Undesireable: Chapter 1
TITLE: Undesireable
TITLE: Undesireable (A vampire novel)
RATING: NC-17 (This chapter PG-13)
GENRE: Porn with plot -- heavy on the plot. Action/adventure, some black humor, some romance.
PAIRINGS: George x everyone. Mostly Slash, some het, three and moresomes. Vampire sex.
WARNINGS: Lots of non-con and coercive themes -- oh howdy. Lots of swearing. Some sexual props. Some bondage. Heavy dominance/submission themes.
WORD COUNT: 3513
CHAPTER ONE
The first sign of the epic disaster to come was getting paged at Chicago's O'Hare Airport. I'd never been paged anywhere before, much less at a busy airport hundreds of miles away from home, and so when I heard my name being called out in almost musical tones over the P.A. I assumed I'd misheard. About a minute later the page repeated, and I got up off the uncomfortable vinyl and chrome chair and wandered over to one of the courtesy kiosks. Sure enough my name was scrolling across the LCD display, right above the advertisement for Estee Lauder perfume.
Now at that point, I could have pretended I never saw it, waited forty-five minutes, and boarded my airplane like normal. I figure the chances were better than fifty-fifty they would not have called the plane back - nor would they have an easy time picking me out of the crowd. The place was packed with people who more or less resembled that five years out-of-date photo I had affixed to my Bloodtrust file. Once I'd left Chicago the danger would have been passed, and chances were pretty good that I would have continued my life like normal. By the time work took me back to Chicago again, that particular Lord would have completely forgotten why he'd wanted me in the first place.
But that assumes I had the faintest clue why I was being paged. I didn't. I'd been flying under the Our Glorious Vampire Protectorate's radar since I was eleven, and had absolutely no reason to suspect that one of them would single out a random traveler like me for Service.
So I did what normal, non-batshit paranoid people do: I picked up the courtesy phone and said, "Hi, I'm George Handle, someone paged for me?"
"Mr. Handle, you have been asked for by Lord Jeffrey. Please remain at the kiosk, security will be right over to meet you."
Now that's when I realized I was in trouble. But it was too late to do anything about it. If I'd hung up the phone and hidden in the toilet until last boarding, they would have turned my plane around, and I'd be in serious trouble. Vampires do not take well to public defiance.
My only real recourse at that point was to talk my way out of Service - a tough job since that's pretty much what everyone whose ever been called up wants to do. Success rate close to zero.
That's of course assuming I was wanted for Service. Rumors had it that there were a hell of a lot worse things Vampires wanted humans for.
Sweat beaded up on my brow. The noisy, echoing concourse seemed unbearably stuffy, and the smell of jet fuel turned my stomach. Usually under stress my mind clicks into high gear, but today it flailed about like a salmon on fisherman's hook and all I could do was stare, dry mouthed and dumb, at the stupid perfume ad.
Lord Jeffrey… Lord Jeffrey - which one of those nasty fuckers was he? I'd done only the most casual research before the trip. The usual things: Names, ages, general likes and dislikes of the important local area aristocracy. Chicago and its sprawling suburbs were big enough to support a veritable army of bloodsuckers - currently, over two hundred of them had organized in a what they called a parliament, dividing up the tithe and sharing the human bounty. They tended to hang in a tight knot around River North, which made them pretty damn easy to avoid altogether, and they had taken a near total hands-off approach to local trade and politics which actually endeared them somewhat to their populace. Chicago had seemed like one of the safe places to visit, unlike, say, Los Angeles, whose vampire elite were a bunch of micromanaging dickheads.
Lord Jeffrey must have been one of the junior ranked vampires, because his name did not ring a bell. Which was bad, because if I was going to talk my way out of this, it would help a lot if I had a clue what he was looking for in me. Think, think…. What could he want from me? It couldn't be revenge: I had done nothing remotely offensive during my visit. Nor was it likely that he was interested in the educational software I'd just spent 5 days running a workshop on. I can't sing, I don't dance that well, I'm not good at gladiatorial sports. My appearance was a carefully cultivated nerdiness, complete with button down shirt and pocket protector. I even had a smattering of acne which I deliberately didn't treat. That and the fact that I'm only 5'4" makes it highly unlikely my sexual attractiveness caught the vampire's eye.
