Bloody Valentine (Blue Bloods 5.50)

“I need it,” Oliver mumbled.

“For what?”

He shook his head, and the bartender moved to take care of her customers on the other side of the counter.

Oliver fingered the card hidden in his pocket, tracing over the engraved words. It was a secret place that served humans like him—Red Bloods who had been abandoned by their vampires, human familiars who were now aching with need. He remembered his brave words to Mimi on the night they first visited the place, the false bravado he’d mustered. It was all a lie. He knew he would end up back there soon enough. He needed a fix, just one bite—it no longer mattered that Schuyler would not be administering it, he just wanted to feel whole again. He wa

nted someone to make the pain go away. To help him forget. Of course he knew the dangers, the risks—schizophrenia, infection, addiction; the possibility that after one night he might never want to leave. But he had to go. Anything was better than living with the terrible loneliness. He slammed back the shot with a vengeance, pounded the empty glass on the table, and signaled to the bartender again.

“Whatever it is you think you need that for, maybe you shouldn’t do it,” she said, as she wiped down the counter and gave him a cool once-over. The bartender had been working at the Holiday ever since he had started sneaking in when he was in eighth grade, and Oliver noticed for the first time that she never seemed to age. She looked exactly the same, not a day over eighteen, with long curly hair and intense green eyes. Her tiny white ribbed tanktop showed just a hint of her tanned, flat belly. Oliver had always harbored a little crush on her but had been too shy to do anything about it aside from leaving generous tips. Not that it was hopeless, but it was like being attracted to a movie star—the possibility of having one’s affection returned was very low to zero.

To his surprise, she seemed to take an interest. “I’m Freya,” she said, holding out a hand.

“Oliver,” he said, giving it a firm shake. Her skin was as soft as cashmere. He tried not to blush.

“I know. The kid with the fake ID from Hawaii,” she said with a laugh. “Why is it always Hawaii? Is it because it’s an easy one to copy? It must be. Oh, don’t look too surprised, I’ve known for years.”

“You guys don’t get raided?”

“Just let them try.” Freya winked. “So. Haven’t seen you here in a year or so. Now you’re back every night. What’s up?”

He shook his head.

“Where’s your little friend?” she asked. “You guys always used to come in together.”

“She’s gone.”

“Ah.” Freya nodded. “It’s her loss.”

Oliver laughed hollowly. “Yeah, right.” Her loss. He didn’t doubt that Schuyler missed him; of course she would. But he knew she was happier now that she was with Jack. The loss was all his. He reached for his wallet and fished out several twenty-dollar bills.

The sexy bartender dismissed them with a wave. “Your money’s no good tonight. Just do me a favor. Whatever you’re about to do, please don’t. Because it’s not going to help.”

He shook his head and placed a few dollars on the counter as a tip. “Thanks for the drinks, but I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he mumbled, not meeting her eyes. What did she know about what he was planning? What did she care?

Oliver walked out into the cloudless New York night. It was the kind of evening that not too long ago would have found him and Schuyler traipsing around the city, with only their whims to lead them. There would be no more late-night cappuccinos at Café Reggio. No more sneaking into tiny little pubs to hear the latest folksingers. No more ending the night and greeting the day with dawn breakfasts at Yaffa. There would be no more of that. Not again. Not ever.

No matter. His car and driver were idling by the curb. He gave the address. After tonight, he would forget everything, including her name. With luck, he would probably forget his own.

TWO

Poisoned Apple

Oliver had not expected the blood house, which looked like a turn-of-the-century bordello, with velvet couches and dim lighting, to have such a modern medical facility in its quarters. The cigar-chomping madam who sent him to the top floor told him he had to pass a physical before she could register him as a house familiar.

“We need to make sure you don’t have any inconvenient diseases for our clients,” the doctor explained as he shone a flashlight down Oliver’s throat.

Oliver tried to nod, but his mouth was open, so he settled on silence. Afterward, he was poked and prodded with an array of needles that drew his blood. When the physical examination was over, he was brought to another room, where he was introduced to the house psychiatrist.

“De-familiarizing, that is, taking out the markers from your original vampire, is not a physical process,” the doctor said. “The poison in your blood is the manifestation of the love you feel for your vampire. What we do here is eradicate that love and disavow the hold it has on your psyche, thus eliminating the poison.

“It may be a painful journey, and one whose outcome is unpredictable. Some familiars experience a loss akin to a death. Others lose all their memories of their vampire. Every case is different, as is every relationship between vampire and familiar.” The doctor began scribbling on his pad. “Can you tell me a little about your relationship?”

“We were friends,” Oliver replied. “I’ve known her all my life. I was her Conduit.” He was relieved that the doctor did not seem to have an adverse reaction to the news. “I loved her. I still love her. Not just because she’s my vampire—it’s more than that.”

“How so?”

“I mean, I loved her before she bit me.” He thought of how he’d tried to fool himself, thinking that he’d only loved her once she had transformed. It wasn’t true. He had loved her his entire life. He’d only been lying to himself to feel better.