Cara MIA - By Book One of the Immortyl Revolution - By Denise Verrico Page 0,83

skin blanched yellow-white as the inner flesh of an almond. His shoulder was icy cold, but he didn’t even flinch when I touched him.

He turned to me. “The beast awakens.”

He was a ghastly caricature of himself, his lush mouth gray and drawn, face etched stone hard, usually luminous eyes flat, blue buttons, hair brittle and dull. Pushing me aside, he grabbed his clothes. I switched on the lights. He covered his eyes like a movie Dracula when sunlight floods in on him, snarling— literally, “Shut them, damn you!”

I snapped them off, and lit one of the hundreds of votive candles we’d bought the night before. A small flame furtively licked up the sides of the glass as Kurt pulled on his jeans and shirt. He glanced at the tattoo on his forearm for a moment, noticed me looking and snapped, “Why do you stare?”

“I know the best spots… ”

“You want to see this? It arouses you sexually?” He pressed his body against me, for once not raring to go. “By all means accompany me. See what I am.” He pushed me away. “Get dressed! Can’t stand it much longer.”

A delayed feeder. He’d waited until the last possible moment to feed, when instinct pushed one mercilessly to become a ravenous, mindless beast. Why? Ethan said this was dangerous.

We finally emerged into the street. “The piers? The river is good for dumping them.”

“No.” He set out at a brisk walk. “My flavor has a distinctive smell.”

I followed him through winding streets, past residential buildings to a maze of darkened warehouses and meat packing plants. No parked cars or mortals loitering on the sidewalks. He stopped in front of a storefront displaying questionable literature and Nazi war memorabilia in its window. The lights were off. A cage-like grill pulled over its front.

“The price of free speech,” I muttered.

Kurt scowled. “Back entrance.” He wheeled into an alleyway leading alongside the building, scanning until he found a door with a bare light bulb burning overhead. “Wait.”

Soon the door opened. Kurt pulled me into the shadows as a young man stepped outside, tall, head shaved, wearing fatigues with the arms cut out and black combat boots laced with white. Tattoos on his worm-white arms proclaimed white power, a large Swastika figuring prominently on his right shoulder. The skinhead lurched by without noticing our presence, reeking of stale beer, cigarettes, hashish and the salt-iodine odor of sex. A well pickled herring. Kurt hung back for a moment, restraining me with his arm.

He inclined his head, releasing his grip and we set off behind the intended victim, with footsteps too soft for mortal ears. The skinhead staggered around a corner, until he came upon a construction site. A skeleton of a gutted building rose above the plywood barrier surrounding it, a motionless crane standing sentinel, a steel Brachiosaurus. Next to it was a meat packer’s building. Dumpsters stood in front, stinking of rotted flesh. Kurt’s intended victim faced one, preceding to unzip. Pungent piss filled the air. The skinhead laughed to himself, tracing a wet swastika on the side of the dumpster. He turned around in our direction, zipping his fly. Kurt stared at him curiously, head tilted slightly to one side.

“Whatcha looking at, faggot?” Kurt remained silent. “Hey, your boyfriend deaf?” The victim gave me the once over, tugging his crotch. “You can do better than that skinny runt, sweetheart.”

Kurt strolled up to him, tracing the swastika on the bared shoulder. “You offend me.”

The skinhead stepped back, grinning. “I get it now, Jew boy.”

Kurt stepped back, smiling, and let loose a savage kick that sent the skinhead sprawling into the street, groaning and grasping his groin.

“Little sonofabitch!”

Kurt walked a slow circle around him and then cobra-rapid, grabbed the victim around the throat and dragged him behind the dumpster with me panting right behind. Kurt forced him to his knees, tearing into the neck, clamping his hand over the mouth to prevent screams.

After drinking his fill, he offered the victim to me but he was already dead, no delicious fear to taste, only cold blackness and alcohol. I spat the bitter blood out, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. I let the body fall and turned around.

Kurt’s color rushed back into lips, hair and eyes regaining their luster as he stood, a silent, avenging angel. Another need overtook me. I pressed against him. He was very hard. I moaned and twisted against him, wanting him right there behind the dumpster. I reached down to unzip