Bloodlust

Bloodlust by Deborah O'Toole (aka Deidre Dalton) is Book #2 in the Bloodline Trilogy.

Noel and Pim's daughter Kate Grady has unusual powers which allow her to bend people to her will. At first she uses her gifts wisely, but then goes astray after falling in love with Kirk Lester. She finds herself honing her special powers to keep her place in Kirk's heart, no matter how evil or depraved life with him becomes.

From Chapter Four

THE LESTER HOME was located on Chestnut Avenue, which was halfway between Jamaica Plain and Roxbury Crossing. The three-story, narrow blue-clapboard house was a scant distance off the street, with a short stoop leading to the front porch. While the Victorian row house was rather modest, it appeared well-kept. The small front yard was also well-tended. Kate could see several clusters of bluebells planted next to the entry steps, and all around the sides of the house. While most of the flowers had toned down for the season, random bluebell remnants could be seen in the fading light.

Somewhat nervous about meeting Kirk's father, and wanting to make a good impression, Kate toned down her typical Goth attire by wearing a simple black skirt, falling just above the knee, long black boots and a creamy white poet blouse.

Her first sight of Kendrick Lester came seconds after Kirk parked his car in front of the house. Kendrick opened the front door, smiling broadly as she and Kirk stepped onto the porch. As his eyes settled on her, Kate noticed the slight gap between his two front teeth. Kirk's father was tall and slender, his hair the same wheat-color as his son's although thinning on top. He also had the same pale skin, with watery blue eyes unlike Kirk and soft crinkles at the corners of his mouth.

"You must be Kate," he said genially, extending his hand. He had the barest hint of an English accent. "I'm Kirk's father, but please call me Ken."

Kate smiled, returning the handshake. Ken's skin was soft and pliant, as if he did very little physical labor with them. They were also somewhat clammy and cool to the touch. She felt an almost instantaneous distaste toward him, but managed to conceal it. "I'm happy to meet you," Kate said politely, withdrawing her hand slowly as not to draw attention to her inner revulsion.

Ken shot a glance at his son. "Come inside, the pair of you." He stepped aside as Kirk touched the small of Kate's back, guiding her through the front door.

Kate felt as if she had been transported back in time. While outwardly tidy, the décor of the house was decidedly from the 1970s. A sunken living room appeared to the right of the front hallway, which held green shag carpet with worn, brown leather furniture and chipped wood end tables. The hallway and living room had an aura of staleness, as if fresh air had not been allowed inside for years. Kate could also smell the faint aroma of food cooking – hamburger and beans, perhaps?

"Don't mind the look," Kirk whispered in her ear, his tone light. "My father is forever stuck in 1977, the year he left his native England to come to Massachusetts. The English are a quirky lot."

They followed Ken into the kitchen, which was separated from the living room by a long counter with tall, orange-cushioned barstools.

"I'm cooking my famous chili and cornbread," Ken announced as he stepped toward the electric stove. "It's not fancy, but its good eats."

"Sounds wonderful," Kate said quickly. "Can I help you with anything?"

"No, I've got it covered, but thanks anyway."

Kate glanced at Kirk, who had taken a barstool at the counter. She was surprised to see a slight smile on his face as he met her eyes. She had a sense he was relieved she and Ken were enjoying an easy repartee, as if a hurdle had somehow been crossed.

"You have a slight accent," Kate continued as she addressed Ken, but her eyes were still on Kirk. "My father is a former Londoner. Are you from England as well?"

Ken smiled from his position at the stove, appearing pleased Kate had noticed his inflection. "Very quick of you, Kate. I was born in Chester, England. I lived there until I was about twenty or thereabouts, at which time I decided to seek my future in America. Best move I ever made. I met my wife, Ann, at Northeastern University. She was studying at the College of Arts, Media and Design to obtain her masters in architecture, while I was there to get my Bachelor of Science degree in Human Services at the College of Social Sciences and Humanities. We were married shortly before graduation."

Kate returned his smile. "Kirk tells me you are the new community organizer for the JPND. That's quite an accomplishment."

Ken stirred the pot of chili as he replied, not looking at her. "My previous job was as administrator for East End Community Center in Cambridge, which helps kids from under-resourced families with academic achievement, and the often tricky transition from childhood to being a responsible adult. I worked there for many years. However, I'm probably most proud of my current job. My specialty is low income, single mothers with children. I'm able to help people in real time, and very often get to see the end results."

