Chapter 23 #2
Beatrix lines up the fresh vials in the rack beside me while I begin testing them one by one. I uncap the first, draw a small sample with a clean pipette, and deposit it into the analyzer. Then I add a drop of Taylor’s blood and start the test.
A few seconds later, the indicator flashes red.
Negative.
Beatrix narrows her eyes at the display as the data populates across the screen. “Do you have to do that for every one?”
“Yes.”
“How many are there?”
“One hundred.”
She makes a face. “That’s a lot of blood.”
“It’s a statistically significant sample size,” I say with a shrug, moving onto the next.
Red.
Then another.
Red again.
Beatrix continues loading the rack beside me while I work my way through the samples. She’s nearly finished when a vial slips from her fingers and strikes the tile, shattering on impact.
“Shit.” She winces down at the blood and broken glass on the floor. “I really hope that wasn’t the magic match you were looking for.”
I stare at the mess, jaw clenching. “Sample pool reduced to ninety-nine.”
She snorts and drops into a crouch, reaching automatically for one of the larger shards.
“Don’t,” I bark, her hand freezing mid-reach. “I’ll get it.”
She draws her hand back, straightening slowly. “Okay. Sorry about that.”
“It’s fine,” I grumble.
Her arms fold defensively. “It doesn’t sound like it’s fine.”
I exhale through my nose, removing my glasses long enough to rub the bridge of it.
My irritation isn’t with her. One broken sample is statistically insignificant.
It’s the weeks of work with nothing to show for it, the repeated negative results.
The possibility that the biological signature I identified in Taylor is truly unique, rendering the entire premise of this experiment useless.
None of which justifies directing my frustration at Beatrix.
“You can call it a night,” I murmur.
Her mouth drops open. “Really?” she scoffs indignantly. “You’re firing me for breaking a sample?”
“No.” I flick a glance up at her. “You’re showing signs of fatigue, and I’m nearly finished.”
“Fine.” She sighs, her gaze lingering on me as she catches her lower lip between her teeth. “Come find me when you’re done?”
I nod.
Her expression brightens just enough to tell me precisely what she expects when I do.
I watch her leave, my attention fixed on the sway of her hips until the laboratory door swings shut behind her. Only then do I exhale, the hunger I’ve been suppressing all evening immediately rushing in to fill the space she left behind.
This is becoming a problem.
Initially, being with her bought me hours of reprieve. For a brief period after sinking inside her, I could think clearly again. Work without distraction, exist in the same room with her without fixating on the way she’d feel beneath my hands.
The reprieve is getting shorter.
I redirect my attention to the experiment.
Another sample goes into the analyzer, yielding the same result.
Then another. I continue through the remaining vials until only the final row remains, each negative result adding to the growing certainty that Taylor may be precisely what I feared from the beginning: an anomaly.
The laboratory door opens behind me, and I glance up as Beatrix pokes her head inside, tossing something in my direction. I catch it before it can strike the equipment, lowering it in front of me.
It’s a blood bag– the only one in my possession without the city’s blood bank logo emblazoned across it. Her blood.
“I’m not hungry,” I grit out.
She rolls her eyes and steps into the room. “It’s not to eat. It’s to replace the sample.”
My gaze drops to the bag again, gums tingling as instinct arises.
“The one Albert drew,” she adds.
As if I could forget.
A familiar strike of anger moves through me at the memory of his mouth stained with her blood, my fingers tightening involuntarily around the pouch.
“Can you use it?” she asks hopefully.
Technically, yes.
Unlike the ‘anonymous’ samples supplied for the study, I know precisely whose blood this is. Its provenance is documented, the collection recent, and assuming it hasn’t degraded, there’s no reason to exclude it from the sample pool.
“Perhaps,” I say. “I’ll need to confirm the sample is acceptable first.”
She lingers in the doorway, watching as I crack open the pouch, transfer a small amount into a clean vial, and add it to the end of the rack. The remaining pouch goes into the undercounter refrigerator with my control samples.
“Can’t say I’m not dedicated to the research now,” she clucks, tossing me a wink. Then she turns and leaves, the door swinging shut behind her.
I don’t wait long.
The moment the analyzer finishes its preliminary assessment and confirms her sample is intact, I transfer it to a clean well. Then I add a drop of Taylor’s blood and initiate the test.
For several seconds, nothing happens.
Then the indicator light flashes green.
I go still.
A sharp spike climbs across the display, and I lean closer, scanning the data as it populates. The reaction isn’t identical to the control, nor should it be. There’s no glow, no bond-specific response like the one produced by James and Taylor, but the marker is there. Which means…
I run the test again.
Green.
I check the analyzer calibration, replace the pipette, and prepare another sample from the bag.
Green.
The same spike. The same result. The same near-perfect match.
For several seconds, I simply stare at the display.
Then the rush hits.
Discovery has always produced a particular kind of exhilaration. The sudden convergence of theory and evidence; the moment an unanswered question becomes an answer and opens the door to a hundred new ones.
I found it.
After weeks of failed samples, I finally found it.
Taylor isn’t unique.
Beatrix carries the same marker.
If my hypothesis is correct, then she possesses the biological prerequisite necessary to form a blood bond with a vampire.