Walk Among Us, page 26
“Exactly. And quality requires care. We’re at capacity. It won’t work.”
He rises at last, crossing the space between us. The kitchen is beautifully, perfectly white, polished to a mirror finish, and it’s like I’m surrounded. My head swims. The bastard brings his whole force to bear on me as he says, casually, “I thought this agricultural initiative of yours was supposed to increase ease of access to sustenance. And yet it seems to decrease the number of available targets. That is the inverse of how this is meant to work.”
I want to tear out his throat for threatening what is mine. “Society is the limiter,” I make myself say instead, calm and slow. “Society is always the limiter. I found a way to fly under the radar and produce good, consistent, dependable product.”
“There are other ways, I’m sure. Use your brain,” Jo says sweetly. She, no doubt, wants me to cooperate again, to stop being so precious, to hand more bodies to her. More experimental subjects. An active breeding program for certain traits, maybe. Everything I denied her the last time we talked and more besides.
“There aren’t other ways, not with the sort of facility I run. Not with the outcomes I get.”
“Then change the facility. Move to the countryside. Or we will give license for somebody else to.”
It would be so sweet, so satisfying, to gut him with my bare hands. But even if I could strike him, it wouldn’t do any good. I can’t beat him. If I still had need to breathe, I would be panting with the effort of restraining myself. My jaw aches from holding back my snarl.
“There is a reason,” I grit out, “that we are historically parasitic instead of predatory. You are being greedy, and you know it. If you want predictable results, if you want this quality you so clearly prize, if you don’t want the Second Inquisition coming down on all of our heads, you respect the method.” I almost mention the footsteps on my land, but stop short, unwilling to add another vulnerability to my apparently long list. “My land, my system, will grow at the speed it will grow. And you will get contracts at the rate you get contracts. Anything else will stress the herd. Will destroy it.”
He throws up a hand in disgust. “You are obsessed with your pastoral idyll! Herds of sheep, beehives rented around the city, salvaged architecture—you damned diva, you Toreador aesthete, you have been too long away from real feeding and have lost the plot. Fix it. And get out of my house.”
Catch and Release
I leave the Southwest Hills angry, frightened, and ravenous.
Bagged blood isn’t going to cut it tonight.
I have the barest presence of mind left to pick somebody as far from my community members as possible: a high-up tech guy, the kind who wears sweatshirts to the opera because he doesn’t give a single shit about tradition or artistry but wants to show off his new money, the kind who drinks Bud Light Lime at an artisanal cocktail bar, the kind who doesn’t know how to cook but won’t tip the restaurants he patronizes for every meal. But my nature is still my nature: I pick a handsome one, one who works out, probably drinks meal replacements because he doesn’t care about the taste of food, but it leaves him nourished, optimized, hideously beautiful.
I find him at this exquisite burlesque place downtown, where Burnside gets close to the river and the street layouts get confusing and half-unreachable. He isn’t appreciating any of what’s on display: the dancers or their costumes or their music or their choreography. All he’s seeing is tits. Queer girl tits. Straight men always have a hard-on for queer girl tits, can sniff them out even when they don’t know what they’re doing. I don’t know how, but I use it to my advantage. Unbutton my own shirt until only a single one keeps the fabric together before I draw his attention.
I wonder what he thinks of me. Classic dyke haircut, but a fancy suit, not a flannel, and I’m not hiding my simmering rage well. Whatever it is, it’s at least a little interesting, and it just takes the promise of some free, good quality weed (because this sort of guy always thinks about going to the dispensaries, never does, doesn’t want to admit he has no idea what he’s doing because he only ever smoked shit from his college source) to draw him into one of the darker alleyways.
And fuck, when I break open his jugular . . .
He isn’t what I want. He isn’t Robin, isn’t full of artistry and fire, isn’t soft in my arms, isn’t even dotted with freckles. But fuck. Fuck. It’s been months. I should have done this before my meeting, I wouldn’t have been so unprepared, and I should not be doing it now, because now all I can think about is how much sweeter blood is when it’s straight from the vein, when the heart is pushing it eagerly down my throat. I nearly kill him. Nearly.
I didn’t realize I was so hungry. Maybe Vương and Jolene are right about some things. Maybe I’m deluding myself.
I do have an idea, though, driving back over the river via the gorgeous St. Johns Bridge. Maybe it’s the engineer blood in my belly, maybe it’s the relief, maybe it’s just the travel time to let my mind wander.
I’m going to start a catch-and-release program.
Implementation
I tell everybody my plan at the scheduled community meeting two nights later. The rush of the engineer’s blood has long faded, but it’s left a craving in its wake that makes me feel weak; bagged blood barely takes the edge off. Being in a room with so many living, breathing humans is a struggle. I probably should have waited a few more nights, but Vương doesn’t care about my feeding habits. He wants results.
I wait until discussions about chore division and menu requests are over, but before people have begun to drift away. We sit in the communal living room, sprawled on beanbags and couches and cushions on the floor, some snacking on dried eggplant jerky I made last night.
“The city wants us to accept more applicants from the houseless population,” I say. Robin is watching me closely. Her brow clouds.
