Harbinger

By Penny Greenhorn

Claire Buchanan Duke has a hankering for blood, but she’s different from those cursed creatures that drink it. Unsure of what she is or where she comes from, Claire tries to get by the best she can. But the visions don’t help, and her latest is the worst yet—a picture of her death. Destined to break an age-old curse, Claire is plunged into danger, and there’s only one person capable of saving her. Soon she finds herself entwined with the black sheep of the blood-drinking community, an ill-tempered assassin with little interest in protecting her. Can Claire escape her fate?
An urban fantasy with a twist of Celtic myth and romance, Harbinger is a stand-alone novel set in a world of the Cursed and Chimera.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Penny Greenhorn
• Release date: Nov 7, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311151551

Penny Greenhorn

Penny Greenhorn is a novelist who currently resides in Alaska. When she’s not writing science fiction, fantasy or misanthropes, she can be found off the beaten track with her fuzzy schnauzer, Boods. Her works include the Empath Series, Fiona Frost Trilogy, and a stand-alone urban fantasy, Harbinger. You can find out more about Penny and her twitterpated heroines at pennygreenhorn.com.

Book preview

Chapter 1

New York City was said to be charming throughout autumn.  The tree leaves changed, bathing Manhattan in their rich, warm hues.  The days were nice enough, but the evenings turned cool, hinting at winter.  It was that first refreshing chill, rumored to put color in one’s cheek.  My cheeks were red, sure, and probably chapped too, but I wouldn’t say I felt refreshed.  And I didn’t live in the enchanted wonderland that was New York City, either.  I lived in its ugly cousin, Harbinger, NJ, a city that skirted the water, only on the less desirable side of the Hudson River.  I briskly made my way through its warehouse district, an area filled with buildings that managed to appear squat even as they towered over you.  All around were big windows and a whole lot of brick.

My skirt seemed to ride higher with every step, shimmying its way up my thighs.  I was too close to fidget, too close to cultivate anything but a certain kind of image.  With a sigh, I let my leather hem climb toward indecency as I clacked along the cracked and crumbling sidewalk.  The shreds of a plastic bag danced past my heeled boots, worried by the wind.  All around were littered bits of trash.  An empty, flattened pack of cigarettes caught in an oily puddle. A piece of newspaper pressed along the curb. Even from a distance I could smell the urine on it.

Hearing the first strains of the club’s heavy base I quickened my pace, weaving down a dark alley as if pulled along by the music.   We had a long-standing appointment each week, and I was running late.  I didn’t like to make him wait.  It was rude, doubly so as he was doing me a favor.  He was a giver, I was a taker, and the only downside to our arrangement was the required dress.  To be blunt—I looked like a hooker.  I was wearing scraps for clothing, a pair of boots that encased most of my leg and a layer of scarlet lipstick.  But I had to blend.  I was singled out enough as it was, my scent always marking me as different.  And if the half-cursed and sealed community had one rule it was this: Don’t attract attention.

I slipped through an unremarkable door, escaping the crisp, cool air as I descended into the underbelly of a warehouse where the music grew in intensity.  The thumping crept along the bones of the building, vibrating through steel girders.  It surged up from the floor into my skin, punching out a rhythm in my chest.

This wasn’t your typical club.  There wasn’t a line wrapped around the block, no neon sign.  And you couldn’t find a listing for it in the phonebook.  In fact, you couldn’t find it at all unless you were specifically invited.  And every so often its location changed, weeding out the unwanted.  A new building to host the revelry, always in a deserted part of town where no one would notice.

I turned the corner, quickly drowning in sensory overload.  Through the open doorway was a large room filled with writhing bodies.  Most were half-cursed or some years into their binding—meaning they were young, well, relatively so.  Among them was a spattering of humans, each stinking of sweat.  The figures were packed in tight, melding together in time with the music.  It was dark, but lights flashed, adding to the chaos.

I pushed my way through, forcing a part in the crowd.  Bodies gyrated around me, movements harsh, forced.  The half-cursed were filled with restless energy; Duncan had told me so.  He said something happened about fifteen years ago.  The sealed began to sicken, and the half-cursed grew edgy.  The presiding sealed of Harbinger offered up the club in response, hoping to stem the rising tide of unquiet by giving it an outlet.

I couldn’t avoid raking in curious stares as I passed through the rage of surging bodies.  Blood-drinking creatures lifted their noses to scent me, sensing I was different but little else.  The noise gave way, breaking as I elbowed my way out of the tumultuous pit and climbed the stairs to a more sedate area.