Unfortunately, if it wasn't for my blood or skills, that left Lord Jeffery looking to have me entertain him with my groveling and screams. From what little I've gathered, sadism is a pretty common weakness for members of the aristocracy, and it made a sick kind of sense considering the situation. After all, if you are going to take some life threatening aggression out on a random patsy, might as well use someone who had no family or friends in town to raise a stink about it afterwards.
Forget all the sickly sweet sanitized propaganda they give you in school about how these guys swooped in at the height of the Cold War and saved all our asses from global thermonuclear annihilation. That doesn't change the fact that they are fucking top level predators and we are nothing but food to them. So what if they need living, healthy prey - whoopty do. That doesn't mean they never commit murder for the pure fun of it. And thanks to the Great Coup of '82, they are literally above the law, answering only to their peers, and only then if they start screwing with something major, like the economy. Lord Fancy Trousers, my so-called "Patron Vampire", doesn't even know I exist. He's not likely to come to my rescue, even if by some miracle Wally or my parents could get through his wall of yes-men to register a protest.
Oh god, I was fucked. I was so badly fucked, I nearly wet myself there on the concourse thinking about how fucked I was.
Damn it, by all the laws of logic, this should not be happening - I'd been way too careful. I've calculated every possible risk and minimized it. Hell even my good friends considered me freakish and obsessive when it comes to laying low. I used to be a damn fine swimmer - won meets and everything, until I made it to the statewide semifinals. When realized that one of the local Lords would be in the stadium, I threw the race. I gave up probably the only chance I'll ever have for fame, just because I don't want those creatures noticing me. And for all that, here I am, caught by simple, stupid, random chance.
"Mr. Handle?" The woman on the other end of the phone asked. "Are you there?" Oh yes, that's right, while I was standing in the middle of the concourse looking like some kind of brain damaged midget, the world was actually going on around me. I aught to pay attention to it.
"Ah, Fu--," I started then caught myself, "Yeah. I'll be here." Then put it the phone back in its cradle, before she could ask anything more of me. My mouth almost got away from me as it was, but it wasn’t the lady's fault, she didn't deserve me swearing at her.
I felt horribly conspicuous, like my fate was written over my head in some comic thought balloon everyone could see. I noticed a few people looking my way. Did they know? Could they guess I was about to have my basic human rights stripped? The worst part was, that even if they did know, it was doubtful that anyone would care beyond a mild train wreck curiosity. They would all be glad it wasn't them.
With the aching slowness of water coming to a boil, my brain finally reached a decision. Run. Run like fucking hell. Screw my flight, screw my luggage, just get the fuck away.
Great idea if it had come twenty seconds earlier, but right then I heard a toot of a horn and noticed my escort rolling up on one of those little electric golf carts. Sitting in the front were two uniformed security guards: a large African American woman who held herself with a convincing "you don't want to fuck with me, honky" bearing, and a white guy with a large red birthmark across his cheek like someone splashed a glass of burgundy in is face.
"Mr. Handle," said female officer. "If you will get in the cart, we'll take you to where your party is waiting."
"So… did I do something wrong? Did I create some sort of insult?" The question was really rhetorical. I knew I hadn't and I didn't really expect her to know shit. Of course she didn't, but she seemed to think she had to answer it like it was an honest question.
"That's not my business, sir. You will have to ask someone else that," she said, heaving her large (and impressively muscled I must say) body out of cart. "Sir, If you would please get into the cart now, we can get going." Despite the deference in the way the woman spoke, it entirely obvious that if I didn't choose to get in the car, she'd pull out that taser strapped to her hip and make me.
I could have run, made them chase me down and put the entire airport on alert for me, but I knew the futility of it. The shame of making a scene turned out to be greater than my fear of what was to come. If I was going to go out, I was going to do it with some dignity.
