Blood Claim Laura Mykles (best classic novels txt) 📖

Hunter was a beautiful young man with an underlying thread of confidence Malcolm could actually feel in the air when he got physically close to Hunter. The one time he allowed Hunter to see him face to face, he had been intrigued by the way the young man's gold-flecked hazel eyes met and held his. Intrigued and aroused.

The brief glance had been startlingly warm and open. It darted over his own sharp-boned features, wandered up to his closely cropped hair, and then dropped to his pale lips, moving on up to linger on his gray eyes with a stare that could have been interpreted as attraction if Malcolm had been prone to romantic notions. He wasn't. He couldn't even remember what romance and love felt like anymore, but he suspected it was right about then his interest in Hunter began to shift from quick-meal-and-prize-won to something more ... intimate.

He had planned very carefully so that he could savor every moment of this victory kill. Malcolm imagined the young man's blood would be sweet, full of youth and strength, with a fervor for justice just like his father's—only better, innocent and untainted by even a short time as a vampire like William's blood had been.

Malcolm stalked him nightly. He followed Hunter home from his evenings out with friends. He sat in a darkened corner of the large, solemn reading room at the local library where Hunter spent most evenings reading, apparently researching some isolated, war-torn North African region. It was all unimportant, but Malcolm knew the value of learning about a victim. Plus he enjoyed watching Hunter in everyday moments, unguarded and relaxed, like now.

Face down, Hunter shifted and stirred under the thin covers, distress on his slumbering face, his senses already picking up on the intruder at his side. His nude body twisted in the sheets so that his lithe frame was outlined by the shroud of blue linen. A frown marred his forehead, and his lips parted to allow a soft gasp to escape.

Malcolm could smell the apprehension on Hunter's breath and in his sweat. It brought a slight twist of pleasure to one corner of his mouth. He picked up a pair of discarded jeans from the foot of the bed and brought them to his face. Pressing the button-fly crotch to his cheek, Malcolm inhaled the rich, musky smell lingering in the soft, well-washed fabric, delighting in the scent that was primitive and base, a dried, faint mix of Hunter's sweat and hormones.

It was pure and earthy, untainted by the tobacco, drugs, or alcohol that seemed to plague most of the humans Hunter's age. It was a natural aphrodisiac—ambrosia promising that his blood would be as sweet. Knowing he would have to leave soon when Hunter awoke, Malcolm couldn't resist moving closer. He tossed the jeans to a nearby chair and silently stepped to the head of the bed.

Hunter was short, like his father, not more than five feet eight, but the one hundred and forty-five pounds on his frame were lightly muscled and well-defined. One hand curled loosely under his chin, his faintly shadowed jaw framed by tousled fawn-brown hair that curled at his neck and fringed the wrinkled pillowcase.

A faded old scar under Hunter's right eyebrow glistened with a bead of sweat. Malcolm wondered what injury had had the pleasure of drawing this man's blood for the first time. He had a sudden urge to lick the tiny crevice of raggedly healed flesh.

First he imagined the taste of Hunter's terror-fueled sweat. Then his imagination questioned what the sweat would taste like pooling in the scar when created by wild passion and lust instead. Malcolm felt his passion rise, and the long-forgotten stirring in his blood almost made him recoil.

His prey stirred again. Hunter rolled onto his back, signaling the man's sleep-laden mind had finally registered his presence and was about to awaken. Dressed in black, a mere layer of darkness in the gray and black shadows of the room, he watched and waited until Hunter had actually started up in bed, disoriented and panting, to stare into the corners of the bedroom. Only then did Malcolm swoosh out the open window.

He heard the tap-tap of the window blinds swaying in the draft of displaced air along with a tense, “Who's there? Damn it, answer me!"

* * * *

"Who's there?” Hunter sat up in bed, staring into the deepest shadows in his room, searching for the source of growing disquiet that had invaded his life lately. “Damn it, answer me!"

But the bedroom was dark and empty. He knew it would be—it always was—but he couldn't shake the feeling that there had been someone, something, watching him. If not watching, than waiting for him. The last ten days of this feeling were beginning to play hell with his sleep.

"Freaking nightmare!"

Ten days had passed since he began to feel eyes on him, sense a presence with him in empty rooms. Sometimes it was beside him when he awakened at night, hair and sheets plastered to his skin with a sheen of sweat, even though the bedroom's air was cool and pleasant, a gentle breeze from his habitually open window. He'd close the window, but there was no reason to. There was no balcony, no fire escape, no trellis or drain pipe for an intruder to use, and he was too high for easy access. An intruder who got into his bedroom through the window would have to be able to fly.

Throwing back the damp sheets, Hunter swung both feet over the edge of the mattress and sat naked, hunched over his knees. He rolled his shoulders to shake off the tension and ran his fingers through his hair, grimacing when they came away clammy with sweat. Sighing, he turned on the bedside table lamp and made another quick visual scan around the dimly lit room before standing up.

Empty. The room was empty. Just him, the bedroom furniture, and a pair of jeans slung across the bedroom