Kate kept her eyes on Kirk, thrilled to her core when he winked at her. She was engaging his father, and he was pleased about it.

"Kirk tells me he met you on his first day at English High," Ken said, glancing over his shoulder at her.

"Yes," Kate replied, her eyes still on Kirk. He smiled, his eyes unreadable but somehow filling her with warmth.

"Kirk wasn't happy about the transfer from Burke High to English," Ken continued. "But now Kirk doesn't seem to mind so much." He chuckled. "And I can see why. You are very beautiful, Kate."

She felt uncomfortable all of a sudden, made uneasy by Ken Lester's remark - however innocent - about her appearance. Even Kirk's reassuring repeat wink did not allay her disquiet.

"Thank you," she replied politely.

"Set some bowls on the table, will you Kirk?" Ken asked his son. "Dinner is almost ready."

"Sure thing, Dad."

Kate watched Kirk move around the kitchen with graceful familiarity, taking three glass bowls from a cupboard next to the sink, and bringing out three spoons from a drawer. He looked at her. "Want hot sauce with your chili?"

"Yes, please," Kate told him, smiling. The appreciative light in her blue eyes centered on him, and every move he made, and did not diminish as he went about mundane tasks. Everything he did captivated her, and held her attention. It did not occur to her to think twice about it.

Kirk placed the bowls and spoons on the kitchen table, and then came to stand next to her. He lowered his head and brushed his lips against her ear. "I just knew you were a spicy girl," he whispered.

Kate drew in her breath. The comment thrilled and slightly alarmed her at the same time. She wanted to hear Kirk say such things to her, but not in front of his father. She felt it should be private, just between them. She glanced toward the stove and saw Ken watching them, paused momentarily in his chore of stirring the pot of chili. His eyes had almost become hooded, observing her and his son intently, his mouth nearly slack.

She was thoroughly repulsed, and found it difficult to conceal her disgust. Why would Ken stare at her - or rather the interaction between her and Kirk - with such avid interest? There was something unwholesome about it, but she was unable to put her finger on the reason why. It was an instinctive red flag that she was trying to ignore for Kirk's sake, but she was unable to stop her mental retreat from the seemingly innocuous Ken Lester.

Kirk appeared to sense her withdrawal, verbally nudging his father to break the mood. "Let's dish up dinner, shall we?"

His son's comment broke the unknown spell Ken seemed to be under, as intended. He smiled affably, bringing the pot to the table and ladling steaming chili into the bowls, and then retrieved a glass dish of cornbread from the oven. Kate watched as he took a knife from a tan-colored butcher's block on the counter, deftly cutting the cornbread into squares. Her eyes focused on the knife momentarily, taking in the uniquely colored splotched handle and gray-black swirled blade. He brought the pan of cornbread to the table, smiling. "Dig in, and enjoy."

The threesome ate quietly, their spoons clacking against the glass bowls. Kate was sitting between Kirk and his father at the table, highly aware of Kirk's presence but avoiding eye contact with Ken.

His mood seemed unaffected. "Help yourself to more, there's plenty."

"None for me, thanks," Kate responded without looking at Ken. "The chili was delicious, and very filling."

"No room for dessert, huh?" Ken asked, flashing her a smile. "I brought home a carrot cake from Wegmans market."

"Maybe later," Kate told him, her glance going to Kirk.

He was staring at her intently, as if every word she uttered was of vast importance. She was suddenly assailed by his fierce sense of concentration on her. Rather than causing alarm, as it had done with his father, Kirk's regard of her filled her with an elation she found difficult to comprehend. But it was there, and it was resolute.

Forcing herself to address Ken, she reluctantly turned her eyes from Kirk and spoke. "Can I help you tidy the kitchen?"

Ken shook his head. "No, dearie. I'll take care of it. You two go ahead to the living room. I'll join you shortly."

Kirk and Kate repaired to the living room. He held her hand as they sat closely together on the couch.

"Thank you for being a good sport," he told her, keeping his tone low and even as sounds of Ken cleaning the kitchen came muted in the background.