So I climbed awkwardly into the back of her cart and laid my laptop case across my thighs like some sort of electronic armor for my wilting privates. Yes, I felt like less than a man at that point. You would too if you were totally out of control of your situation with everything spiraling towards some epic shitdom. I won't get into the thoughts I had on the way there, because they totally misdirected and completely uncharitable. Still I'm just as happy that thoughts couldn't kill because otherwise I'd be a mass murderer right now instead of… well… you'll see.
While I stewed, they took me down the concourse back to the main terminal. From there we went through a set of battered double doors into the private part of the Air Terminal. We stopped outside a set of security offices, where I was ushered out of the cart and into a reception area that had all the warmth and charm of a hospital waiting room.
And there things took a slightly unreal bend. And by unreal, I mean it damn well was like I'd walked onto some Hollywood set. I was suddenly in the land of the beautiful people.
My eyes were drawn in immediately by the pair of male Wannabes who stood, posed in the center of the room, absolutely awash in the aura of their own importance. These weren't real vampires, but they had that pretentious faux-goth look going on: all black, tight, expensive clothes, pretty fashion model faces, clean shaven and perfectly coiffed. They both had really dark skin that had a bit of a shine to it. The effect was aesthetically impressive. They were exactly the kind of humans the vamps liked to surround themselves with: gorgeous people, used to eating at five-star restaurants and being treated to the most expensive entertainment - when they weren't being the entertainment themselves. I'm sure they tasted like caviar and sirloin.
Either my capacity to be terrified had reached it's maximum and I'd gone numb, or the initial shock had worn off and my brain came back from vacation, because I sized the two up with almost clinical dispassion. Even though they didn't have mind-powers, or supernatural strength or speed, I had no doubt these lackeys could knock my sorry ass to the floor in two seconds flat if I gave them a reason to. The muscles that bulged through their shirts were real. The haughty stare was probably calculated to put me in my place. However, considering the fact that they'd been called out to haul back pathetic little me, they couldn't have been too high up on the feeding chain. So, beautiful and strong, but maybe not too bright. A prettier version of the Airport security that had ferried me here.
"George Handle?" one asked, as if he didn't couldn't believe I was the one attached to my name. I could have said "no," but then the obvious reply was for me to show my ID, which would catch me up in a blatant lie right away, and ruin my chances of further manipulation.
"Yes?" I stood up my full diminutive height and tried to put a good face on this. "Excuse me, but I'm sure there has been a mistake. I can't have done anything that would cause anyone offense. And if I have, I sincerely apologize. I'm willing to pay a monetary fine to show my sincerity."
So… are these guys bribable? Please let it be yes.
The two looked at each other, then one lifted up a hand in the universal "settle down" gesture. "No one has been offended by you. There's no reason for you to be so nervous. It's just a simple routine Blood Service. Your file says you've been through one before."
Yeah…er… about that. Wait, did he say routine blood service? Blood service? It was like some spring inside my gut had suddenly let loose and I nearly flopped forward with relief. Not that Blood Service was good mind you, but compared to a night of torture, yeah, it was marginally better.
"Just ordinary Service," assured the man. "Don't worry about it. By tomorrow you'll be back on your plane, right as rain."
So bizarre as it was, they wanted my blood after all. Or someone's blood. My mind caught the thought and reeled it in fast. The only one who would ever possibly call me in for Blood Service would be Lord Fancy Trousers' personal bootlicker Lady Dingaling. And she'd only do it because by some freak of chance she actually remembered our little secret and developed some sort of work ethic. Not bloody likely -- ergo, they had the wrong guy. Yea! I was saved!
"If that's the case, I believe there has been a mistake." Without really intending it, I'd slipped into my salesperson persona, all slick and melodious with a huge only semi sincere smile. "My name is fairly common, perhaps you were supposed to be looking for someone else." I have no idea how common my name is, but hell, in a city the size of Chicago, there probably was someone else with my name wandering about somewhere. "I'm terribly sorry for any mix up or confusion. If you check my blood, I'm sure you will find I'm not type you are looking for." I found myself quite convincing.
And apparently I'd struck a cord with these two as well. The two Wannabe's gave each other a concerned look. "You know that's quite possible," said one softly.
"I sure hope we haven't made a mistake," said the other.
