Acquainted With the Night (9781101546000) Read Online Free Page A
Author: Piper Maitland
upward. Her nails scraped down the surgical gown. She twisted, and the pink jim-jams showed her ribs. He dragged her into the living room. No flatmate. No lover. Just him and her. Maybe he could tie her to the bed and slip her a length. As long as he didnât kill her or drink her blood, he could do as he pleased. Heâd brought a condom, just in case.
Her eyes bulged, the lids quivering. She reminded him of his mother-in-law, little and toothy. âYouâre a cheeky one,â he said, and she screamed into his hand. He smelled her terror. Something pattered against the carpet, and he saw a damp stain spread on her pajama bottoms. A stench rose up.
âBlinking hell, darling. Youâve pissed yourself.â
Keeping one hand over her foghorn mouth, he dragged her toward the bedroom. She kicked over a lamp, then knocked the phone off the hook. Her sharp little teeth sank through his gloved hand, into his fleshy palm. He winced. Crikey, he hadnât been bitten in a while. Human bites were germy. You could lose your arm to a human bite. But at least she hadnât drawn blood. She needed a good seeing-to. The chloroform was in the satchel and the satchel was beside the door and heâd left the bloody door wide open.
The moment he released her, she scrambled away. He jerked her back. Her teeth caught his thumb and clamped down. One of her hands flapped up, a wren trying to escape the hawk, and her claws lodged in his hair. He heard a ripping sound, felt a wrenching ache. Stupid little bird. Now heâd have to spend the rest of the night hoovering. He couldnât leave his DNA or heâd be in the clink.
One thing at a time, mate. First, make her stop biting.
He slid his other thumb into the side of her mouth, feeling around her molars for an empty space. This was what he did with fighting dogs. It made them quit biting, although sometimes it broke their jaws.
She grabbed another handful of his hair and yanked it out. A scalding pain ran through his skull, searing vessels and nerves, and pooled behind his eyes. Gritting his teeth, he slammed his elbow against her chin. The bone made a crackling noise, as if heâd dropped a porcelain bowl. Her fingers opened and wiry, red filaments floated between them, each strand bearing a chunk of Mooseâs scalp.
He spread her body on the floor and felt for a pulse. Nothing. Her pupils were dilating, the irises filling with black. She wasnât breathing, either.
âStone the crows,â he muttered. Heâd broken her flipping neck. Now what? Should he call Mr. Underwood? Here it was, the worst-case scenario. He supposed it didnât matter now whether he tasted her.
Moose strode into the hall, gathered his satchel, and slammed the door. He hurried back to the bird and hunkered beside her body. He peeled up the jim-jam top. The movement set her creamy breasts to quivering. Heâd seen better. Not that it mattered. Not now. As his gaze moved up to her throat, his mouth watered. He pushed his teeth into her carotid artery. Just a little sip, thatâs all, a sip. The blood was still warm, but it wasnât pumping.
A while later, he remembered the bone marrow test.
The needle was sharp and hollow, roughly the size of a lead pencil. He fit it onto a syringe, aimed it between the girlâs breasts, and pressed down. It was like pushing a screwdriver into soft wood. He pulled back on the plunger, but nothing came out. It was easy to go through the bone, so he retracted the needle a millimeter. The syringe filled with dark, venous blood, swirling like dark burgundy with bits of floating cork. Moose studied the white specks. Marrow. Each piece was no bigger than a grain of kosher salt.
He squirted a little fluid onto his tongue. AB negative, the rarest of the rare, with a hint of copper. He capped the needle and eyed the bird. What a pity to let all this blood go to wasteâit wasnât like she needed it, did she? He grabbed a
Her eyes bulged, the lids quivering. She reminded him of his mother-in-law, little and toothy. âYouâre a cheeky one,â he said, and she screamed into his hand. He smelled her terror. Something pattered against the carpet, and he saw a damp stain spread on her pajama bottoms. A stench rose up.
âBlinking hell, darling. Youâve pissed yourself.â
Keeping one hand over her foghorn mouth, he dragged her toward the bedroom. She kicked over a lamp, then knocked the phone off the hook. Her sharp little teeth sank through his gloved hand, into his fleshy palm. He winced. Crikey, he hadnât been bitten in a while. Human bites were germy. You could lose your arm to a human bite. But at least she hadnât drawn blood. She needed a good seeing-to. The chloroform was in the satchel and the satchel was beside the door and heâd left the bloody door wide open.
The moment he released her, she scrambled away. He jerked her back. Her teeth caught his thumb and clamped down. One of her hands flapped up, a wren trying to escape the hawk, and her claws lodged in his hair. He heard a ripping sound, felt a wrenching ache. Stupid little bird. Now heâd have to spend the rest of the night hoovering. He couldnât leave his DNA or heâd be in the clink.
One thing at a time, mate. First, make her stop biting.
He slid his other thumb into the side of her mouth, feeling around her molars for an empty space. This was what he did with fighting dogs. It made them quit biting, although sometimes it broke their jaws.
She grabbed another handful of his hair and yanked it out. A scalding pain ran through his skull, searing vessels and nerves, and pooled behind his eyes. Gritting his teeth, he slammed his elbow against her chin. The bone made a crackling noise, as if heâd dropped a porcelain bowl. Her fingers opened and wiry, red filaments floated between them, each strand bearing a chunk of Mooseâs scalp.
He spread her body on the floor and felt for a pulse. Nothing. Her pupils were dilating, the irises filling with black. She wasnât breathing, either.
âStone the crows,â he muttered. Heâd broken her flipping neck. Now what? Should he call Mr. Underwood? Here it was, the worst-case scenario. He supposed it didnât matter now whether he tasted her.
Moose strode into the hall, gathered his satchel, and slammed the door. He hurried back to the bird and hunkered beside her body. He peeled up the jim-jam top. The movement set her creamy breasts to quivering. Heâd seen better. Not that it mattered. Not now. As his gaze moved up to her throat, his mouth watered. He pushed his teeth into her carotid artery. Just a little sip, thatâs all, a sip. The blood was still warm, but it wasnât pumping.
A while later, he remembered the bone marrow test.
The needle was sharp and hollow, roughly the size of a lead pencil. He fit it onto a syringe, aimed it between the girlâs breasts, and pressed down. It was like pushing a screwdriver into soft wood. He pulled back on the plunger, but nothing came out. It was easy to go through the bone, so he retracted the needle a millimeter. The syringe filled with dark, venous blood, swirling like dark burgundy with bits of floating cork. Moose studied the white specks. Marrow. Each piece was no bigger than a grain of kosher salt.
He squirted a little fluid onto his tongue. AB negative, the rarest of the rare, with a hint of copper. He capped the needle and eyed the bird. What a pity to let all this blood go to wasteâit wasnât like she needed it, did she? He grabbed a
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