Blood Sacraments by Todd Gregory Page B

his own kind I have always thought had as much to do with jealousy as anything else.
    “The redhead?” he reminded me.
    I knew what he meant, of course. Last month I’d had a red-haired young man completely ensnared in my glamour, all but begging me to take him home. Before I’d managed to have so much as a sip from my date, he’d vanished. Anders had “bumped into” the redhead in the bathroom and taken him home instead. He claimed he’d had no idea, which was about as likely as either of us showing up for Sunday Mass.
    “Are you going to chase away all my choices?” Anders asked when I didn’t respond.
    I shook my head. “No. Détente will do.”
    Anders frowned. “What?”
    I sighed—a carefully studied trick for one who does not breathe. “A truce.”
    Anders offered his hand. I took it. When we shook, he squeezed just short of breaking bones.

    *

    As with Anders, I smelled my prey before I saw him. He was out of my line of sight, and he smelled of simple things: soap, and sweat, and also something less tangible but far more alluring. There was an innocence in the air. A scent not unlike vanilla, or the air moments before lightning strikes. Something new.
    It is the new—or even the false new of the rarely encountered—that stops me from giving up. Three nights a month is not much, and means dozens more hiding, drinking mostly from vermin and avoiding the notice of the other vampires.
    A trace of the scent returned, stirred in the air. Fresh. Clean.
    I walked slowly, turning my head, and kept my eyes sharp. The bar was dim, but no trouble for my night eyes. I traced the air, following the currents around the lower level of the bar, where people stood around tables with too few seats, played pool, and tried not to let on that they watched each other.
    My prey was at a back corner table, on one of the rare chairs, and alone. He was not tall, though his wide shoulders saved him from seeming small. He was clean-shaven, with dark brown hair and eyes that matched, behind a pair of black-rimmed glasses that were both slightly out of date and style. Unlike the rest of the crowd—who all seemed to have been told the uniform of the night was monochromes of black and white only—he wore a plain pair of tan pants and a pale orange V-neck shirt that left an inch below the hollow of his throat exposed. A simple silver chain, from which hung a small orange crystal of some sort, brushed his throat when he took a sip of his drink.
    Seeing the stone touch his neck was all it took; I wanted him. Almost unbidden, I felt my glamour wash over my skin.
    The crowd around me shifted perceptibly, and I smiled. My glamour is particularly strong, a rare gift from my broken lineage, and the men around me were caught unawares. They looked at me from the corners of their eyes, lost the train of their conversations, or openly stared, whichever was closest to their preference and how naturally open their minds were to such influence. I made eye contact with Anders’s cheap young blond thing, the sort I myself might take on my first night, quickly and with a more animal pleasure. The boy had to lean back against the wall for a moment, blinking at me.
    Perfect.
    I watched my prey a moment longer, and seeing his glass—I could smell tonic water, and gin—was nearly empty, stepped to the bar and ordered a replacement. The shirtless, muscular bartender, who I could tell worked here for the money and had no interest in men, poured me the drink and handed it over with a shaking hand. I smiled and passed him a ten dollar bill, letting my fingertip trace his palm as he took the money. A flush crept up the man’s neck, his arousal and confusion palpable.
    Perhaps I would have him tomorrow night. I do love a challenge.
    Tonight, though, was for the prey in the corner.
    I brought him the drink, the glamour cool on my flesh. I put the drink on the table, and he flicked his gaze upward at me, startled.
    “Oh,” he said, and took me