I felt just the briefest twinge of worry at how much trouble they'd be in if they'd gotten the wrong guy. It would probably suck pretty bad for them. At best it would mean they'd have to chase down someone else and hope they could catch up to them before whenever the Vampire was expecting his meal. Then it was over and I was just glad that it wasn't me. I admit to having a bit of selfish streak in that regard.
Unfortunately, they didn't just take my word for it.
"We'll check," said the first guy, and he reached into a bag and brought out a device that looked like a cross between a diabetes monitor and a power supply. It was a Taster - the latest generation in genetic screening. It could take a person's blood and in about two minutes tease out the only variables Vamps care about.
These days when people talk about Blood Type they don't mean that A or O or all that Rh stuff. The only people who care about those things are medical doctors. What the vampires want is the variables that effect your "flavor" - and these come out as a string of twelve numbers. Of course every human is unique, and the chances of any two people sharing exactly the same variables approaches nil, nonetheless some numbers were a lot more common than others, over the last 13 years the vampires have been very through about cataloguing which range of numbers go with which sorts of flavors.
My roommate Wally, for example, has nine variables listed in the "pleasant" range. We looked up the full description on the internet and came up with "robust, with traces of apple and cinnamon." Now I've tasted Wally's blood (don't ask me about the details - they are long and involved and beside the point) but I can assure you his blood tastes absolutely nothing like either apples or cinnamon. In fact, his blood tastes pretty much exactly like mine, which is to say it tastes like blood. But apparently along with all the mind-powers, Vamps have a very different sense of taste than Humans, and these descriptors make some sort of sense for them.
I've been through this ritual enough that I didn't wait for him to ask before offering out my left hand. I let him swipe the ring finger with sanitizer then guide it into the slot. There was a brief sting when he triggered the lancet and then a faint warm hum that signaled that a drop of blood had been collected and was now being processed by the machine. I withdrew my hand and brought it automatically to my mouth. Yep. Blood.
"Please take a seat, sir," said the second Wannabe.
There was an awkward wait while the machine did its thing, and during that time I prayed. Please, God, let this be a mistake. I really, really needed this to be a mistake. I would be so screwed if it wasn't.
At last there was a small chime. The Wannabe's expression went instantly from concerned to reassured. A small smile perked up the thin-lipped corners of his mouth. "All is in order, Mr. Handle. Your numbers match up." With a practiced shake, he flipped the disposable lining out of the finger slot and tossed it into the trash receptacle.
No. Impossible. My stomach fell to the floor. "There must be some sort of clerical mistake," I insisted. "I'm an Undesirable. I taste foul. It's in my record!"
"Yeah," said the guy who'd sampled my blood. "That's why you've been called. Listen you are the third guy we've called up this afternoon, and they were just as surprised as you. Only, thing is, they look a hell of a lot more undesirable than you do. What's wrong with you? Diabetes? Lupus?"
"Bad luck," I said.
The Wannabes chuckled briefly. "Yo man, you've nothing to be afraid of. Just do what you are told, and you will be free to go tomorrow morning. You probably won't be kept the entire night."
At that point my composure fell apart, and I lost my cool. "What kind of crazy vampire would want to drink my blood. I taste like puke!. I'm disgusting."
They both laughed full out at that. "It's just Lord Jeffrey's sense of humor."
I recoiled and turned my back on them. Honestly, I don't know what I thought I was doing. Maybe trying to run away, maybe just get my head into some neutral space without those two in it. I didn't have the chance. Apparently these guys have picked up runners before, because the second I appeared to be thinking in that direction they were on me, grabbing me about the shoulders, and swinging my right arm up behind my back.
It's amazing how fast I got a hold of myself once my shoulder threatened to pop out of its socket. It puts real perspective on things. Got my attention good.
"Sir," said one in my ear, "Behave yourself. We don't want to have to hurt you."
"I'll behave," I promised, wincing and going up on my toes to relieve the pressure.
I was released. Rubbing my shoulder with my off hand I let myself be led out the door.
"Spunky little thing," muttered one of my captors. "Not anything like I was expecting him to be."
"Yeah, Lord Jeffery's type of guy."
And that's when I knew I was doomed.
