From:         "Susan M. Garrett" <susang@VITINC.COM>
Subject:      DTD Story Beginning (Challenge Ho!)

Story Challenge.

Okay, this is the beginning.  Read on.  Instructions at the end.

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>From Dark to Dawn

Part 0

by Susan M. Garrett


There should have been no hurry--dawn was a good two hours away.  But Nick
dashed from his car and tapped in the security code as if the devil himself
were after him.  It wasn't until he was safely in the elevator, forehead
leaning against the cool wall of the door, that he realized he'd forgotten
to lock the Caddy.

Well, the hell with it.  If it was stolen, it was stolen.  It would take too
much effort to turn around now.  Too late.  He always seemed to be too late
. . . .

The elevator door opened and he burst into the loft . . . which was silent
and still.  No reason that it should be otherwise.  No reason--no <rational>
reason--for him to look behind doors, check the shadows of the room with a
careful eye, turn the lights up full, double check the ceiling and the
skylights and the windows, the bedroom and bathroom and closets.

It was something to do, a way to expend energy that wouldn't involve
cleaning up broken pieces of glass or ceramics or furniture later.  And once
that was done, he paced the length of the first floor, still at loose ends.
Swiping the remote from the couch, he lowered the shutters on the windows
and skylight, then opened them again.  What would it matter, light or dark?
It was over.

It was all over.

Except for the waiting . . . .

The light on his answering machine was out--no calls.  He picked up the
receiver, having half a mind to call--but that wouldn't help, would it.  No
calls in, no calls out.  No one would help him.  No one <could> help him.

A moment's glance upward and he caught sight of the refrigerator.  Nick
staggered toward it, fixing his hopes of the moment on that, at least.  Once
there, he all but wrenched the door from its hinges, revealing four full
bottles of blood.

Cow blood.

The bottle was cold, the glass smooth in his hand as he lowered his head,
ready to pull out the cork with his teeth and drown his sorrows.  But he
paused and held the bottle, looking at it, then thrust it back into the
refrigerator.  Getting smashed on a couple of bottles of blood couldn't help
the situation.

Then again, how could it hurt?  How could <anything> hurt him, anymore?

The sound that came from his throat was half a laugh and half a sob, as
confused and impossible to define as his mood.  If he was looking for
oblivion, for the slightest chance of finding any comfort, why settle for
cow?  Why not drink the real stuff?

If he still had any . . . .

With the desperation of an alcoholic on the search for anything above 50
proof, he opened the lower compartment of the refrigerator and found the
three bags of human blood he kept for emergencies.  And, if truth be told,
for guests-- if it came to that.  <Special> guests.

It was still fresh, well before the expiration period.  Kneeling on the
floor in front of the refrigerator, it took all the effort he had not to
tear the bags open with his fangs.  But some shred of dignity still
remained, forcing him to his feet however shakily, the bags of blood
clutched tightly in his hands.  He walked to the counter, used a knife to
tear open the first of the bags, and poured the human blood into a wine
glass.  The other bags could be left on the counter; they'd come to room
temperature quickly enough if given enough time.

If he didn't finish them before then.

The first glass went down after a brief instant of choking.  It had been a
while since he'd had human blood and he'd forgotten the flavor of it, how
cow blood paled in comparison with the richness and fullness of that mortal
elixir.  The first bag supplied a second glass and he paused a moment over
that, savoring the taste.  But he'd need more.  He'd need so much more to
get through this.

It was as he turned to open the second bag that he heard the hum of the
elevator.  He stared at the empty glass in one hand and the full bag in the
other and let out a muttered oath.  Too late!  Why was he always too late!
There hadn't been enough time, not then . . . and certainly not now.  It
would be so much easier to face this with a couple of quarts under his belt,
if not a gallon.

As the elevator door opened, he turned and smashed the stained glass against
the wall.  It was an empty, defiant action, but it was <something>.  Empty,
defiant actions were all he had left.

That, and stone-cold sobriety.

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