"I think Franklin is letting it be known that he doesn't appreciate my late-night sojourns," I said.
"Luckily, Franklin doesn't have much say in the matter," said Kingsley. "How's your son doing?"
"Not good."
"I'm sorry, Sam."
I nodded and fought through the tears. It was amazing how quickly tears came these days.
The big defense attorney, who had been lounging in a chair-and-a-half across from me, sat forward. The chair-and-a-half was barely big enough to contain him. Kingsley, I could tell, wanted to reach out for me, but stopped himself. Our relationship had cooled noticeably a few weeks ago when I had discovered he'd worked the system to free a suspected killer. A killer who had killed again...the father of my client.
I had serious issues with that. I knew that Kingsley was doing his job. I get it. But it didn't mean I had to respect it or like it.
To Kingsley's credit he hadn't pushed the issue with me. Mostly, he had sat back and waited for me to work through my issues. And to my own credit, I knew enough not to make a rash decision. Too many people act too quickly, end relationships too quickly. Better to be clear about what you want.
I wasn't clear yet; I was still conflicted.
But now wasn't the time for that. I had had a long day and an even longer night, and now all I wanted was a warm hug, a warm smile, and a warm body.
It was no surprise that Kingsley came immediately to mind, although I had flirted with the idea of contacting Fang. The idea didn't stick. Fang was a whole new jigsaw puzzle of confusion that I still needed to piece together, and I just wasn't up to it, not now. Not with everything else going on. Kingsley, although a bastard, was familiar and loveable and warm as hell.
The banging in the kitchen stopped, and a few moments later Franklin appeared in the living room with a tray of drinks. He set a goblet in front of each of us and stood back. Franklin wasn't happy. He was also a piece of work. Literally. The man, I was certain, had been pieced together from many different men. Where Kingsley met him, I didn't know. Why such a creature served as a werewolf's butler, I couldn't imagine. But there was a hell of a story here, somewhere. Kingsley had promised he would tell me the butler's tale. Someday. And if and when I was done being pissed at Kingsley, maybe I would finally hear it.
"Is that all?" asked the butler. His slightly melodic accent was nearly impossible to place. It could have been British, but it wasn't any British accent I had ever heard. The words Old English came to mind, too. As in old, old English. This, I'm certain, was a psychic hit, but I could have been wrong. Just how old Franklin was remained to be seen.
"Thank you, Franklin. That will be all," said Kingsley, waving him off.
The butler nodded. "If you and the lady need anything else, please do not hesitate to rouse me from a deep and satisfying sleep."
"We won't, Franklin. Now, off you go!"
Franklin bowed and turned and loped off, his legs seemingly not quite working together. Almost as if they had been two different legs from two different bodies. A theory that I was beginning to accept.
Kingsley reached for his wine. "Drink up, dear."
I reached for my own drink, but it wasn't wine. It was chilled hemoglobin, and if I didn't hurry and drink, the surface layer would coagulate.
I picked the cold glass up with both hands and brought it to my nose, inhaling deeply the strong coppery scent. Metallic, rich, alive. I brought the goblet to my lips and that first dribble of blood sent a shiver through me that was akin to a smoker's high.
It had taken me a long, long time to actually acquire a taste for blood. To actually enjoy it. But it depended on the blood. The finer the plasma, the more I enjoyed it. The purer the hemoglobin, the better the experience. The more pleasurable the experience. The more beneficial, too. Fine blood gave me extra energy, added strength, and a better life experience.
But my blood of choice - or of necessity - comes from a butchery in nearby Norco, where I had a running account with them. Once a week they delivered the stuff to my door, no questions asked, although they believed it was for scientific purposes. The blood was often filled with fur and skin and other floaties that I couldn't quite place. Didn't want to place. It was utterly disgusting, but it nourished me and no doubt kept me alive.
This blood was different. This blood was heavenly. This blood, I was certain, was from a human. There were no impurities in it. It was silky smooth and fresh and filled with a life force that absolutely electrified me.
"Thirsty?" asked Kingsley.
I opened my eyes. I found myself staring into the empty goblet, whose interior was coated now with a thin film of blood.
"Very," I said. "Would you think less of me if I licked the inside?"
"Waste not, want not, I say."
I ran my tongue inside, licking hungrily, and only then did I realize how ghoulish I looked. "Did that look as ghoulish as I think it did?" I asked.
He grinned. "Worse."
"Great." But that didn't stop me from using my index finger to swipe at the last few drops of blood.
Kingsley watched me with a bemused expression. He was wearing a robe and not much else. His legs were hairy as hell, but also roped with muscle. His toes, I saw, were extraordinarily long. And hairy, too. He wiggled them at me when he saw me looking at them. They looked like ten frightened mice.
"I'm getting more and more used to drinking blood," I said.
"It was bound to happen."
"I mean, I'll always hate the animal blood, but this human blood was nearly orgasmic."
"Do you feel stronger?"
"In every way, but it's late, or early, and I feel myself getting tired."
"No worries. The blood will more than sustain you for a few days. Much more so than that polluted pig and cow crap you drink."
I had experienced this before. Human blood revitalized me unlike anything else. So much so that I realized that I was meant to drink human blood. I was meant - designed - to kill humans.
"So whose blood is this?" I asked.
"Do you really want to know?"
"No. Yes. Shit."
Kingsley got up, and as he did so, he flashed me the goods. Whether he meant to or not, I don't know...but holy sweet Jesus. Did I really just see that? My God, how did he walk around with that thing?
Kingsley, defense attorney, werewolf - and now, apparently, pervert - sat next to me and gave no indication that he had just given me the mother of all peep shows.
"I'm going to let you in on a little secret," he said, and knocked back the rest of his wine like it was booze-flavored Kool-Aide.