The bar was for foreplay.  Little groups would separate themselves from the violent dancing and music.  They’d have a glass of wine or maybe some liquor before the real drinking began.  That was when they’d slip off, cloistering themselves away in the crimson lounge where they maintained the illusion of privacy behind the filmy curtains and plush, roomy booths.

Tequila, I told the bartender while sidling onto a stool.  It was the vilest liquor I could think of, which was why I’d ordered it.  The burn would stave off my craving.

He pushed over a generous amount, two fingers of a lowball.  I gulped it down, wincing as I took in the local color.  Blood-drinkers were easily labeled in the myths—vampire.  See, one word with a simple and neat meaning.  But in the real world, in their world, it was more complicated than that.  It was all about some curse, the truth of which was so far buried in history that no one seemed to remember the details.  But the long and short of it was that you turned someone by passing along this curse.  First you had to share blood with a human for years, this part of the process was called binding.  After that you killed them (a bit morbid, I know) and then they became half-cursed.  A half-cursed needed blood to sustain their body, which was stuck in a sort of stasis.  But they could maintain their human lives despite that.  They held jobs, paid taxes, and ate sandwiches.  It was passing along the curse that sealed their own.  Sealed creatures were a different breed of blood-drinker entirely.  They were stronger than their counterpart, nearly invincible.  But they couldn’t abide daylight.

I had never seen a sealed creature.  The illness they’d mysteriously contracted was said to have a degenerative effect.  But that wasn’t why they avoided the club.  Their culture was very stiff, and while the half-cursed might dress in tight leather and dark cloth, the sealed tended to be older and more… refined.

The bartender passed me another glass of tequila.  I didn’t know his name, although I recognized him from my previous visits.  He was part Asian, and while it kept him average in the height and build department, it gave him a nicely shaped face, strong jaw, and even features.  He was half-cursed.  I could tell by his conservative manner. After the curse set in, breathing became optional.  No need to breathe.  No need to swallow.  No need for a heartbeat.  Fidgety little habits, those unconscious human gestures, they tended to fade away with time, leaving behind a very controlled and remote being.  The older the blood-drinker, the more they resembled a machine.

I was downing my second glass when Veronica sashayed out of the lounge.  She put one foot in front of the other, wagging her hips as if the concrete floor was her own personal runway.  You’re late, she declared.

I pushed my empty glass away.  And you’re a bitch, I replied, clearing the liquor from my throat as it settled lower, warming my gut.  Let’s not make a thing about it.

Water, she ordered curtly.  Modeling had instilled a body-conscious lifestyle, and her hydration regime and lean eating habits persisted.  But Veronica was in transition, and after years of sharing blood with Duncan she could consume bacon-wrapped meatloaf for every meal of the day and not gain a thing.  She was a few years over my twenty-one, though it would never show.  She was frozen as a beautiful, long-legged blonde.  He’s waiting for you in the back, she snapped.

Well, beautiful on the outside.

I pushed away from the bar to stand up.  My hands were shaking.  I did my best to conceal them, trying to hide the rising hunger.  I wasn’t cursed like the creatures around me.  But we did have one thing in common—a consuming desire for blood.

When I was five years old I woke up from a clinically induced coma.  I was told that my name was Claire Buchanan Duke.  I was told that my family had been in a car accident, but not to worry because we had all pulled through.  I was brought home to a sprawling mansion where I slept in a room that was the color of flowering lavender.  I was told it was mine.  They had to tell me these things because I didn’t remember, not any of it.  The only thing I knew for certain was that the world felt loud, chaotic. Everything was new and nothing made sense.  My behavior must have been very trying for my parents, because it wasn’t long after the accident that they gave me away.  Not my siblings, just me.  I was too confused at the time to feel rejected.  But I wasn’t confused as to why they were getting rid of me.  I knew why.  I had overheard them talking.  The woman, my mother, she called me a stranger, and my father agreed, saying I hadn’t been right since the accident.  They said I wasn’t their daughter, and eleven days after that conversation I became a ward of the state.  Maybe if I’d just ignored the cravings things would’ve been different.  My younger sister, Ellen, had a cat, and one day it got into a fight with the neighbor’s corgi.  It came home limping with a wounded front paw.  My family found me licking up the blood.  That had been the last straw.

I didn’t even know if Buchanan was my middle name or the first part of my last name, though I had been reminded, a few times actually, that my family was descended from some American blue blood who’d dealt in tobacco.  My name was really the only thing I took away from the whole experience, that and a waning sense of self-worth.

