If you see a Google Drive link instead of source url, means that the file witch you will get after approval is just a summary of original book or the file has been already removed. Loved each and every part of this book. I will definitely recommend this book to young adult, paranormal lovers. Your Rating:. Your Comment:. Read Online Download. Hot Thirst No. There isn't a spot I have touched that I don't remember. The late hour is such a friend; it has been for so many years.
There is not a soul around as I carry Riley downstairs and dump him in my trunk. It is good, for I am not in the mood to kill again, and murder, for me, is very much tied to my mood, like making love. Even when it is necessary. Mayfair is a town on the Oregon coast, chilly this late in autumn, enclosed by pine trees on one side and salt water on the other.
Driving away from Riley's office, I feel no desire to go to the beach, to wade out beyond the surf to sink the detective in deep water. I head for the hills instead.
The burial is a first for me in this area. I have killed no one since moving to Mayfair a few months earlier. I park at the end of a narrow dirt road and carry Riley over my shoulder deep into the woods. My ears are alert, but if there are mortals in the vicinity, they are all asleep. I carry no shovel with me. I don't need one. My fingers can impale even the hardest soil more surely than the sharpest knife can poke through a man's flesh. Two miles into the woods I drop Riley onto the ground and go down on my hands and knees and begin to dig.
Naturally, my clothes get a bit dirty but I have a washing machine and detergent at home. I do not worry. Not about the body ever being found.
But about other things, I am concerned. Who is Slim? How did he find me? How did he know to warn Riley to treat me with caution?
I lay Riley to rest six feet under and cover him over a matter of minutes without even a whisper of a prayer. Who would I pray to anyway? I could very well tellhim that I was sorry, although I did him that once, after holding the jewel of his life inmy bloodthirsty hands while he casually brought to our wild party. No, I think, Krishna would not answer to my prayer, even if it was for the soul of one of my victims.
Krishna would just laugh and return to his flute. To the song of life as he called it. But where was the music for those his followers said were already worse than dead? Where was the joy? No, I would not pray to God for Riley. Not even for Riley's son. In my home, in my new mansion by the sea, late at night, I stare at the boy's photo and wonder why he is so familiar to me.
His brown eyes are enchanting, so wide and innocent, yet as alert as those of a baby owl seen in the light of the full moon. I wonder if in the days to come I will be burying him beside his father. The thought saddens me. I don't know why. Sunlightdoes affect me, although it is not the mortal enemy Bram Stoker imagined in his tale of Count Dracula. I read the novelDracula when it first came out, in ten minutes. I have a photographic memory with a hun-dred percent comprehension.
I found the book deli-cious. Unknown to Mr. Stoker, he got to meet a real vampire when I paid him a visit one dreary English evening in the year I was very sweet to him. I asked him to autograph my book and gave him a big kiss before I left. I almost drank some of his blood, I was tempted, but I thought it would have ruined any chance he would have had at writing a sequel, which I encouraged him to do.
Humans are seldom able to dwell for any length on things that truly terrify them, even though the horror writers of the present think otherwise. But Stoker was a perceptive man; he knew there was something unusual about me. I believe he had a bit of a crush on me. But the sun, the eternal flame in the sky, it dimin-ishes my powers. During the day, particularly when the sun is straight up, I often feel drowsy, not so tired that I am forced to rest but weary enough that I lose my enthusiasm for things.
Also, I am not nearly so quick or strong during the day, although I am still more than a match for any mortal. I do not enjoy the day as much as the night. I love the blurred edges of darker landscapes. Sometimes I dream of visiting Pluto. Yet the next day I am busy at dawn. First I call the three businessmen responsible for handling my accounts—each located on a different continent— and tell them I am displeased to learn that my finances have been examined.
I listen to each protestation of innocence and detect no falsehood in their voices. My admiration for Mr. Riley's detecting abilities climbs a notch. He must have used subtle means to delve into my affairs. Or else he'd had help. Of course I know he had help, but I also believe he turned against the man who sent him to find me. When he realized how rich I was, he must have thought that he could score more handsomely by going after me directly.
That leads me to suspect that whoever hired Riley does not know the exact details of my life, where I live and such.
But I also realize he will notice Riley's disappearance and come looking for whoever killed him. I have time, I believe, but not much. By nature, I prefer to be the hunter, not the hunted. Yes, indeed, I vow, I will kill those who hired Riley as surely as I wiped him from the face of the earth. I make arrangements, through my American busi-nessman, to be enrolled at Mayfair High that very day. The wheels are set in motion and suddenly I have a new identity. I am Lara Adams, and my guardian, Mrs.
