Blood Type: Book One of the Blood Type Series (complete)

Just a Taste

My cell phone dinged, alerting me to an incoming text, and I skipped across my room to read what it said.

Thinking of you.

I smiled. John would be off work in an hour, and we had plans to catch a movie downtown and then grab a coffee after. He was supposed to call when he got home, but I had decided to surprise him at his house. So, after saying goodbye to my parents and promising to be home by curfew, I drove the few miles down the hill to John's place.

The night was warm and humid, the air smelling of imminent rain and summer love. I rang the bell and stood waiting for Ian to answer, bouncing on the balls of my feet while swatting at the swarm of gnats and mosquitos hovering near the glow of the overhead light. Several moments passed without an answer, so I rang the bell again and knocked for good measure. When Ian still didn't answer, I tried the knob and found the door unlocked.

"Hello?" I called out, pushing the door open a few inches. "Ian?"

I found him sitting on the floor in the foyer hugging his knees to his chest, head bent. "I rang the doorbell," I said. "Why didn't you answer?"

Ian slowly raised his head and I gasped at the sight of his sunken cheeks and the ashy pallor of his skin. He clearly wasn't well, and yet John hadn't mentioned there was anything wrong with his cousin. I went to him at once, crouching by his side.

"What are ye doing here?" he said, his voice a mere rasp.

"Waiting for John." I pressed my hand against his forehead, expecting him to be burning up, but his skin was cold.

"Ye should go," he said, shrinking away from my touch. His hair stood in every direction, and his normally vibrant eyes were dull and lifeless.

"You look terrible, Ian. You were fine when I saw you the other day. How long have you been sick?"

"I'm not sick."

"Liar. You look like you have the flu."

"Then ye should go," he said again, lying down on the floor in the fetal position. "Ye don't want what I have." He closed his eyes, burying his face in his knees.

"I had the flu last winter and got through it just fine. So will you. Come on," I said, hooking a hand under his arm to lift him. "I'll take care of you. John and I can go out another night."

Ian wouldn't budge, though he opened one eye to peer at me. "Ye talked to John?" he said. "Will he be home soon? He's supposed to bring me . . . what I need."

"I'm sure he's on his way. When was the last time you showered?" I asked, for the first time noting the putrid odor emanating from his skin and clothes.

I tugged on his arm again and this time he got to his knees, swaying alarmingly as he clutched his head with his free hand. Still, he allowed me to lead him to the couch and winced as I switched on the lamp, shying away from the light.

"Oh, God!" he moaned. "My head feels like it will split."

He looked even worse in full light. His eyes, smudged with shadow, were sunk deep in his already thin face, his blue-tinged lips chapped and peeling. He looked on the brink of death, and my mind raced with the possibility that he might be sick with something even worse than the flu.

"Did you get a vaccine for meningitis?" I asked.

"Huh?" He scrubbed his face with trembling hands, rasping the stubble under his fingertips. The cuticles of his nails had cracked and were caked with dried blood.

"Meningitis. You know you're supposed to have . . . never mind. I don't think it's that," I said when he began to moan and writhe on the couch. He wasn't listening to me anyway.