After all these years I tried not to let it bother me.  But the truth was I knew the Buchanan Duke’s weren’t wrong.  The little girl who’d lived in that purple bedroom was gone.  A monster had taken her place.  I felt wild inside, filled with elemental energy that was old as dirt.  I was ancient.  And I was dark.

My mouth began to tingle in anticipation.  Like one of Pavlov’s dogs, it could sense it was about to feed and my teeth ached to bite down.  The overall atmosphere didn’t help any.  The bald bouncer, who I thought of as Chuck, tipped his head briefly, nodding as I crossed into the lounge.  It was like stepping into a Middle Eastern harem.  There were cushioned nests built into the walls, the less private booths draped over in sheer cloth.  The lamps were set low, glowing over the dark red furnishings.  The space seemed to press in, smoldering and provocative.  A moan reached out, the tangy smell of blood came with it, teasing me.  I set the curtains fluttering as I swept past.  I caught a glimpse to my left, quickly registering the young, slender guy’s upturned jaw, the silver rings of his viper bite quivering as he shook, his wrist caught in the teeth of a half-cursed as she gulped him down.

I swallowed thickly and kept walking, forcing myself to relax.  It was difficult.  I knew that soon I’d drink down Duncan and that pleasure would be mine.

He was waiting for me in the very back, sitting at an open, less intimate table.  As always, he was a statue of perfection.  For some reason his warm brown eyes and hair always made me think of melting chocolate.  Not only was Duncan the one blood-drinker I associated with, he was also frighteningly sophisticated, but subtly so.  For example I found him drinking red wine, but he wasn’t swirling and sniffing it like some pompous ass.

Did Veronica give you any trouble? he casually asked as I slid into the seat across from him.

Unfortunately not, I griped.

You shouldn’t bait her.

It’s rare to find someone you can thoroughly dislike without feeling the least bit guilty.  Veronica is that person.  I love hating her, I explained.  You’re the one that should be worried.  I would think her admiration is worse than her ire.

"She appreciates what I do for her, that is the extent of her admiration," he said, drawing out the last word.

We didn’t discuss these things, not usually.  Duncan was… contained, more so than the average blood-drinker.  He was a calm presence, very reserved.  Taking that last statement as a cue to continue, I went on, trying to open him up.  You make it sound as if appreciation’s not enough.  I appreciate what you do for me.  Do you expect more than that?

Duncan held up his glass.  Did you want anything?

You already bought me two at the bar, I told him.  And you’re changing the subject.

Duncan didn’t bother masking his irritation, though it was mild.  I did everything short of beg to get you to drink my blood.  You owe me nothing, not even your appreciation.

I couldn’t help but notice how neatly he’d avoided answering my direct question, but I let it go.  I was done talking, my mind having wandered far past the pleasantries of conversation.  I wanted to lunge across the table.  I wanted to rip into his neck.

Sensing my thirst, Duncan stood.  He was wearing a very European suit, the jacket and pants perfectly fitted.  I followed him, forcing back the urge to hurry.

I want to discuss something with you before we get… distracted, Duncan said quietly from beside me as we crossed through the lounge.  I’ve been called away by my curse-maker.  I don’t know how long I’ll be gone.

Curse-maker was not a courtesy title.  Like all blood-drinkers, Duncan was compelled to obey the creature that had turned him.  This wasn’t the first time he’d been summoned by his maker.

I’ll be fine, I assured him.

It could be a while, he said.

Duncan was worried for me.  I didn’t have the luxury of the blood-drinker’s breath. With it they could befuddle a human mind, catching a quick snack with no one the wiser.  I relied on Duncan as my sole source, something of a taboo in their community.

I’ve fasted before.  Whenever he left I went hungry.

I knew I wanted blood, craved it fiercely.  But I’d fought the urge throughout my whole adolescence, burying that part of me.  So I didn’t believe that I actually needed to feed, not like these creatures did, not to sustain my body.  I wasn’t stuck in stasis.  I grew, got older.  I was alive.  And I had no idea why.  What sort of creature am I?

Duncan pushed open the bathroom door and I followed him inside.  He wouldn’t get another chance to answer; this was the point where we both stopped talking.  It was also the point where things got awkward.  Sharing blood was intimate as sex, and one often led to the other.  The bathroom helped discourage that inclination, which was why I insisted on meeting there.  Also, cravings aside, I hated drinking blood.  I never chose to be cursed, never let another drink from me, bind me.  I was raised human, and the desire that marked me as dark and different was not something I welcomed.  I was ashamed.  Not now, but I would be when the thirst was over.  I always felt equally satisfied and horrified with a belly full of blood.  And I didn’t need anyone else witnessing my consternation.