Adams, will visit the school with my transcripts and enroll me in as many of Ray Riley's classes as possible. It has not taken me long to learn the son's name. The arm of my influence is as long as the river of blood I have left across history. I will never meet this fake Mrs. Adams, and she will never meet me, unless she should talk about her efforts on Lara's behalf.
Then, if that happens, she will never talk again. My associates respect my desire for silence. I pay them for that respect. That night I am restless, thirsty. How often do I need to drink blood?
I begin to crave it after a week's time. If a month goes by I can think of nothing other than my next dripping throat. I also lose some strength if I go too long. But I do not die without it, at least not readily. I have gone for as long as six months without drinking human blood. I only drink animal blood if I am desperate. It is only when I feed from a human that I feel truly satisfied, and I believe it is the life force in the blood that makes me hunger for it more than the physical fluid itself.
I do not know how to define the life force except to say that it exists: the feel of the beating heart when I have a person's vein in my mouth; the heat of their desires. The life force in an animal is of a much cruder density. When I suck on a human, it is as if I absorb a portion of the person's essence, their will. It takes a lot of willpower to live for fifty centuries.
Humans do not turn into vampires after I bite them. Nor do they change into one if they drink my blood. Blood that is drunk goes through the digestive tract and is broken down into many parts. I do not know how the legends started that oral exchange could bring about the transformation.
I can only make another vampire by exchanging blood with the per-son, and not just a little blood. My blood has to overwhelm the other person's system before he or she becomes immortal. Of course, I do not make vampires these days. Idrive south along the coast. I am in Northern California before I stop; it is late. There is a bar off the side of the road, fairly large. I make a smooth en-trance. The men look me over, exchange glances with their buddies. The bartender does not ask me for my ID, not after I give him a hard glance.
There are many more men than women around. I am searching for a particular type, someone passing through, and I spot a candidate sitting alone in the comer. He is big and burly, unshaven; his warm jacket is not dirty, but there are oil stains that did not come out from the last cleaning.
His face is pleasant enough, sitting behind his frosty beer, but a tad lonely. He is a long-distance truck driver, I know the type. I have often drunk from their veins. I sit down in front of him, and he looks up in surprise.
I smile; the expression can disarm as well as alarm, but he is happy to see me. He orders me a beer and we talk. I do not ask if he is married—though it is obvious he is—and he does not bring it up. After a while we leave and he takes me to a motel, although I would have been satisfied with the back of his truck. I tell him as much, but he pats my leg and shakes his head.
He is a gentleman. I won't kill him. It is while he is undressing me that I bite into hid neck. The act makes him sigh with pleasure and lean his head back; he is not really sure what I am doing. He stays in that position the whole time I drink, hypnotized with the sensation, which to him feels as if he is being caressed from the inside out—with the tip of my nails.
Which to me feels like it always does, sweet and natural, as natural as making love. But I do not have sex with him. Instead, I bite the tip of my own tongue and let a drop of my blood fall onto his wounds. They heal instantly, leaving no scar, and I lay him down to rest. I have drunk a couple pints. He won't remember me.
They seldom do. The next morning I sit in Mr. Castro's history class. My cream-colored dress is fashionable, on the rich side; the embroidered hem swings four inches above my knees. I have very nice legs and do not mind showing them off. My long wavy blond hair hangs loose on my shoulders. I wear no makeup or jewelry. Class will begin in three minutes. His face has a depth his father's never imagined. He is cut in the mode of many handsome modern youths, with curly brown hair and a chiseled profile.
Yet his inner character pushes through his natural beauty and almost makes a mockery of it. The boy is already more man than boy. It shows in his brown eyes, soft but quick, in his silent pauses, as he takes in what his classmates say.
He reflects on it, and either accepts or rejects it, not caring what the others think. He is his own person, Ray Riley, and I like that about him. He talks to a girl on his right. Her name is Pat, and she is clearly his girlfriend. She is a scrawny thing, but with a smile that lights up whenever she looks at Ray. Her manner is assertive but not pushy, simply full of life. Her hands are always busy, often touching him. I like her as well and wonder if she is going to be an obstacle.
For her sake, I hope not. I honestly prefer not to kill young people. Pat's clothes are simple, a blouse and jeans. I suspect her family has little money.