Back to Prologue
On to Chapter Two
TITLE: Undesireable (A vampire novel)
RATING: NC-17 (This chapter PG-13)
GENRE: Porn with plot -- heavy on the plot. Action/adventure, some black humor, some romance.
PAIRINGS: George x everyone. Mostly Slash, some het, three and moresomes. Vampire sex.
WARNINGS: Lots of non-con and coercive themes -- oh howdy. Lots of swearing. Some sexual props. Some bondage. Heavy dominance/submission themes.
WORD COUNT: 3513
CHAPTER ONE
The first sign of the epic disaster to come was getting paged at Chicago's O'Hare Airport. I'd never been paged anywhere before, much less at a busy airport hundreds of miles away from home, and so when I heard my name being called out in almost musical tones over the P.A. I assumed I'd misheard. About a minute later the page repeated, and I got up off the uncomfortable vinyl and chrome chair and wandered over to one of the courtesy kiosks. Sure enough my name was scrolling across the LCD display, right above the advertisement for Estee Lauder perfume.
Now at that point, I could have pretended I never saw it, waited forty-five minutes, and boarded my airplane like normal. I figure the chances were better than fifty-fifty they would not have called the plane back - nor would they have an easy time picking me out of the crowd. The place was packed with people who more or less resembled that five years out-of-date photo I had affixed to my Bloodtrust file. Once I'd left Chicago the danger would have been passed, and chances were pretty good that I would have continued my life like normal. By the time work took me back to Chicago again, that particular Lord would have completely forgotten why he'd wanted me in the first place.
But that assumes I had the faintest clue why I was being paged. I didn't. I'd been flying under the Our Glorious Vampire Protectorate's radar since I was eleven, and had absolutely no reason to suspect that one of them would single out a random traveler like me for Service.
So I did what normal, non-batshit paranoid people do: I picked up the courtesy phone and said, "Hi, I'm George Handle, someone paged for me?"
"Mr. Handle, you have been asked for by Lord Jeffrey. Please remain at the kiosk, security will be right over to meet you."
Now that's when I realized I was in trouble. But it was too late to do anything about it. If I'd hung up the phone and hidden in the toilet until last boarding, they would have turned my plane around, and I'd be in serious trouble. Vampires do not take well to public defiance.
My only real recourse at that point was to talk my way out of Service - a tough job since that's pretty much what everyone whose ever been called up wants to do. Success rate close to zero.
That's of course assuming I was wanted for Service. Rumors had it that there were a hell of a lot worse things Vampires wanted humans for.
Sweat beaded up on my brow. The noisy, echoing concourse seemed unbearably stuffy, and the smell of jet fuel turned my stomach. Usually under stress my mind clicks into high gear, but today it flailed about like a salmon on fisherman's hook and all I could do was stare, dry mouthed and dumb, at the stupid perfume ad.
Lord Jeffrey… Lord Jeffrey - which one of those nasty fuckers was he? I'd done only the most casual research before the trip. The usual things: Names, ages, general likes and dislikes of the important local area aristocracy. Chicago and its sprawling suburbs were big enough to support a veritable army of bloodsuckers - currently, over two hundred of them had organized in a what they called a parliament, dividing up the tithe and sharing the human bounty. They tended to hang in a tight knot around River North, which made them pretty damn easy to avoid altogether, and they had taken a near total hands-off approach to local trade and politics which actually endeared them somewhat to their populace. Chicago had seemed like one of the safe places to visit, unlike, say, Los Angeles, whose vampire elite were a bunch of micromanaging dickheads.
Lord Jeffrey must have been one of the junior ranked vampires, because his name did not ring a bell. Which was bad, because if I was going to talk my way out of this, it would help a lot if I had a clue what he was looking for in me. Think, think…. What could he want from me? It couldn't be revenge: I had done nothing remotely offensive during my visit. Nor was it likely that he was interested in the educational software I'd just spent 5 days running a workshop on. I can't sing, I don't dance that well, I'm not good at gladiatorial sports. My appearance was a carefully cultivated nerdiness, complete with button down shirt and pocket protector. I even had a smattering of acne which I deliberately didn't treat. That and the fact that I'm only 5'4" makes it highly unlikely my sexual attractiveness caught the vampire's eye.