Duncan leaned his back against the door, ensuring our continued privacy.  I gravitated to him, my feet carrying me as if they had a mind of their own.  He pulled the tie from his collar and unbuttoned it.  I couldn’t resist any longer.  My fingers curled over his shoulder and throat.  My body pressed forward, nestling into his as my mouth bit down.  I jerked my head, ripping him open.  The blood pooled, warm, pulsing.  The euphoria set in, a pleasure so thick it washed over me, drowning out everything but the taste on my tongue.  I was tied to Duncan by it, hearing the thump of each beat as he forced his heart to pump me blood.  It flowed into my mouth, a hot red ribbon that seeped down the back of my throat.  I chafed to be closer, to drink more.  My body molded to his, holding him still as my jaw gripped tighter, drawing what I needed from his body into mine.  The distance I tried to maintain was eradicated without a thought.

An image flashed through the haze of my delirium, imprinting itself in my mind.  A pitted cauldron, the lip crusted in red rust.  And then I saw my face. I was gasping in pain.  And I felt it, felt myself dying.  I jerked back from Duncan, blinking as the vision fled.  My knee was wrapped around his hip, my skirt hitched up to my waist.  I scrambled back, pulling the hem down.

What is it? Duncan asked.  Did you see something?

I, uh—  My eyes caught on his throat.  Duncan! I gasped, feeling instantly terrible.  I’d shredded him, tearing apart the skin between his chin and collar.  Blood dribbled down over his suit.  I’m sorry.  I shook my head, loathing the blackness inside me.  I was darker than even these blood-drinking creatures.  I’d seen enough bites in the lounge to know that ravaging someone while in the throes of bloodlust wasn’t normal.

Leave it, he said as I reached for a towel.  It’ll heal.

I was opening my mouth to babble out another apology but he waved my words away, unconcerned with the damage I’d inflicted.  I have a feeling I’ll be gone for a while.  How long can you go without feeding?

As long as I have to, I answered.

I could leave Veronica for you, he offered.

As much as I’d enjoy mauling Veronica, I could never bite her.  Being that close, having her feed me, it was far too personal.  No, I said, letting my tone indicate how repellent the idea was to me.

Duncan sighed while extracting something from his pocket.  Take these, he insisted.  I’ll have someone meet you there if you need to feed.

I stared down at the keys to his apartment.  I’d never been there before.  It was a formal barrier I tried to keep between us—no visiting each other at home.  But I accepted them anyway because it would make him feel better.  But I had no intention of going to his place.

I wiped my mouth using the back of my hand.  Duncan shifted away from the exit, sensing my uneasiness.  I always felt the need to flee after feeding.  I reached for the door but paused.  Safe travels, Duncan, I whispered.

Chapter 2

I was looking through glass.  It was frosted in parts, a thick milky white.  I felt myself swaying, and all around me the shadows danced.  I was safe.

Beep.  Beep.  Beep.

I slapped my alarm so hard it flew off the nightstand.  The dream stayed with me even as I blinked awake.  Always the same.  Another mystery, the impression and image unchanging.  It might as well have been stamped on the inside of my eyelids; I saw it whenever I closed them.

I crawled out of bed and sort of shuffled around my apartment.  I lived on the second floor, just over a small butcher shop.  I could faintly smell the metallic tang of blood below me.  This wasn’t an oversight on my part.  By the age of eighteen I was still comparatively ignorant.  I’d never seen another blood-drinker and couldn’t yet fathom that they might exist.  My life had sort of revolved around keeping a tight hold on my hunger.  Living above Bradley’s Butcher Shop was a perfect way to help me combat the cravings.  The constant smell of blood became second nature and the sudden pangs of thirst that had often swamped me abated in time.

After taking a shower I wiped down the bathroom mirror, staring at my own reflection.  I had pale, even features, unremarkable really, except for my hair.  It was a mass of lazy curls that hung down past my shoulders.  Minor exertion on my part or the smallest bit of wind could make them turn into a thick, wavy frizz.  Not the distinguishing feature I would have chosen as I perpetually looked like I’d popped straight out of the 80’s.  But today I didn’t notice my hair.  I didn’t even see it really.  When I looked into the mirror I saw my face as it had been in the vision.   More than a week had passed since meeting Duncan at the club, and I’d been haunted by those images ever since.