But Ray is dressed sharp. It makes me think of the million I offered his father. Ray does not appear upset. Probably his father often disappears for days at a time. I clear my throat and he looks over at me. I just checked in this morning. His touch is warm, his blood healthy. I can smell blood through people's skin and tell if they have any serious ailments —even years before the disease manifests. Ray con-tinues to stare at me, and I bat my long lashes.
Behind him Pat has stopped talking to another classmate and looks over. You have a slight accent. English, French—it sounds like a combination. Pat, meet Lara Adams. She trusts in Ray's love, and in her own. That is going to change. I think of Riley's computer, which I have left in his office. It will not be terribly long before the police come to look around, and maybe take the computer away.
But I have not taken the machine because I would have no way of explain-ing to Ray what I was doing with it, much less be able to convince him to open its data files. Then it would have been easier for him to start a relationship with me without her between us. Yet I am confident I can gather Ray's interest. What man could resist what I have to offer?
My eyes go back to him. Right now we're talking about the French Revolution. Know anything about it? I knewof Antoinette, but I was never close to the French nobility, for they were boring.
But I was there, in the crowd, the day Marie Antoinette was beheaded. I actually sighed when the blade sliced across her neck. The guillotine was one of the few methods of execu-tion that disturbed me. I have been hanged a couple of times and crucified on four separate occasions, but I got over it.
But had I lost my head, I know that would have been the end. I was there at the start of the French Revolution, but I was in America before it ended.
Castor, enters the room, a sad-looking example of a modern educator if ever there was one. He only smiles at the pretty girls as he strides to the front of the room.
He is attractive in an aftershave-commercial sort of way. I nod to him. Castro introduces me to the restof the students and asks me to stand and talk about myself.
I remain seated and say ten words. Castor appears put out but lets it go. The lesson begins. Ah, history, what an illusion humanity has of the past. And yet scholars argue the reality of their texts until they are blue in the face, even though something as recent as the Second World War is remembered in a manner that has no feeling for the times,for feeling, not events, is to me the essence of history. The majority of people recollect World War II as a great adventure against impossible odds, while it was noth-ing but an unceasing parade of suffering.
How quickly mortals forget. But I forget nothing. Even I, a blood-thirsty harlot if ever there was one, have never wit-nessed a glorious war. Castro has no feeling for the past. He doesn't even have his facts straight. He lectures for thirty minutes, and I grow increasingly bored. The bright sun has me a bit sleepy.
He catches me peeking out the window. Castro frowns. He is watching me, the darling boy. People in power always take advantage of those with-out power. Castro replies. Castro says, "Not always. It depends. Castro, wisely, passes me over and goes on to another topic. But the teacher asks me to stay behind when the bell rings. This bothers me; I wish to use this time to speak to Ray. I watch as he leaves the room with Pat. He glances over his shoulder at me just before he goes out of sight.
Castro taps his desk, wanting my atten-tion. Castro says. That each of us understands where the other is coming from. He is annoyed. He is only thirty, but the circles under his eyes indicate his liver is close to seventy. His tough stance is only an image; his hands shake as he waits for me to respond. His eyes are all over my body. I decide to ignore his question. If you knew me you would appreciate my understanding of history and I lean over and give his cheek a pinch, a hard one that makes him jump.
He's lucky I don't do the same to his crotch, "Why, Mr. Castro, I'm sure you're going to give little old Lara just about any grade she wants, don't you think? You better watch it, miss. Just to make sure you don't die of drink before the semester's over. I've got to get that good grade, you know. I fail to catch Ray before my next class starts, which I do not share with him.
Seems my pseudo guardian was unable to match my schedule exactly to Ray's. I sit through fifty minutes of trigonometry, which natu-rally I know almost as well as history. I manage to refrain from alienating the teacher. The next period I don't have with Ray either, although I know fourth period we will be together in. Third is P. Thegirlfriend, Pat McQueen, has the locker beside mine and speaks to me as we undress. What did you think of Ray? Pat is not sure what to think of that, so she laughs.
You must have guys hitting on you all the time. I just hit them back. Physical education is currently educating the boys and girls of Mayfair in the rudiments of archery. I am intrigued. The class is coed and the bow and arrow in my hands bring back old memories. Perhaps, though, the an-cient memory of Arjuna, Krishna's best friend and the greatest archer of all time, is not one I should stir. For Arjuna killed more vampires than any other mortal.
All with one bow. All in one night. All because Krishna wished it so. Pat follows me out onto the field, but tactfully separates herself from me as we select our equipment. I have already spooked her, and I don't think that is bad. I wear strong sunglasses, gray tinted.
