Blood Stain: Book Three of the Blood Type Series (complete)

A Valiant Effort

June fumbled the alcohol swab, which fell from her unsteady fingers to the tiled floor at her feet. She stared at it, the rise and fall of her chest echoing the pulse at her neck. "I don't think I can do this," she said. Her voice was no more than a tremulous whisper, barely audible against the hum of the refrigerator in the background. Still, I had heard the fear in it well enough. "I don't think I can do this," she said again, and yet she reached mechanically for another packet from the drawer of blood-letting supplies.

"Then allow me," Thomas said.

Wrapping his large hands around the old woman's, he brought them to his lips and deposited a soft kiss against the slightly mottled flesh. He removed the small foil packet from her unresisting fingers and ripped it open, the sharp scent of alcohol immediately permeating the air. With a delicate touch, he swabbed the inside of the young man's arm. I briefly wondered who he was. What sort of life had he lived before he'd been plucked from anonymity to serve this one purpose?

Taking a deep breath and seeming slightly more composed, June inserted the beveled point of the needle into the man's vein. He didn't so much as flinch at the stick, but immediately his blood welled and began to flow within the coiled plastic tubing, dark red and hypnotic. My nostrils flared at the scent of coffee and leather, and my gums ached with the desire to sink my teeth into the vulnerable skin of his neck or wrist, to feel the surge of hot blood against my tongue. I licked my lips, suddenly self-conscious and somewhat ashamed of my craving.

"It gets easier," Thomas said with a sympathetic glance at me, as though reading my mind. "Being around fresh blood like this." I let out the breath I'd been holding and nodded, giving him what I hoped was a reassuring smile.

"Pass me a cup," June instructed. Thomas obligingly handed over one of his mother's crystal goblets.

We watched in silence as the blood trickled to the halfway mark, and then she placed her thumb over the end of the tube to stop the flow momentarily as Thomas switched goblets. Finally, June's eyes met mine and her brows rose in inquiry. It was my turn, she said, without having to say anything at all. Picking up the knife from the table, I hesitated only briefly before pulling the sharpened edge hard against the inside of my hand. I gritted my teeth against the sudden sting. Deliberately hurting oneself wasn't as effortless or painless as television made it out to be.

The wound welled and I held my open hand over the cup, massaging the base of my palm to encourage the flow of blood. One, two, three, four, five drops fell into the first goblet, and the same amount in the other. I lifted the goblet and gave the contents a swirl, but all I could smell was the delectable scent of the Donor's blood. I held the goblet out to Thomas, who bent to sniff, but he only shook his head. The real test, then, would come when Margaret tasted it. Still, Andrew Larsen had said Margaret and Mr. Abernathy needed to drink only a small amount of my blood to be susceptible to my compulsion. I hoped it would be enough.

June placed each of the goblets on a tray but made no immediate move to leave the kitchen. Standing in front of her, Thomas placed his hands on either side of her face. "You can do this," he said. "It will all be over soon enough." Then, leaning forward, he pressed his lips gently against hers.

"I'll keep her safe," I whispered, careful not to speak too loudly in case of sensitive ears.

June nodded, stealing herself against whatever was to come, then pushed through the swinging door. I followed her from the kitchen and across the empty foyer to the library beyond where Margaret was waiting for her nightly blood. We had unanimously agreed to incapacitate her first so she could not use her compulsion against us. Margaret had a reputation of striking hard and fast, and sometimes not without fatal consequences.