I’d had visions my whole life (well, at least the parts of it that I could remember) and they tended to be a little abstract.  Not the picture so much, that part was usually clear. I might be walking when the images started, playing out like a movie in my head.  I’d stumble, missing a step as the reality around me retreated.  And then it would be over, leaving me to blink as the real world rushed back into my eyes.  At first I was too little to be worried.  I didn’t wonder if I was going crazy.  I didn’t try to figure out if I’d seen the past, present or future.  I didn’t do anything.

At the age of seven I began to understand.  I was watching TV when the screen vanished, replaced by an image of my then-current foster mother Belinda.  She was driving, but the car suddenly swerved.  I heard squealing tires and saw the spray of breaking glass as it flew back at me.  The vision ended, leaving me so frightened that I refused to ride with her.  After a few days Belinda got sick of my tantrums and more or less dragged me to her car.  On our way to the grocery store a dog ran into the street. She twisted the wheel, a reflex, and we crashed into a nearby telephone pole.  The pole was dead, our injuries minor, and the dog walked away unscathed.  I learned a few things from that experience.  One, my visions were real.  Two, they weren’t necessarily significant as my last one had heralded little more than Belinda’s shitty driving.  And three, I was prone to car accidents.

I’d seen lots of things over the years, some visions more disturbing than others.  But the one I’d had while drinking Duncan was by far the worst.  I stopped seeing my face as it had been in the vision, letting my reflection stare back at me.  The thing was… I looked the same. Meaning that I was going to die and it would happen soon.  Maybe I had a year or two, but that wasn’t exactly comforting.

I suddenly had a flash of brilliance.  Yanking open the drawer, I scrambled through its contents.  I found a pair of scissors and brandished them in victory.  If I cut my hair different then the vision couldn’t come true.  And then… and then I’d just keep cutting it… forever!  I fisted a hank of curls, pulling them in front of my face as I opened the scissors with my other hand.  I let the blades hover over the strands.  All I had to do was snip.

Luckily I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror.  I looked like a crazy person.  My hands slowly sank down before I tossed the scissors back into the drawer and slammed it shut.  If I went through with it, sure, my vision would change.  I’d still be dying, just with shorter hair.  Shorter, frizzy hair.  I couldn’t go out with an Afro.

My mood stayed black all morning.  I ate cereal while standing over the counter that separated my small living room from my smaller kitchen.  Spooning down mouthfuls, I speculated over my demise.  The vision hadn’t shown how I’d die, just a close-up of my face.  It was the impression I found so damning, as if I’d experienced that moment, feeling an undeniable certainty that my life was over.

Poison, I thought while getting dressed.  Veronica was going to poison me, that bitch.  Or maybe a heart attack.  That wouldn’t be so bad.  Did the Buchanan Dukes pass along some sort of congenital heart disease?  Or perhaps I’d get shot, no, stabbed!  It would be during a random mugging…  Ick.  I’d just creeped myself out.  One thing I knew for certain—there wasn’t going to be another car accident.  I didn’t drive and I didn’t ride.  It was the mugging scenario that hit close to home because I walked through darkened back-alleys each night.

It was time to leave for work and I balked, not wanting to abandon the safety of my home.  With much reluctance I stepped into my boots.  The black leather went halfway up my calves, the tops open and the tongue flapping.  Next I slid into my coat.  It was trenchy and went down to my knees, the sturdy, dark green fabric fitting me like a second skin.  If my house caught fire and I could only save one thing, it would be my coat.  I bought it from a nearby thriftshop, and it was love at first sight.  My relationship with it was deeper and more lasting than any human connection I could ever hope to achieve.  I should probably leave a note saying that I wanted to be buried in it.  With that cheerless thought I grabbed my keys and left, locking the door before walking down the enclosed staircase that led outside.

It was a thirty minute walk to work, and I was paranoid throughout.  I glanced behind me, avoiding tinted vans and anyone shifty looking.  John was in his office when I made it to my desk.  I worked at a furniture store, running the back office.  I was very good at the administrative tasks, the customer service aspect… not so much.  A little old lady had once remarked, not unkindly, that I wasn’t cut out for retail, being the worst service she’d ever encountered.  It was true, I really was.

