Blood Vivicanti (9780989878586) Read Online Free Page A

us: “Take this outside,
children!”
    We rushed through
Idyllville forest.
    We chased deer and
coyotes.
    We scaled Suicide Rock. We
swan dived into the green canopy.
    I was breathing hard
through my nostrils like a bull. I felt like an animal.
    It felt good.
     
     
     
     
    I wished Wyn wasn’t with
us. I wanted to be alone with Theo.
    But the three of us stopped
our chase in Idyllville and we walked through the village square.
It was thronged with villagers and tourists. I saw peers from the
academy. They didn’t recognize Theo. Or me.
    Wyn wasn’t
surprised.
    “ You’ve changed much in the
last two weeks,” he told us.
     
     
     
     
    Wyn insisted that I drink
blood. He made a game of it. He challenged each of us to use our
abilities to pick out of the crowd the finest blood.
    Theo picked out a student
from the Academy. A freshman ginger named Sebastian. I’d heard of
him. Supposedly he was a polymath. He could dance, paint, sing, and
play at least a dozen instruments. He had an astounding
IQ.
    Theo had already considered
drinking his blood. Now he whispered in my ear. “The ginger boy
would be perfect for you. His Blood Memories would enhance your own
giftedness.”
    I didn’t want Sebastian’s
blood. I wanted more of Theo’s. I thought I needed him.
    Besides, the idea of
drinking someone else’s blood bothered me. Having someone else
inside me didn’t feel right.
    My tongue deep inside
Theo’s neck was a good feeling. His blood in me was a better
feeling. I wanted to be entangled with him again.
     
     
     
     
    Wyn agreed with Theo. They
insisted I should drink the ginger boy’s blood. They let me hunt
him by myself.
    I tailed the ginger boy for
some time.
    He led me through
Idyllville, through the tortuous neighborhoods, to Hatter’s Café.
He grouped with a few other Academy students. He mounted a drum
set. The other students strapped on their instruments.
    Together they played a
fusion of baroque and jazz. I admit: It was fascinating.
    I listened to them play. I
watched the ginger boy. He would have filled me that day. My body
was starving. My mind felt famished. My heart was ravenous. Mine
was a psychosomatic starvation for something more in my
life.
     
     
     
     
    But then I saw someone
else, an ordinary man, in his mid-50s it seemed. He was walking
along the street that passed Hatter’s Cafe, up the mountain, away
from the village square, toward quaint B&Bs and small
shops.
    I’d seen this man before.
He owned and operated a used bookshop. That’s where he was
going.
    I left the cafe and
followed him.
    The man was gangly with
thick glasses and crooked teeth. His sandy hair was always mussed.
He was like the used books he resold: Worn on the outside, a
treasure on the inside.
     
     
     
     
    The ginger boy carried
himself like one who owned the world.
    But this aging man carried
himself like one who owned nothing, yet seemed to have everything.
It was attractive.
    I hungered to carry myself
like him. I thirsted to be that carefree.
     
     
     
     
    His bookshop had once been
a small studio apartment. Now books were stacked from floor to
ceiling. There were more books than bookcases. Books were piled
everywhere, on tables and under chairs, in stacks and in
piles.
    There was little order.
Hemingway occupied a few shelves. Stephen King had some stacks.
Agatha Christie lay in piles beside Isaac Asimov and Charles
Dickens and R. L. Stine.
    The whole place was
perfumed with the wonderful scent of book pages over a decade
old.
    I love that
smell.
     
     
     
     
    The man’s name was Joe –
just Joe – what a great name – simple, honest.
    Joe wasn’t a bookseller.
His used book business was a front. He ran it because he liked
meeting people. Tourists came from all over Southern California to
visit Idyllville. Joe liked meeting them, talking with them, asking
about their lives.
    Joe’s livelihood surprised
me. He was the village garbage man. Every day he hauled away
villagers’ garbage.
    He