Belle Morte Bites (Belle Morte 4.3)

Jerry: Part Five

Gideon didn't get far before pain overwhelmed him, and he slumped into what had been the loading bay of another empty shop, the entrances now sealed off behind roll-down metal doors. He braced his palms on one wall, and though he didn't need to breathe, he found himself gulping in air anyway, as if that would help him deal with the pain.

His knees buckled and he slid to the ground. His vision flickered, the world sliding in and out of view.

"Gideon?"

Jerry knelt beside him, sweaty, sooty, and exhausted, and put a hand on Gideon's face.

"Go . . . go away," Gideon rasped.

"I'm not leaving you. You need a hospital."

"They can't help."

"Gideon, I don't think you realise how bad this is. Your clothes are partially fused to your skin – you need proper help."

Steeling himself, Gideon reached up to the ruins of his shirt and started pulling it away from his charred back. He tore off strips of skin in the process, and it was so excruciating that tears swam in his eyes and he sank his fangs into his lips until blood flowed down his chin.

"Gideon, stop, you're making it worse," Jerry cried, trying to hold Gideon's hands still.

He was so close to Gideon, his heart like a drumbeat in Gideon's ears, the warmth of his skin, the promise of his blood calling to Gideon's fangs and making his eyes turn red. He squeezed his eyes shut and turned his face away.

Footsteps scuffed behind them, and Jerry started to say something, then there was the crack of a fist on flesh and the sound of someone falling to the ground.

Gideon opened his eyes.

Jerry lay beside him, one hand pressed to his jaw. Another man stood over him, rubbing his knuckles and sneering. Gideon recognised him – he'd been standing outside the squat when Gideon first arrived, watching as it burned.

"Fucking queers," the man said, and spat on Jerry.

Gideon could smell something on the man, and it was a strong, familiar smell, but his brain was so fogged with agony that he couldn't immediately make the connection.

Then he did.

Petrol.

The man smelled of smoke and petrol.

Understanding clicked in Gideon's head.

Whoever this man was, he hadn't just been rubbernecking a tragedy, he'd been watching the results of his handiwork. Maybe he'd been acting alone, or maybe he'd been part of a group, but he had helped start that fire. He had tried to kill Jerry and the others.

The man bent over Gideon, and Jerry tried to scramble to his feet. "Don't you touch him," he said, ready to protect Gideon with everything he had.

Rage burned like fire, overwhelming the agony, and Gideon hauled on every last scrap of vampire strength. He surged to his feet with a snarl, grabbed the man by the throat, hard enough to stop him from screaming, and slammed him against the nearest wall.

He hadn't intended to bite him, but when he felt the throb of a pulse beneath his palm, pure vampire instinct took over. Gideon buried his face in the man's neck, biting deep and pulling warm blood into his mouth. It flowed down his throat, more and more and more of it, until the pain of his injuries faded, and fresh strength flooded through him.

That was when he realised the man had stopped fighting against him.

Gideon pulled back, smearing blood across his mouth, and stared into the man's sightless eyes. The man hung limp in his grip, and when Gideon released him, he crumpled into a boneless heap on the ground, lying at Jerry's feet.