I kicked off my boots and sat down.  The light on the telephone flashed.  I willfully ignored the voicemail, checking the company e-mail instead.  I tried to keep busy, but my mind continually wandered.  I thought of Duncan, my throat drying out with hunger as I remembered our last meeting.  I fantasized about it with the lust of an addict, alarmed by my own appetite.  More than a week had passed and my body was expecting sustenance.  It had been a while since I had fasted and I felt unprepared, unequal to the temptation.  Since Duncan hadn’t tried to contact me, I could only assume he was still with his curse-maker somewhere overseas.  My stomach squeezed in disappointment, uncomfortably distracting.

My mind was stuck on Duncan throughout the day, my body’s neediness fixated on the source of its gratification.  I thought of the first time that I saw him.  I’d been sitting in the same chair, at the same desk, only as a new employee.

A few weeks on the job and desperate for money, I’d been putting in extra hours. It’d been late.  The warehouse workers had already gone, so had John, our accountant.  A few salespeople wandered the floor.  Like restless ghosts, they’d floated by, waiting to haunt the next customer.  I hadn’t heard Duncan approach the counter, which I later found strange.  (My hearing was better than good.)  But I had smelled him, and he had smelled of blood and ash.

Glancing up from the papers on my desk, I’d been momentarily arrested by the sight.  A handsome stranger, both hands tucked away in the pockets of his tailored wool coat.  He’d been standing very still while watching me work.  I remember thinking he looked more than a little out of place in our dowdy furniture store.

How can I help you? I’d asked, crossing the office as I approached the counter. On some level I must’ve been intimidated by him because I’d avoided looking at his face, letting my eyes skate over the space around him.

I’ve come to schedule a delivery, he had answered, voice carrying a subtle accent, sounding cultured and smooth.

Your name?

Duncan, was all he’d said.  No last name, and if he had one, I still didn’t know it.

I had searched through the invoices, unable to locate his.  I’m not seeing anything for Duncan.

I’ve just settled in the area.  I didn’t make the purchase personally, he’d explained, reaching inside his coat.  He’d extracted a business card and passed it over.  This is my decorator’s information.  Perhaps the invoice is listed under her name.

But it hadn’t been.  I’d rifled through the office, growing increasingly frustrated under the stranger’s persistent scrutiny.  Finally I’d given up, stalking back over to the troublesome man.  On the way I had forced myself to look at his face, unable to avoid it any longer.  I’d caught him staring down at my bare feet.  He had watched until they’d disappeared from his view, hidden behind the counter.

Did the decorator tell you to schedule a delivery? I’d inquired, feeling aggravated and unsettled

No, he had replied.  I received a call from the store this morning informing me that my furniture was ready.

My breath had hitched, a sure sign that I was about to get really pissed.  The store hadn’t received any furniture, nor had I placed a single call relating such information. Despite my lack of experience, it hadn’t been hard to tell which way the wind was blowing.  And what was the name of the store that called you?

American Trademark Gallery.  This was a chore to him, and it was growing tiresome.  I could hear it in his voice, the liquid syllables turning wooden.

I specifically remember utilizing my excellent self-control.  It had prevented me from breaking his lovely face.  Instead I’d plucked our store’s business card off the counter, sliding it over so he could see.  "This is Trademark Home Gallery." The misunderstanding had been intentional, just not on his part.  Tina, the owner, had more or less copied the store’s name from a popular chain hoping to trick people.  Her plan had obviously worked.  I remember sighing, my mind had already returned to the paperwork waiting at my desk.

But Duncan’s face had suddenly changed, his nostrils flaring.  He later told me it was the gentle breeze off my breath that had caught his attention.  It’d carried my scent across the counter, a strange combination he couldn’t place.

Creatures with a heightened sense of smell were able to recognize an individual’s signature scent.  Like a voice, it was unique, expressing whether someone was young or old, male or female.  Duncan had assumed I was human until he caught my underlining aroma.  It was blood and ash, just like a blood-drinker, except washed out by my natural human odor.  He’d never smelled anything like it.  And I’d never smelled anything like him.

It seems we have something in common, Duncan had hinted.

Of course I had no idea what he was talking about.  Yeah… we both know that you’re wasting my time.

He had tipped his head, gazing at me intently.  My mistake, he’d finally said. Perhaps I can make it up to you?

Having frequently stayed at an inner-city youth home between foster parents, I was critical of the male attention I garnered.  I’d fought off one too many attempts at prepubescent groping.  So the stranger’s offer induced a wary sort of scorn.  You can make it up to me by leaving, I had answered in no uncertain terms.  And Duncan had left.  But as I would later find out, he had no intention of leaving me indefinitely.  I was a curious creature and he had wanted to know more.