Incubus Dreams - Laurell K. Hamilton [303]
I think we would have been fine if Malcolm hadn’t tried a little vampire power on me. Maybe I was shielding too much, hiding too much of what I was, or maybe he was simply that arrogant. Whatever, he pulsed a little power down his hand into mine.
I was dizzy for a second, and he got an image of the dead girl in the apartment before I pushed back. I was still a little fuzzy on the whole psychic thing. I tend to overcompensate when I feel attacked. Yeah, I know, of course I overcompensated. It was so terribly me.
Malcolm stumbled back, and only my grip on his hand kept him on his feet. His eyes were wide, his mouth open in a little O of surprise. If he had just been some powerful vamp that tried to mind-fuck me, then I’d have taught him his lesson, and we’d have gone on about our investigation, but he was their master. I learned something in those few seconds, something I hadn’t guessed. Every human in the church had a mentor, and I’d assumed their vampire mentors were the ones that would bring them over when the time came. I knew the mentors took blood from their human trainees, but when push came to shove, Malcolm did those last three bites. Malcolm had brought over most of those hundreds, personally. Which meant when I shoved my power into him, it went through him like some huge sword. Through him and into the rest.
It was as if I could suddenly touch them, as if my hand shot through Malcolm’s palm, through him, and into their bodies. I felt their pulses, some hearts, some wrists, some necks. I felt the pulse of all those vampires, felt it sluggish and oh, so slow. So long, so long since some of them had fed as they were meant to feed. He didn’t let them hunt. He didn’t even let them go to the clubs and take willing food there. I saw an endless stream of church members garbed in white, like virgin sacrifices, offering their necks. Only taking a little blood, just enough blood, never enough to be satisfied, just enough not to die.
I saw the thick viscous punch in the parish hall, and I knew that it contained just a little blood from at least three different vamps. Malcolm made sure of that. He didn’t want to accidentally blood oath them to someone else. But he never used his own blood, for fear of what it would mean.
Malcolm jerked away from me, but it was too late. I didn’t need him anymore.
I looked past him at a girl with long dark hair and glasses. It was the first vampire I’d ever seen with glasses. She grabbed her chest, and I knew why. Her heart was beating. But I saw other things. I saw that once she’d been human here, and she’d knelt and given herself over, but it was a thing of chaste hands on her covered shoulders. No one had ever held her close, gripped her against their bodies, fed so powerfully that her body bucked against them, and sex was a pale thing compared to it.
“Stop it,” Malcolm said, “stop it, let them go!”
I turned slowly to look at him, and whatever he saw in my face made him take a step back. “You gave them to me,” I said, and my voice had a slow, honeyed feel to it. Power, such power. I’d learned only last night that vampires could act as a sort of witch’s familiar to me. I’d thought it needed to be a vampire that I had some connection with, but I was wrong. I could feed on them all, use them like some kind of giant undead battery.
Zerbrowski came up close to me, though even he shivered when he was close enough to whisper, “Anita, what’s happening?”
“He tried to use vampire powers to find out what I knew,” I said in that same slow, luxurious voice. It was as if my voice was something you could hold in your mouth and suck, like candy. Jean-Claude’s trick, and the thought was enough. He was suddenly aware of me, and what was happening. But most of what was