings and clipped them onto a line to air dry. Food was scarce, kindness scarcer. Five kids lived in the home, three girls and two boys. The girls were okay. The boys were mean.
Life was an endless routine of hunger, hard work, and strict lessons. The fosters woke the children each morning with a call to come downstairs. Breakfast was a piece of toast with grape jelly. A teaspoon of it. Water. They went to school with a paper lunch sack, its only contents two pieces of white bread, a thin spread of peanut butter, and another level teaspoon of grape jelly. When returning home, the kids got off the bus. They reported to their rooms to do homework. Dinner was promptly at five. If anyone was late, they didn’t eat.
After eating, they formed a prayer circle to read passages from the Bible. Often the fosters chose a verse based on one of the children’s perceived sins. Impoliteness. Failure to finish a task. Slouching at the table. Ungrateful behavior. Laughing.
The children sometimes selected a passage. Chiara’s favorite was Jeremiah 29:11. “For I know the plans I have for you … plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.” She clung to those words on many a dark night.
After the readings, the children returned to their rooms for lights-out at eight o’clock. Sleep disturbed by nightmares preceded another day just like the others.
The weekends were worse. The morning began with breakfast, followed by silent contemplation. They spent that time in the living room, sitting, hands in laps, eyes downcast, thinking.
Chiara thought mostly about the man who had saved her from a fiery car. He would ride up to the house, usually on a sleek motorcycle, knock on the door, and take her hand. When the fosters refused to release her, he’d pull back his lips to bare his fangs. Once they stopped screaming, they’d shove her outside with him. They were on the road. First stop was Disneyland, where her hero stuffed her with frozen chocolate-covered bananas. With his wallet open, he handed her wads of cash to buy cool clothes. Afterward, they attended a Maroon 5 concert where they had front row seats.
With the end of scheduled contemplation, Chiara re-entered the real world. The kids cleaned their own rooms, followed by pitching in to clean the common areas. The fosters never allowed them to grocery shop or go to malls. Friends never visited. No phone calls came for them. Birthdays or holidays were days like the others. Celebration was a sin. Happiness a cardinal sin.