Unfortunately, if it wasn't for my blood or skills, that left Lord Jeffery looking to have me entertain him with my groveling and screams. From what little I've gathered, sadism is a pretty common weakness for members of the aristocracy, and it made a sick kind of sense considering the situation. After all, if you are going to take some life threatening aggression out on a random patsy, might as well use someone who had no family or friends in town to raise a stink about it afterwards.
Forget all the sickly sweet sanitized propaganda they give you in school about how these guys swooped in at the height of the Cold War and saved all our asses from global thermonuclear annihilation. That doesn't change the fact that they are fucking top level predators and we are nothing but food to them. So what if they need living, healthy prey - whoopty do. That doesn't mean they never commit murder for the pure fun of it. And thanks to the Great Coup of '82, they are literally above the law, answering only to their peers, and only then if they start screwing with something major, like the economy. Lord Fancy Trousers, my so-called "Patron Vampire", doesn't even know I exist. He's not likely to come to my rescue, even if by some miracle Wally or my parents could get through his wall of yes-men to register a protest.
Oh god, I was fucked. I was so badly fucked, I nearly wet myself there on the concourse thinking about how fucked I was.
Damn it, by all the laws of logic, this should not be happening - I'd been way too careful. I've calculated every possible risk and minimized it. Hell even my good friends considered me freakish and obsessive when it comes to laying low. I used to be a damn fine swimmer - won meets and everything, until I made it to the statewide semifinals. When realized that one of the local Lords would be in the stadium, I threw the race. I gave up probably the only chance I'll ever have for fame, just because I don't want those creatures noticing me. And for all that, here I am, caught by simple, stupid, random chance.
"Mr. Handle?" The woman on the other end of the phone asked. "Are you there?" Oh yes, that's right, while I was standing in the middle of the concourse looking like some kind of brain damaged midget, the world was actually going on around me. I aught to pay attention to it.
"Ah, Fu--," I started then caught myself, "Yeah. I'll be here." Then put it the phone back in its cradle, before she could ask anything more of me. My mouth almost got away from me as it was, but it wasn’t the lady's fault, she didn't deserve me swearing at her.
I felt horribly conspicuous, like my fate was written over my head in some comic thought balloon everyone could see. I noticed a few people looking my way. Did they know? Could they guess I was about to have my basic human rights stripped? The worst part was, that even if they did know, it was doubtful that anyone would care beyond a mild train wreck curiosity. They would all be glad it wasn't them.
With the aching slowness of water coming to a boil, my brain finally reached a decision. Run. Run like fucking hell. Screw my flight, screw my luggage, just get the fuck away.
Great idea if it had come twenty seconds earlier, but right then I heard a toot of a horn and noticed my escort rolling up on one of those little electric golf carts. Sitting in the front were two uniformed security guards: a large African American woman who held herself with a convincing "you don't want to fuck with me, honky" bearing, and a white guy with a large red birthmark across his cheek like someone splashed a glass of burgundy in is face.
"Mr. Handle," said female officer. "If you will get in the cart, we'll take you to where your party is waiting."
"So… did I do something wrong? Did I create some sort of insult?" The question was really rhetorical. I knew I hadn't and I didn't really expect her to know shit. Of course she didn't, but she seemed to think she had to answer it like it was an honest question.
"That's not my business, sir. You will have to ask someone else that," she said, heaving her large (and impressively muscled I must say) body out of cart. "Sir, If you would please get into the cart now, we can get going." Despite the deference in the way the woman spoke, it entirely obvious that if I didn't choose to get in the car, she'd pull out that taser strapped to her hip and make me.
I could have run, made them chase me down and put the entire airport on alert for me, but I knew the futility of it. The shame of making a scene turned out to be greater than my fear of what was to come. If I was going to go out, I was going to do it with some dignity.