“I like the idea,” I continue. There are nods around the room, Ethan chief among them. “But we all know we have limitations. The amount of rooms, the amount of food, and making sure we all like our new community members. And we also all know that, for the city, this is a publicity stunt they’re hoping will paper over their failings for a little while.”
That gets a couple hear hears! from the audience.
“We’re going to do what we can,” I say. “Those of you willing to open your houses, come see me after this. And our farmers’ corp, we’ll talk about plans for expanding the gardens next year. Sound good?”
Nods all around. I’ll admit, I’m adding a bit of extra oomph to my words—and it’s working. The humans in the room (and Kasim) are just the tiniest bit ensorcelled. They would follow me toward a cliff, though not off it.
“But I think what we can do best, by our goals and for the city at large, is to provide more services. Food donations. Soup kitchens. Open houses. Providing free enrichment classes to the wider area. Open medical days. It’s going to take extra work to make this happen, so I wanted to bring it to a vote. Silent vote, Ethan, no need to raise your hand. There’re ballots in the kitchen, with lots of open response space. Take one, think about it, fill it out over the next few days, then drop it at my office. We’ll talk about the results next week. Agreed?”
More nods. I smile. I stand up, stretch. “Thanks for coming, everybody.”
And then it’s time for the management meeting.
That’s just myself, Lucille, Kasim, and Key. Robin looks as if she wants to stop me from leaving, but she lets us go without a fuss, without even asking why she isn’t included if the rest of us are. I’ll make it up to her. But she’s just not ready to hear what comes next; she still doesn’t know about our nature. I’ve had a hundred chances to slip my Blood into the meals I’ve cooked her, and I’ve never taken a single one.
She’s just not ready. She’s cautious. Passionate, but cautious. Hard to sway, but when I manage it—
I pull my focus back. It’s not just her that’s not ready; neither am I.
We’re already halfway to Lucille’s place. The pure Queen Anne–style house is barely on communal land, and it is breathtaking. All period. All painstakingly restored. None of the shortcuts and modern approaches I take.
We reach the wrap-around porch and pass through the heavy oak door with its leaded glass transom and side lights. I take precautions, checking windows and doors, though Lucille is careful even in her general disinterest. Once I’m sure the house is secure, we settle in the formal sitting room on vintage furniture.
I tell them about my meeting with Vương (in edited form, without Jo Ladzka, without the insults, without what happened after), and I’m relieved to receive a similar response to my own. Then I outline the plan. “We use these outreach events to develop feeding profiles,” I say. “We create a specific method for engaging with our visitors to learn exactly what we need from them to serve our current clientele and allow for expansion. We won’t have the authority to sell contracts or shares on such free-range stock, but we can provide a service of information. The best of both worlds. The leadership is happy, bellies are full, and our community members remain safely managed.”
Key is nodding.
Kasim is furious.
“Go ahead,” I say, and watch some of the fury falter. He still isn’t used to being treated with respect by his betters, and it is the easiest tool I have to get his guard down.
“I, uh . . . well, you know I respect you a lot, right? This whole place?” Lucille is impassive, but Key beams, and I feel relief. We haven’t talked about what he saw that night he found me in the fields; I haven’t come up with a convincing lie, and I don’t want him knowing about my short-lived deal with Jo. He could very easily use my weakness that night to undermine my authority now, but he doesn’t. “I respect it because you’re actually, you know, doing good work. Giving all sorts of people places to live, and jobs if they want them, and safety—I mean, as much as we can, right?—and I don’t know how you’re pulling it off so well. But, like, you help people.”
“We try, yes.”
“I mean, we help ourselves first, but then everybody else. And it’s not one of those twisted blood doll situations, it’s actually symbiotic instead of just claiming to be. I like that.”
He doesn’t even glance at Key. I can’t tell if he’s still mad about how we keep retainers, which is good; at least he’s keeping his opinions to himself.
“Anyway,” he says, hugging his skinny knees to his chest, “this whole thing? It stinks like shit. They want us to disappear homeless people for them.”
“They already do it every day.”
“I know, and it’s fucked up!” He’s on his feet, pacing like a mortal, frantic and emotional and desperate. “We’re—they’re—vulnerable people who don’t deserve to be targeted like this. Even if it’s ‘natural’ or whatever. You’ve avoided that here, in a way that makes sense, and this doesn’t fit. You can see that, right?”
“I can see that,” I say. I gentle my voice, but it doesn’t pierce his prickling shell. “But we aren’t predators, we’re parasites. If we kill openly, we are struck down. We have to feed off those who go unmissed, or the system retaliates. I’ve carved out the space I’m able to, here, because I think it is more humane.” A lie, for Kasim’s benefit, but not entirely a lie. The real reason is for control over a constant supply of food, well-vetted, tailored to a customer’s particular dietary needs. That it’s morally better on a human level is a bonus. “But I can’t expand it. There will come a day where you and I can’t get by on bagged blood anymore and will need to find another solution. This was never going to change the world. Just a corner of it.”
“But painting a target on individual backs . . . I don’t know, Leigh.”
“It does extend them a measure of protection,” Lucille points out.
