Thirst No. 1 Read Free

every horror story he has been told since he was a little boy. That they were all true: the dead things hungering for the warm living flesh; the bony hand coming out of the closet in the black of night; the monsters from another page of reality, the unturned page—who could look so human, so cute.
    He reaches for his gun. Too slowly, much too.
    I shove myself out of my chair with such force that I am momentarily airborne. My senses switch into a hyper-accelerated mode. Over the last few thousand years, whenever I am threatened, I have developed the ability to view events in extreme slow motion. But this does not mean that I slow down; quite the opposite. Mr . Riley sees nothing but a blur flying toward him. He does not see that as I'm moving. I have cocked my leg to deliver a devastating blow.
    My right foot lashes out. My heel catches him in the center of the breastbone. I hear the bones crack as he topples backward onto the floor, his weapon still bolstered inside his coat. Although I moved toward him in a horizontal position, I land smoothly on my feet.
    He sprawls on the floor at my feet beside his overturned chair. Gasping for breath, blood pouring out of his mouth. I have crushed the walls of his heart as well as the bones of his chest, and he is going to die. But not just yet. I kneel beside him and gently put my hand on his head. Love often flows through me for my victims.
    "Mike," I say gently. "You would not listen to me."
    He is having trouble breathing. He drowns in his own blood—I hear it gurgling deep in his lungs—and I am tempted to put my lips to his and suck it away for him. Such a temptation, to sate my thirst. Yet I leave him alone.
    '"Who?" he gasps at me.
    I continue to stroke his head, "I told you the truth. I am a vampire. You never stood a chance against me. It's not fair, but it is the way it is." I lean close to his mouth, whisper in his ear. “Now tell me the truth and I will stop your pain. Who sent you after me?”
    He stares at me with wide eyes. "Slim," he whispers.
    "Who is Slim? A man?"
    "Yes."

    Create PDF files without this message by purchasing novaPDF printer (http://www.novapdf.com)

    "Very good, Mike. How do you contact him?"
    "No."
    "Yes." I caress his cheek. "Where is this Slim?"
    He begins to cry. The tears, the blood—they make a pitiful combination. His whole body trembles. "I don't want to die," he moans. "My boy."
    "Tell me about Slim and I will take care of your boy," I say. My nature is kind, deep inside. I could have said if you don't tell me about Slim, I will find your dear boy and slowly peel off his skin. But Riley is in too much pain to hear me, and I immediately regret, striking so swiftly, not slowly torturing the truth out of him. I did tell him that I was impulsive when I'm angry, and it is true.
    "Help me," he pleads, choking.
    "I'm sorry. I can only kill, I cannot heal, and you are too badly hurt." I sit back on my heels' and glance around the office. I see on the desktop a picture of Mr. Riley posed beside a handsome boy of approximately eighteen. Removing my right hand from Mr.
    Riley, I reach for the picture and show it to him. "Is this your son?" I ask innocently.
    Terror consumes his features. "No!" he cries.
    I lean close once more. "I am not going to hurt him. I only want this Slim. Where is he?"
    A spasm of pain grips Riley, a convulsion—his legs shake off the floor like two wooden sticks moved by a poltergeist. I grab him, trying to settle him down, but I am too late. His grimacing teeth tear into his lower lip, and more blood messes his face. He draws in a breath that is more a shovel of mud on his coffin. He makes a series of sick wet sounds.
    Then his eyes roll back in his head, and he goes limp in my arms. Studying the picture of the boy, I reach over and close Mr. Michael Riley's eyes.
    The boy has a nice smile, I note.
    Must have taken after his mother.
    Now my situation is more complicated than when I arrived at the detective's office. I know