So I climbed awkwardly into the back of her cart and laid my laptop case across my thighs like some sort of electronic armor for my wilting privates. Yes, I felt like less than a man at that point. You would too if you were totally out of control of your situation with everything spiraling towards some epic shitdom. I won't get into the thoughts I had on the way there, because they totally misdirected and completely uncharitable. Still I'm just as happy that thoughts couldn't kill because otherwise I'd be a mass murderer right now instead of… well… you'll see.
While I stewed, they took me down the concourse back to the main terminal. From there we went through a set of battered double doors into the private part of the Air Terminal. We stopped outside a set of security offices, where I was ushered out of the cart and into a reception area that had all the warmth and charm of a hospital waiting room.
And there things took a slightly unreal bend. And by unreal, I mean it damn well was like I'd walked onto some Hollywood set. I was suddenly in the land of the beautiful people.
My eyes were drawn in immediately by the pair of male Wannabes who stood, posed in the center of the room, absolutely awash in the aura of their own importance. These weren't real vampires, but they had that pretentious faux-goth look going on: all black, tight, expensive clothes, pretty fashion model faces, clean shaven and perfectly coiffed. They both had really dark skin that had a bit of a shine to it. The effect was aesthetically impressive. They were exactly the kind of humans the vamps liked to surround themselves with: gorgeous people, used to eating at five-star restaurants and being treated to the most expensive entertainment - when they weren't being the entertainment themselves. I'm sure they tasted like caviar and sirloin.
Either my capacity to be terrified had reached it's maximum and I'd gone numb, or the initial shock had worn off and my brain came back from vacation, because I sized the two up with almost clinical dispassion. Even though they didn't have mind-powers, or supernatural strength or speed, I had no doubt these lackeys could knock my sorry ass to the floor in two seconds flat if I gave them a reason to. The muscles that bulged through their shirts were real. The haughty stare was probably calculated to put me in my place. However, considering the fact that they'd been called out to haul back pathetic little me, they couldn't have been too high up on the feeding chain. So, beautiful and strong, but maybe not too bright. A prettier version of the Airport security that had ferried me here.
"George Handle?" one asked, as if he didn't couldn't believe I was the one attached to my name. I could have said "no," but then the obvious reply was for me to show my ID, which would catch me up in a blatant lie right away, and ruin my chances of further manipulation.
"Yes?" I stood up my full diminutive height and tried to put a good face on this. "Excuse me, but I'm sure there has been a mistake. I can't have done anything that would cause anyone offense. And if I have, I sincerely apologize. I'm willing to pay a monetary fine to show my sincerity."
So… are these guys bribable? Please let it be yes.
The two looked at each other, then one lifted up a hand in the universal "settle down" gesture. "No one has been offended by you. There's no reason for you to be so nervous. It's just a simple routine Blood Service. Your file says you've been through one before."
Yeah…er… about that. Wait, did he say routine blood service? Blood service? It was like some spring inside my gut had suddenly let loose and I nearly flopped forward with relief. Not that Blood Service was good mind you, but compared to a night of torture, yeah, it was marginally better.
"Just ordinary Service," assured the man. "Don't worry about it. By tomorrow you'll be back on your plane, right as rain."
So bizarre as it was, they wanted my blood after all. Or someone's blood. My mind caught the thought and reeled it in fast. The only one who would ever possibly call me in for Blood Service would be Lord Fancy Trousers' personal bootlicker Lady Dingaling. And she'd only do it because by some freak of chance she actually remembered our little secret and developed some sort of work ethic. Not bloody likely -- ergo, they had the wrong guy. Yea! I was saved!
"If that's the case, I believe there has been a mistake." Without really intending it, I'd slipped into my salesperson persona, all slick and melodious with a huge only semi sincere smile. "My name is fairly common, perhaps you were supposed to be looking for someone else." I have no idea how common my name is, but hell, in a city the size of Chicago, there probably was someone else with my name wandering about somewhere. "I'm terribly sorry for any mix up or confusion. If you check my blood, I'm sure you will find I'm not type you are looking for." I found myself quite convincing.
And apparently I'd struck a cord with these two as well. The two Wannabe's gave each other a concerned look. "You know that's quite possible," said one softly.
"I sure hope we haven't made a mistake," said the other.
