Anne Brontë Nightwalker

Chapter 26

Dana wants to drive so she climbs behind the wheel and peels out of the station. We roam the town in fast, aimless circles. She's burning off steam and diesel fuel, but I don't say anything. Tonight she gets a pass. She jumps on any call that comes over the radio, which unfortunately is not many. The cold is keeping everyone in. Eventually, we run a few calls but despite my hunger I cannot justify transporting any of our patients. Even my creative writing skills cannot convert a fleabite or bad dream into a trip to the hospital.

My hunger is so acute it overrides my fear of the Alpha. It's my only sensation, growing, gnawing at me. I'm surrounded by predators—the Alpha, Santos—and yet I am oblivious, attuned solely to my ravenous thirst.

At last we respond to the Grangers for a call about the pretty red-haired girl, Savannah. I find her curled up on her bed beneath a worn handmade quilt with a small stuffed giraffe clutched to her chest. She's been complaining of abdominal pain all day. Her abdomen is tender and tiny spots of blood stain her panties. I can smell it. Her first blood is near. In a day or so it will be here. I want to tell Savannah her moontime is being born, ushering her into womanhood, granting her the gift of creation. It is a time for celebration, not fear. But her brothers huddle about and her father watches suspiciously as I palpate her abdomen and bite my tongue. Even her mother looks bewildered.

The Grangers don't understand the signs.

Their ignorance irritates me. My temper is stretched taut. Although it's well within my protocols to transport Savannah for abdominal pain, I know she's perfectly fine. Even so, I advise the Grangers she should get checked out and they concede to transport. They trust me and I easily sweep aside my guilt. After all I've done for this family, why should they begrudge me a little blood? They don't pay their hospital bills anyway and a medical checkup won't hurt Savannah.

Mr. Granger rides with us, unwilling to stay shut up with the children any longer in their suffocating home. In the back of the truck, he fidgets on the bench seat and glances sullenly around. He looks old. He is wearing a sagging pair of blue jeans and a worn-out red flannel shirt that has faded almost to pink. Cat hair sticks to it. He smells like dog and smoke and baby vomit. The bright overhead lights reveal dirt in the creases of his skin and I wonder if they have indoor plumbing. When I take Savannah's arm in my hand to begin the IV, he stops me.

"What ya need that for?"

"So they can do blood work at the hospital."

"What they need that for?"

"Tests. To make sure she doesn't have an infection," I snap. I've had it with him. For a man with libertarian slogans splashed across the back of his pickup truck, he sure calls 911 a lot. My sisters ministered to the dying with no more than boiling water and iron hearts, yet today grown men can't drive their own children to the hospital.

He shifts forward on the seat. "You don't need her blood. I don't give you permission to take it. That blood is mine. Not nobody else's."

"Then why did you call? If you don't want me to do my job, why did you call?"

"Just wanted to make sure she ain't dying or nothin'. That everything was alright with her woman parts. Didn't plan on you stickin' her. Don't give you permission."

"Then I suggest, Mr. Granger, you start doing a better job taking care of your own."

His eyes go black and his calloused hand balls into a fist on his thigh. He wants to strike me. I can feel it sure as I feel the hunger gnawing inside me. A part of me longs for it. Let him dare try. I'll rip him to shreds.