7. Christopher #2
So I count the donor blood bags remaining in the refrigerator. I received them last night from the Phoenix dome as payment for scavenged items. Five bags. Not enough to feed me and a newbie vampire. I could easily drink three bags right now, but I limit myself to one.
Gritting my teeth against the hunger, I start calculating.
Is four bags enough for a new vampire upon waking?
I have vague memories of my maker handing me bag after bag, gulping half a dozen when I first woke.
Dammit. Much as I hate dipping into my reserve supply of clone blood, my fledgling needs more than four bags.
I check the pantry, pull out a sealed box containing a dozen pouches, and leave them on the counter for fast access. They don’t require refrigeration.
Is twelve enough? I rub a hand across my forehead, trying to remember. I’m supposed to trade with the Tucson dome for more donor blood tomorrow night. Can I afford to skip the drive to Tucson?
After my fledging wakes and stabilizes, I want to gather the remaining rabbits from the silo. Really impress the Lux with my initiative by preserving more breeding pairs. But maybe trading for donor blood with the inners should take priority?
I sigh, giving up. That’s tomorrow’s problem.
Before I retrieve Maria from the truck’s bed, I put together two mortal meals and seal them in glass bowls with snap-on lids, then show them to Zinnia.
“Okay, if you wake up early and you’re hungry, these are for you.
Just take off the lid and eat. The pitcher has clean, cold water. And this glass is for you.”
She doesn’t stop eating, but gives a nod, watching me.
“I’m going to get your mom. Then you use the potty I showed you—you do potty on your own, right?”
“I’m a big girl.”
“Good.”
A few minutes later, I carry Maria to the decon shower and face a dilemma.
She wears a patched dress that is probably embedded with mold spores and outside bacteria.
I won’t be able to decontaminate her skin if I leave the dress on.
Usually, vampires or mortals are awake for this process and undress themselves in privacy, like Zinnia did.
How can I strip this stranger naked without her consent?
My mind races, trying to find a loophole.
Doctors and nurses strip clothing off their patients to treat them. Is this similar enough to that?
Hell if I know.
I don’t want to strip Maria without her consent, but I can’t bring her in without decon, and I don’t think I should leave my fledging to wake alone in the garage of an unknown place, not to mention Zinnia will absolutely freak out if I don’t bring her mom inside like I promised.
I have no choice. I can’t leave her out here until she wakes.
I tug the dress over her head and try not to look, but there’s no way to avoid it and I blush furiously when I glimpse her naked form. I’m already toast for turning her without her permission. Later, I’ll do what I can to make amends for this intrusion.
Grabbing the sprayer, I wash her with the decon agent, keeping my gaze averted and using the Braille method to clean her skin.
The process is messy as a result, and I end up dousing myself as well, which is probably a good thing.
The decon eliminates any bacterial cross-contamination I picked up from sliding her out of the truck bed.
Finished, I quickly dry her off and carry her to the clean room. I slide sweatpants up her legs at top speed and then search for a plain t-shirt in the cabinet. I’m not sacrificing one of my band t-shirts when she starts slurping down blood. Newbie vampires can be messy.
Eureka! I find my stock of plain shirts reserved for grimy jobs like cleaning sand and road tar from the truck’s motors, and pull one over her head.
Once she’s covered, I exhale in relief and change into similar dry clothes, then lift her in my arms. A powerful heat lights up my heart, and I stumble.
The maker-child bond must be pulling at me, because I’ve never felt this way before. We’re strangers to each other but the emotions crowding my chest couldn’t care less.
Suddenly, I know I’ll do anything to protect her, to keep her safe.
Shit.
Steadying myself, I carry her to the master bedroom and lay her on one side of the bed.
Zinnia comes padding in from the bathroom.
I haven’t dug up a toothbrush for her yet. What other things would a little girl need? I’m on overload—it’s too close to dawn for me to figure out any next steps.
“Did you give Mommy the medicine?”
“Yeah,” I say, sticking with the white lie. “She fell asleep again. Needs her rest now. She’ll wake by tomorrow night. More medicine then.” I wave her over. “Kiss Mommy goodnight.”
“I’m sleeping here with her?”
“Not tonight. She needs her rest.”
Zinnia climbs onto the bed, does as instructed, and slides back to the floor, landing on her feet.
“Why doesn’t Mommy wake up?”
“She’s healing. She’ll be fine tonight, you’ll see.
But don’t come into this room except to use the bathroom.
” Blast it all to hell and back. My only choice is to sleep next to Maria to protect Zinnia from her mother’s thirst, in case the child’s noise wakes the fledgling vampire early.
