Sinclair and I were walking up Hennepin Avenue. The cops had done a great job lately in cleaning up the neighborhood; but you could still find trouble if you knew where to look. Minneapolis wasn't Cannon Falls, after all. It was still an American city with a nightlife.
"I know what you're thinking," he said at last.
"Prob'ly," I said, staring at the surprisingly clean gutter. I was profoundly bummed out. Myeloma-technically cancer of the bone marrow, and the blood plasma cells there-was serious. My research had been a total downer.
It could infect everything, and it carried with it fun symptoms like fatigue, pain, dehydration, constipation, susceptibility to infection, and even-ding, ding, ding!-kidney damage.
The good news was, Jessica's cancer was slow, which gave her and her doctor-and me-time to figure out options.
But right now, I could only come up with one.
"You're thinking of turning her."
"I'm still getting over the shock of finding out she's sick. How come you didn't say anything?"
"It wasn't my secret to tell," he replied simply.
"I really hate you sometimes."
He didn't say anything.
"I just-I can't lose her. My best friend! I mean, I always knew, since I'm immortal and she's not, that it was a problem I'd have to face. But not now. She's only thirty, for God's sake!"
"Young," he agreed.
"I'm not ready to have this happen now. And I don't want her to be sick at all. Maybe-maybe I can fix it."
"And maybe you do your friend a disservice," he said quietly. "Maybe you should let her solve her own problems."
"Not knowing what to wear on a date is a problem, pal. This is a fucking disaster."
"This week has certainly had its twists and turns."
"Oh, boy, don't get me started." We walked along, headed toward burned-out streetlights. "How would I even do it?" I asked. "I've never made a vampire before. Hell, I'm trying to get off the whole blood-drinking thing entirely."
"Which is why we're walking down Hennepin at two A.M.," Sinclair pointed out. "As opposed to being home."
To get back at him for not giving me a heads-up about Jessica's fucking fatal illness, I'd told him about my zero blood diet. He'd taken it pretty well, but I knew why.
He didn't think I could do it.
He couldn't do it, which was why we were out prowling in the wee hours.
The scene when I'd told Sinclair about my new "no blood all the time" slim-down plan (does OB-negative running down my chin make me look fat?) had been, like all the dramatic scenes in my life, anticlimactic.
We'd been necking in the shower and he'd moved in for a bite and I'd avoided him so deftly I nearly went ass over teakettle. He'd had to grab me to keep me from plunging through the shower curtain like Janet Leigh.
"What in the world... ?"
"Don't do that."
"As you wish." He'd let go. Then grabbed me again when I slipped again.
"I think we'd better rinse off before I kill myself."
He was standing under the shower, blinking water out of his eyes and staring down at me. "What is the matter, Elizabeth?"
"Nothing. Nothing! Uh. Nothing."
He hummed and looked at the ceiling.
"We're going to be in the shower until I spill it, aren't you?"
"In a manner of speaking."
If I'd been alive, I would have taken a deep, steadying breath. Instead, I counted backward from five, but by the time I was down to two, I couldn't wait any longer. Besides, the water was going to get cold any second. "I'm giving up blood drinking for my birthday."
"Giving up."
"Yeah."
"For your birthday."
"Yeah."
He rubbed his chin and I realized I had never seen Sinclair shave. Did vampires grow beards? I hoped not. Blech.
"No more victimizing would-be rapists?" he finally said. I could tell he was hoping that would be the end of it.
"No more at all. I mean, I'm the queen, right? There's perks, right?"
"Perks."
"Don't say 'perks' like there's a roach crawling around on your gums. Yeah, perks! And I figure, if I'm this all-powerful kick-ass queen you and Tina keep babbling about-"
"I never babble."
"-I should be able to decide when and where I drink blood."
"True."
"Or if I drink blood."
"Ah." He peered at me closely, almost as if seeing me for the first time. Except he looked at me like that at least twice a week. It was nice, if odd. Nobody in the world looked at me like that. "Are you the queen of the vampires if you don't drink blood?"
"If a tree falls in the forest and no one's around, does it squick you out by sucking out a hiker's blood? Come on, it's not that big a deal. Right? I mean, you know I'm nuts about you. It's not personal. In fact, it has nothing to do with you."
"Nothing to do with me," he parroted.
"Look, don't be like this, okay? I'm sorry, I shouldn't have picked the next time you wanted a chomp to tell you the feed store is closed, but there's been a ton of stuff going on." I reached out and wiped soap off his shoulders. His broad, broad shoulers. Stay focused, idiot. "You know I love everything we do in bed. And out of bed. And in the shower. And in the parlors. And-well, I adore every second of it. But I really need to do this. I still don't feel like drinking blood is part of who I am, so... so I'm not going to do it."
"You have shampoo on your ear," he informed me, and that was the last he'd said on the subject.
Now here we were, stalking prey for him.
Personally, I'd rather be back in the shower.
"So what's it like? Making a vampire?"
"Anticlimactic."
"Mister? Could you give me a hand?"
"Here we go," I muttered. Well dressed as we were, we must have looked like pigeons ready to be plucked.
She was tall, with dyed black hair. Torn stockings. Thin as a two-by-four. No coat, the better to see your boobs with, my dear. Her arms looked like windshield wipers.
"Yes, miss? Do you require assistance?" Sinclair let her get close.
"No," she replied, and I heard the pop of the switchblade. "I need your wallet."
"There are shelters and counselors available to help you," he informed her.
Her pimp was already flanking us in order to take us by surprise (so he thought), and as he made his move I backhanded him without even looking. It was easy. He spun and crashed to the ground.
Meanwhile, Sinclair had relieved the "professional" of her knife, picked her up so her feet dangled above the cracked sidewalk, and sank his teeth into her throat. She squealed and kicked, but I knew from experience it was like trying to get free from a tree.
I felt my own fangs pop out and had to look away.
I could (maybe) give up blood; Sinclair could not. But taking blood was downright sexual for us, so we'd compromised: we'd go out together. One-night stands only for him.
Did I like it? I did not. I fucking hated it. I should be the one he was growling over, the one in his arms. By choice, I was not. But I felt like a pimp.
He pulled free and her head lolled against his shoulder. He looked at me with a vicious gleam in his eyes, blood staining his grin. "Like some? There's plenty."
Yes! Hand her over! No, hell with her, bite me now, and I'll bite you, and that's how it'll be for a thousand years...
"Let her go."
He dropped her. "As you wish." He bent, tucked a business card from the nearest shelter into her top, straightened. Licked his teeth. "Ummm. She needs more fatty acids in her diet. And less crack. Shall we go?"
I shivered. "Eric, I love you, but sometimes you give me such a case of the creeps."
He smiled at me. "Good."