As I gather my bow and arrows, an anemic-looking young man with thick glasses and headphones speaks to me. My name is Lara Adams. Who are you? His blood is sick—how can the rest of his body not be? I hold on to his hand a moment too long, and he stares at me quizzically. I smile and let go of him. His illness has startled me. I have bruised him. It makes you sound like a nerd. My mother gave it to me," "Change it when you get out of high school. Change it to Marlboro or Slade or Bubba or something like that.
And lose those glasses. You should be wearing contacts. I bet your mother even buys your clothes. He laughs. But since Iam a nerd, shouldn't I look the part? I'm a lot smarter than you and I look great. So that's what we do. A few minutes later we are at one end of the football field sending our arrows flying toward the targets that have been arranged in a neat row on the fifty-yard line. I impress Seymour when I hit the bull's-eye three times in a row.
He is further impressed when we go to remove the arrows from the target and they are stuck in so deep he has to use all his strength to pull them out. He does not know that I could have split the shaft of my first arrow with the next two if I had wished. I am showing off, I know, and it is probably not the wisest thing to do, butI don't care. My mood this day is frivolous. My first day of high school. First happy thoughts about Ray and Pat and now I have taken an immediate liking to Seymour.
I help him pull the arrows from the target. I was trained by a master marksman. Seymour nods. I'm great at it, but it bores me to death. The strange and unusual fasci-nates me. Do you like horror? The feeling startles me, for I haven't had it in centuries. The sensation is intense; I put a hand to my head to steady myself, while searching for the source of it. Seymour reaches out to help, and once more I feel the sickness flowing beneath his skin.
I am not sure of the nature of his disease, but I have a good idea what it is. My sweat is clear, not tinted pink, as it becomes when I drink large quanti-ties of human blood.
The sun burns bright in the sky arid I lower my head. Seymour continues to watch me. Suddenly I feel as if he has come so close to me his body is actually overlapping mine. Like the deja vu, I do not like the sensation. I wonder if I have developed a greater sensitivity to the sun. I have not been out like this, at midday, in many years. Already I have said how I can sense emotions, and that is true. The ability came to me slowly as the centuries of my life passed.
At first I assumed it was because of my intense observatory faculties, and I still feel that is part of it. Yet I can sense a person's feelings even without studying them closely, and the ability baffles me to this day because it suggests a sense that is nonphysical, which I am not yet ready to accept.
I am not alone with this ability. Over time I have met the occasional human who was as sensitive as I. Indeed, I have killed several of them because they alone could sense what I was, or rather, what I was not.
Not human. Something else, they would tell their friends, something dangerous. I killed them, but I did not want to because they alone could understand me. I sense now that Seymour is one of these humans. The feeling is further confirmed when once more I pick up my bow and arrow and aim at the target. For my vision is distracted. Castro stands in the distance behind the school gymnasium, talking to a perky blond.
Talking and touching—obviously mak-ing a move on the young thing. The teacher is perhaps three hundred yards distant, but for me, with a bow in my strong arms, he is within range. As I toy with my next arrow, I think that I can shoot him in the chest and no one will know—or believe—that it was really me who killed him. I can make it so that even Seymour doesn't see where the arrow flies.
Killing Mr. Riley two nights earlier has awakened in me the desire to kill again. Truly, violence does beget violence, at least for a vampire—nothing quite satisfies as does the sight of blood, except for the taste of if.
I slip the arrow into the bow. My eyes narrow. Castro strokes the girl's hair. Yet out of the comer of my eye I notice Seymour watching me. Seeing what? Sensing what? The blood fever in me? His next word is revealing. My aim wavers. I am amazed. Seymour knows I am thinking about killing Castro! Who is this Seymour, I ask myself?
I lower my bow and look over at him. I have to ask. His eyes, magnified behind their glasses, stare at me. My innocent tone has done its work on him. User: chrissyo Rating: 1 Thanks! What readers are saying What do you think? Write your own comment on this book!
What do you think? Write your own comment on this book Please Login or Register to write comments or use smm accounts Log in Log in Log in. Write a comment. Phantom by Christopher Pike 4. Vampire Academy by Richelle Mead 4. Rowling 4. Breaking Dawn by Stephenie Meyer 4. Shadow Kiss by Richelle Mead 4. Blood Promise by Richelle Mead 4.
Spirit Bound by Richelle Mead 4. Other books by this author Thirst No.
0コメント