I felt just the briefest twinge of worry at how much trouble they'd be in if they'd gotten the wrong guy. It would probably suck pretty bad for them. At best it would mean they'd have to chase down someone else and hope they could catch up to them before whenever the Vampire was expecting his meal. Then it was over and I was just glad that it wasn't me. I admit to having a bit of selfish streak in that regard.
Unfortunately, they didn't just take my word for it.
"We'll check," said the first guy, and he reached into a bag and brought out a device that looked like a cross between a diabetes monitor and a power supply. It was a Taster - the latest generation in genetic screening. It could take a person's blood and in about two minutes tease out the only variables Vamps care about.
These days when people talk about Blood Type they don't mean that A or O or all that Rh stuff. The only people who care about those things are medical doctors. What the vampires want is the variables that effect your "flavor" - and these come out as a string of twelve numbers. Of course every human is unique, and the chances of any two people sharing exactly the same variables approaches nil, nonetheless some numbers were a lot more common than others, over the last 13 years the vampires have been very through about cataloguing which range of numbers go with which sorts of flavors.
My roommate Wally, for example, has nine variables listed in the "pleasant" range. We looked up the full description on the internet and came up with "robust, with traces of apple and cinnamon." Now I've tasted Wally's blood (don't ask me about the details - they are long and involved and beside the point) but I can assure you his blood tastes absolutely nothing like either apples or cinnamon. In fact, his blood tastes pretty much exactly like mine, which is to say it tastes like blood. But apparently along with all the mind-powers, Vamps have a very different sense of taste than Humans, and these descriptors make some sort of sense for them.
I've been through this ritual enough that I didn't wait for him to ask before offering out my left hand. I let him swipe the ring finger with sanitizer then guide it into the slot. There was a brief sting when he triggered the lancet and then a faint warm hum that signaled that a drop of blood had been collected and was now being processed by the machine. I withdrew my hand and brought it automatically to my mouth. Yep. Blood.
"Please take a seat, sir," said the second Wannabe.
There was an awkward wait while the machine did its thing, and during that time I prayed. Please, God, let this be a mistake. I really, really needed this to be a mistake. I would be so screwed if it wasn't.
At last there was a small chime. The Wannabe's expression went instantly from concerned to reassured. A small smile perked up the thin-lipped corners of his mouth. "All is in order, Mr. Handle. Your numbers match up." With a practiced shake, he flipped the disposable lining out of the finger slot and tossed it into the trash receptacle.
No. Impossible. My stomach fell to the floor. "There must be some sort of clerical mistake," I insisted. "I'm an Undesirable. I taste foul. It's in my record!"
"Yeah," said the guy who'd sampled my blood. "That's why you've been called. Listen you are the third guy we've called up this afternoon, and they were just as surprised as you. Only, thing is, they look a hell of a lot more undesirable than you do. What's wrong with you? Diabetes? Lupus?"
"Bad luck," I said.
The Wannabes chuckled briefly. "Yo man, you've nothing to be afraid of. Just do what you are told, and you will be free to go tomorrow morning. You probably won't be kept the entire night."
At that point my composure fell apart, and I lost my cool. "What kind of crazy vampire would want to drink my blood. I taste like puke!. I'm disgusting."
They both laughed full out at that. "It's just Lord Jeffrey's sense of humor."
I recoiled and turned my back on them. Honestly, I don't know what I thought I was doing. Maybe trying to run away, maybe just get my head into some neutral space without those two in it. I didn't have the chance. Apparently these guys have picked up runners before, because the second I appeared to be thinking in that direction they were on me, grabbing me about the shoulders, and swinging my right arm up behind my back.
It's amazing how fast I got a hold of myself once my shoulder threatened to pop out of its socket. It puts real perspective on things. Got my attention good.
"Sir," said one in my ear, "Behave yourself. We don't want to have to hurt you."
"I'll behave," I promised, wincing and going up on my toes to relieve the pressure.
I was released. Rubbing my shoulder with my off hand I let myself be led out the door.
"Spunky little thing," muttered one of my captors. "Not anything like I was expecting him to be."
"Yeah, Lord Jeffery's type of guy."
And that's when I knew I was doomed.
Back to Prologue
On to Chapter Two