“Let Mommy and me sleep all day, okay? We’re both tired. ”
“You’re staying with Mommy? Are you my new papa?”
Oh crap. This is so not what I signed up for. “No, I’m not your papa.”
She tilts her head. “Then are you my daddy? In some of my picture books, the man is called Daddy—”
We aren’t having this conversation right now. I’m too tired to argue with a five-year-old’s logic, so I abruptly change topics. “Look, your mother and I need to sleep all day. You should, too.”
Unfazed, she nods. “Uh huh. We do that when it’s really hot outside.”
Carrying a pillow and blanket into the living room, I remind her about the pitcher of water, and the food in the refrigerator, and then I tuck her in on the couch.
Those deep brown eyes carry sadness. “Read me a story. Mommy always reads to me at bedtime.”
How can I say no? The poor kiddo is in a strange place, her mother is incommunicado, and a nightcrawler is seeing to her needs. “You got it.”
My bookshelf isn’t large. I keep most books I rescued in the climate-controlled warehouse, where they’re protected from heat and rot.
But I’ve scavenged a rare edition of Alice in Wonderland.
I loved that book as a child and have no problem finding it on the shelf.
Despite my fatigue, despite my hunger, despite the impending sunrise pulling at me, I read aloud to the munchkin.
Slowly, Zinnia’s eyes close. And a good thing, too. I put the book away and realize I have to childproof the automatic doors that lead to the preservation domes. I can’t leave them working. If I do, she might wander off in the habitat and get lost.
I shoo Wolfie outside. From the noise he makes, he’s not happy about that. Then I flip off the power switch so the doors won’t automatically open.
A protective barrier between the tunnels leading to the domestic animal dome normally keeps the animals in their separate enclosures, except for Wolfie, who has traveling rights.
But if the protective barrier fails, cattle might wander through the tunnels and get frustrated when they reach my doors.
Being longhorns, they could pry open the sliding door.
So I slip in the bolts attached to the top frame that keep the doors from being forced back, and dash for my room, barely reaching the bed before I drop motionless and my eyes fall shut.
The master bedroom—At dusk
I wake with the sunset, since there isn’t an early moonrise today. The first thing I notice is a weight on my chest. The next thing? My face being licked by the little tongue of what can only be a rabbit. I crack an eye open, and the pink nose of a brown-and-white lop-eared comes into view.
“She likes you,” Zinnia says.
My heart races in panic mode, fear rushing through me as I process her presence at my bedside. With a child in residence, I could startle awake and accidentally attack her.
Carrot nudges my face again with her nose. I take the hint and stroke her back, breathing deeply as I do, trying to calm down. The soft, silky fur feels nice as I pet my new friend, and the adrenaline bleeds from my veins, slowing my pulse.
Wolfie never does this. He doesn’t enjoy being on me. Next to me, yeah, he likes companionship, but never lap cuddles.
Zinnia prods my arm. “Why wouldn’t you wake up?”
“I was asleep.”
“Why won’t Mommy?”
Oh crap. Maria.
I whoosh out of bed, sweep up the bunnies—another is on Maria’s chest—and get everyone the hell out of the room.
When Mommy rises, she’ll be starving and will attack the nearest mortal: Zinnia, and barring that, the two bunnies.
A sight that would leave the little girl traumatized and the new vampire insane from consuming animal blood.
With the door shut behind me, I sit Zinnia in a kitchen chair, dump the bunnies on the table, then scoot her closer so she can reach them. “Stay here.”
“Why?”
“Your mommy still feels sick. She’s sleeping. I—uh—I don’t want you to catch what she has. I’m immune, so I’ll help her.”
The look Zinnia gives me is a cross between suspicion and concern. “Immune? What is that?”
“It means I’ve had what Mommy has and can’t get sick from it again.”
She pets Carrot as she frowns and chews on my explanation.
Best I don’t give her too much time to object. “Zinnia, you need to stay here, okay? You don’t want to get sick, right?”
Her eyes widen. “Papa Gabriel died from the sickness. Is Mommy gonna die?”
Crap. Now I’ve frighted the poor munchkin. “She’ll be fine.”
“Mommy thought Papa Gabriel was getting better, and then he died.”
I’ve got to change the subject to something other than death. Especially with Maria about to rise, I need to return to the bedroom, fast. So I remove the food container from the refrigerator, place it on the table, and peel off the lid. “Blueberries. Eat your snack.”
She holds out one to Carrot, who takes the treat eagerly with her buck teeth.