The desperation in her voice suggested she was talking to God, not him. But he answered anyway.
"Your change is coming fast. It hits all of us sometime around our twenty-fifth birthday. I'll teach you how to take care of yourself. I'll show you what to do."
"Good God…"
"After you go through it, you're going to need to drink."
She choked and jerked upright. "I'm not killing anyone!"
"It's not like that. You need the blood of a male vampire. That's all."
"That's all," she repeated in a dead tone.
"We don't prey on humans. That's an old wives' tale."
"You've never taken a… human?"
"Not to drink from them," he hedged. "There are some vampires who do, but the strength doesn't last long. To thrive, we need to feed off our own race."
"You make it all sound so normal."
"It is."
She fell silent. And then, as if it just dawned on her, "You're going to let me-"
"You're going to drink from me. When it's time."
She let out a strangled sound, like she'd wanted to cry out, but her gag reflex had kicked in.
"Beth, I know this is hard-"
"You do not."
"-because I had to go through it, too."
She looked at him. "Did you learn you were one out of the blue also?"
It wasn't a challenge. More like she was hoping she had common ground with someone. Anyone.
"I knew who my parents were," he said, "but they were dead by the time my transition hit. I was alone. I didn't know what to expect. So I know what the confusion feels like."
Her body fell back against the pillows. "Was my mother one, too?"
"She was human, from what Darius told me. Vampires have been known to breed with them, although it's rare for the infants to survive."
"Can I stop the change? Can I stop this from happening?"
He shook his head.
"Does it hurt?"
"You're going to feel-"
"Not me. Will I hurt you?"
Wrath swallowed his surprise. No one worried about him. Vampires and humans alike feared him. His race worshiped him. But none were ever concerned for him. He didn't know how to handle the sentiment.
"No. It won't hurt me."
"Could I kill you?"
"I won't let you."
"Promise?" she said urgently, sitting up and gripping his forearm.
He couldn't believe he was taking a vow to protect himself. At her request.
"I promise you." He reached his hand out to cover hers, but stopped before he made contact.
"When will it happen?"
"I can't tell you that for sure. But soon."
She let go, settling against the pillows. Then she curled on her side away from him.
"Maybe I'll wake up," she murmured. "Maybe I'll still wake up."
Chapter Nineteen
Butch drank his first Scotch in one swallow. Big mistake. His throat was raw, and it felt like he'd French-kissed a blowtorch. As soon as he stopped coughing, he ordered another from Abby.
"We're going to find her," Jose said, putting his beer down.
The other detective was sticking to the light stuff, but then Jose had to go home to his family. Butch, on the other hand, was free to behave as badly as he wished.
Jose played with his mug, twisting it around in circles on the bar. "You shouldn't blame yourself, Detective."
Butch laughed and threw back Scotch number two. "Yeah, there's a huge list of people who were in my car with that suspect." He lifted his finger to get Abby's attention. "I'm dry again."
"Not for long." She jiggled right over with the single-malt, smiling at him while she tipped the bottle into his glass.
Jose shifted in his bar stool as if he didn't approve of Butch's Scotch velocity and the effort of keeping his lip zipped was making him squirm.
As Abby went over to another customer, Butch glanced at Jose.
"I'm going to get ugly wasted tonight. You shouldn't stick around."
Jose" popped some peanuts into his mouth. "I'm not leaving you here."
"I'll cab it home."
"Naw. I'll hang until you're through. Then I'll drag you back to your apartment. Watch you throw up for an hour. Push you into bed. Before I leave I'll get the coffee machine set up. Aspirin will be right next to the sugar bowl."
"I don't have a sugar bowl."
"So it'll be next to the bag."
Butch smiled. "You'd have made a great wife, Jose."
"That's what mine tells me."
They were silent until Abby poured number four.
"The throwing stars I peeled off that suspect," Butch said. "Where do we stand with them?"
"Same as the ones we found at the car bomb and around Cherry's body. Typhoons. Three-point-one ounces of four-forty stainless steel. Four-inch diameter. Removable center weight. You can get 'em off the Internet for about twelve bucks a pop or buy them through martial-arts academies. And no, there were no prints."