Blood Memories

Portland was a great place for us. Old, but not too old. Vogue, but not too vogue. Decent crime rate, but nothing like New York or Chicago. Plus… besides Edward, none of my kind had ever been drawn to set up a home here, which was a good thing. Stepping on someone else's territory could be a real problem for me. I'd get my head ripped off. We all have certain gifts that make survival possible-except for William, of course-but physical strength wasn't one of mine. We don't choose our gifts.

My particular gift has so many advantages that I'm not sure I'd trade it in if I could. As the smell of Portland's downtown air blew gently into my nostrils, I put my talent into motion. Too easy.

The dim light of Mickey's, my favorite bar, glowed off my dress as I walked in the door. I drew my shoulders forward slightly. My wispy blond hair fell down to cover half my face as I assumed a long-accustomed role: fragile and helpless. It never failed.

The dance floor was crowded. Unrecognizable bodies clutched at each other, moving slowly to the sappy lyrics of Journey's "Faithfully." This place was one of my ideal hangouts.

"Eleisha."

A familiar face called to me from the bar, but not the face I'd come looking for. I shifted my features to a frightened, hesitant expression.

"Hi, Derek." I moved up to the bar and to the inside of his stool, as though intimidated by the crowd and the noise. He knew me pretty well-at least in this persona-and put his hand on my waist in a protective gesture.

"Where you been?" he asked. "You ain't been here in weeks."

Derek was okay. I actually thought of him as sort of a friend, as much as he could be. Irish American, with red hair and a short-trimmed beard. Nice guy.

"I came to see Brian. Is he here?"

Derek looked surprised. "Yeah, he's around somewhere. Doesn't strike me as your type."

I flashed him an embarrassed smile. "It's nothing like that. I just need a favor."

"Why didn't you tell me?" He pulled out his wallet. "How much do you need?"

"No, that's not it either."

Lightly, I touched his wrist with the tips of my fingers. The tiny hairs on his arm stood up and his breathing quickened.

"Then what?" he asked. "You never let me do anything for you. You come in here and talk to me and then either leave by yourself or with some loser. I thought we were friends."

"That's why you never leave with me. I need to keep my friends. Find Brian, please."

If this had been anyone but me, he would have spat, "Get lost," and turned back to his beer. But he didn't. His eyes were hurt and confused and bright green like Edward's. Sometimes he actually got to me.

"Okay," he muttered. "Stay here."

I watched him work his way through the crowd, and then I turned to Christopher, the bartender, a pseudointellectual with a master's degree in anthropology.

"What does Brian usually drink?"

"Rum and Coke."

"Get me one of those and a red wine."

He grunted something unintelligible and reached toward the glasses. People here were an odd mix of lower-middle-class folks looking for company and a good time. I hung out here because that particular social level of men is especially susceptible to a pretty, young girl who needs someone to "take care of her." I think it's because they work so hard, and they sometimes just look at their lives and think, "Why am I doing this?" Then they meet some tiny, helpless creature who looks up to them, and they don't stand a chance. It's not really fair, but that's my gift. That's what I was given. I don't like killing. I hate it. There just isn't any other way.

Derek worked his way across the dance floor, followed by a stocky Italian. Relief washed up into my throat. Brian was a perfect mark-an egotistical pig who owned a cheap basement condo on the south side.

I pulled my small body back up against the bar and looked desperate. "Hi, Brian. I ordered you a drink."

He seemed amazed and excited but was trying to play it cool. He'd been hitting on me for months. Pathetic.

"Derek says you want to talk to me?"

"Yeah," I answered quietly, "but it's private."

Christopher, the anthropologist bartender, slammed our glasses down on the bar. Derek looked miserable. Brian paid for the drinks and motioned with his head toward an empty table.

"Over there."

With the sounds of Journey still rolling through my ears, I made a point of following, not leading, Brian to the table.

"What's up?" He was still playing the unshakable uptown boy. Poor thing.

"I'm in some trouble. I need a place to stay for a few days."

His eyes lit up like candles in a dark room. If I had said «weeks» he might have balked. Taking advantage of some frightened girl's situation and letting her sleep in his bed for a few nights was his style. Any longer than that and he'd get bored. Of course, as soon as he unlocked the condo door, I was going to kill him, steal his keys, dump his body, and go get William.

"What kind of trouble?" Brian asked.

Maybe he wasn't so gullible. I crossed my arms as though shivering and stared at a knot in the wooden table.