“I don’t see how,” Kasim says, darting looks at me and Key, hoping for some clue of how to interact with the slumbering beast before him.
We don’t offer any help.
“They will be marked as ours, even if they are off our land.” Lucille waves a hand lazily. “They are ours, and as long as Leigh keeps us in Sebastian Vương’s good graces, that means something. They will not be killed indiscriminately.”
She doesn’t move to explain further, so I step in. “If they die, there is no easy replacement with a ready-made file. It’s a waste to kill them. And I will work with Vương and perhaps a blood sorcerer to find a way to make it clear they’re owned to any lick that stumbles across them in the street. Lucille is right. By defining them, we protect them. And,” I say, rising from my seat, which has the immediate effect of putting Kasim into a seat of his own, in reflexive fear, “the programs we create will be available to all. Not everybody who comes for an HIV test will be marked for feeding. We’ll diffuse the focus. I have thought this through, childe.”
He says no more, but I can see he is not convinced. He’s angry. He’s wrestling with himself, with his own demons, and against logic that will match every predatory instinct he has and hates himself for having.
What matters, though, is that he subsides. He can get right with himself on his own time.
We adjourn for the night.
Slaughter
We began processing the lambs yesterday.
I was asleep for most of it, of course; there’s no way I can insist on slaughtering at night, when the human staff can’t see as well and while we have two community members who are more than adept at wielding a bolt gun and a knife. But there are only two, and daylight is scarce right now, so they were only two-thirds through the flock when I rose. I drank quickly, went to them, and helped to separate out each new lamb. We worked with calm efficiency, and as their strength flagged, I stepped in.
By midnight, all thirty-seven lambs slated for death were dispatched. I took over then and let the humans rest. I removed the heads, tied off the esophagi, and hoisted the lifeless carcasses one by one. I skinned them and spilled their guts on the slaughter room floor, erasing any lingering traces of Monsieur Messy Feeder’s visit.
That night, I worked until nearly dawn, then left all the skinless, headless bodies there to cool. It’s faster to kill an animal than to piece it out.
All that work kept my mind off the fact that Robin is gone.
She left three days ago, and I have experienced a flood of varied emotions that I haven’t felt since when I left Vương’s house two weeks ago. No . . . those were far simpler emotions, a narrower band. This is old stuff. This is panic and betrayal, anger and shame, desperate curiosity. Why? But I know why. Or I suspect. She didn’t have the decency to come to me first. She quit during the day. Talked it over with Key, left me a note, and was gone by sundown.
The day she left was the day after the first of our open clinics. She saw the amount of information we were collecting. She must have thought back to our night at the bar, the words renewable resource, and put together just enough that she knew something was wrong.
I’m going to have to go after her. I will. I have to figure out what she knows. She’s not under the pull of my Blood, and so she’s a threat.
But I can’t go after her yet. Not until the lambs are processed. Not until I’ve leashed my vicious heart.
I wish she’d call.
I know that if I go to her, I can convince her that everything is okay. I used logic last time. If it fails now, I have less mundane techniques at my disposal. I can keep her close, find a way to bind her during the day . . . but I don’t have the capacity to plan those details right now. So I work.
I spend six hours in the slaughtering room, carefully matching each corpse with its order and specific butchering instructions and transforming life into food with the alchemy of the knife, the bone saw, the vacuum pack. I could leave it to the humans (and do leave over a dozen), but I still need some kind of work, and reviewing records of blood pressure and hobbies and lifestyles would have harmed me more than it helped. So I split the carcasses in two, and break them down into quarters, then to primals. My knife scrapes along bone as I clean up rib roasts and glides smoothly through silverskin seams, unraveling the body into perfect intact stretches of muscle. I bag up cooled and cleaned entrails, kidneys and hearts and tripe and livers, and try not to think about Robin, saying that livers can regrow if a small fragment is left.
She’s supposed to be here, and I will admit that last night, in my pettiness, I almost brought Sylvia to the slaughtering room.
But I didn’t. She’s a good ewe. I have enough self-control to protect my investments. If I ever lose that presence of mind, I will be lost entirely.
New Love
The next night, I manage to stay away from the processing room, though there’s several tasks I could make for myself. I instead go through applications. Four new interviews are scheduled for next Tuesday, so I finish up some light social media stalking for final determination on who will be invited to stay. It only takes a few hours, though, and then I’m at loose ends again.
The night beckons. Moving will help. I go outside into the soggy midnight air and start walking. But the greenhouse makes me think of her, and the parking lot, and the paddock, and—
A figure shifts in the darkness between two residences.
I follow. Whoever it is moves furtively, trying to avoid being seen, and I think of the footprints out across the fields. I’d nearly forgotten, with the new initiative, with Robin, and I can’t afford to forget again.
Then I catch a glimpse of tousled hair. I know that hair.
It’s Kasim.
“Fuck,” I snarl into the damp night air. Any Kindred sneaking into one of the humans’ buildings would be a problem, but this goes past problem into disaster. How did I miss this? I should have enforced feeding with me, though fuck if I want him near me while I eat, especially not after my evening under the stars last month. I should have kept a closer eye on him, instead of avoiding him as much as possible out of shame.