Kate smiled. "Not a problem. Your father seems to be a nice man. You've met my parents, yes, but I'm sure they'll want to sit you down and grill you before too long."

He chuckled, squeezing her hand. "No worries. I think I can handle the third degree."

Their knees knocked together as they sat on the couch. It felt electric to Kate, the mere pressure from his flesh and bones making her catch her breath, almost as if in anticipation. He stared at her, their eyes meeting and holding. She knew, without words, that he felt the same way.

Ken chose that moment to join them, taking a chair across the coffee table so that he faced them. He took note of his son and Kate holding hands, seemingly unconcerned. "Tell me, Kate. What do your parents do for a living?"

Kate glanced at Ken, taking in his affable expression. He was just trying to make conversation, or giving the appearance of doing so. Yet there remained a nagging doubt in the back of her mind. The more time she spent in his company, however miniscule it was, increased her instinctive feeling that he was not genuine.

For Kirk's sake, she kept her voice light, hoping she convinced him all was well. "My mother runs her own employment agency, called Better Letters, and my father is a senior engineer at Nordic Petroleum."

Ken gave a low whistle. "Wow, that's impressive."

Kate watched Ken as he spoke, noticing his eyes slip to her bare knees, the skin exposed but separated by her black skirt and boots. It was a brief instant, so she wasn't sure if she imagined it. His gaze went between her knees, and he quickly licked his lips before returning his eyes to her face.

Kate's mouth was frozen into a smile. She did not know what to say, but her mind was running riot. Kirk's father - a respected community organizer for Jamaica Plain Neighborhood Development - had looked upon her in sexual appreciation, and she knew it. How she came to the realization was a mystery, but she was certain of it. Kirk squeezed her hand again.

She glanced at Kirk, the smile still frozen on her face. He crooked his lips, running his tongue along the lower protrusion. Like father, like son?

Kate suddenly felt hot all over. Her skin was on fire, as if she had a fever, and it was spreading throughout her body. Her head was light, almost faint, and her eyes began to burn slightly. "What is happening to me?" she thought in a panic.

She saw Kirk watching her, but she couldn't speak. She wanted to ask him what was wrong, but she could not form the words.

It was then that Ken spoke again, his voice low and urgent, his dialog directed at Kirk.

"I want to eat her until she's dripping wet and oozing, and then I want to suck her dry while I pinch and bite her nipples. I want to stick my finger in her, and then have her lick me." He moaned loudly, leaning forward in his chair. "Oh God, Kirk, she's just too delectable for words, your darling little Kate. I want both of us to do her at the same time, with her on top of me and you taking her from behind. I want to see your big dick go in and out of her, and I want to see her pretty titties swinging in my face. Then I want her to sit on my face so I can lick her as you ram into her . . . "

"Dad . . . " Kirk's voice was hesitant. "Not with Kate, please. Not like the others."

"Especially with Kate," Ken's voice was thick. "Because she means so much to you."

"Exactly," Kirk's voice pleaded. "Which is why I want you to leave her alone."

Kate felt bile rising in her throat as father and son conversed, as if they were talking about the weather. A nasty taste of spicy chili and gritty cornbread filled the cavern of her mouth, and her eyes grew large as she realized there was no stopping it. She glanced at Kirk uncertainly, but he wasn't looking at her. He had let go of her hand, and was glaring at his father. She tried to say his name, to tell him she was going to be sick, but no words came. Instead, she leaned forward slightly and proceeded to vomit all over herself, and onto the floor.

Kirk instantly returned his attention to her, alarm flooding his features, his dark eyes regarding her with concern. "What's wrong, Katie? Oh God, Kate, are you okay?"

"Sick," she finally managed to whisper, shameful tears filling her eyes. "I'm sorry . . ."

"Let me help you," he insisted, scooting closer to her. "Let me take you upstairs and get you cleaned up."

Her eyes went to Ken Lester. He was staring at her, a faint look of disgust on his face.

"Sorry," she whispered again.

"Don't you worry about it," Ken's voice took on a concerned tone as his appalled regard faded. "It's okay, dearie. Perhaps my chili was a bit too spicy for your tummy."

Kirk helped her to her feet. She looked down at her creamy white poet shirt, now covered in rust-colored vomit. She winced.

The stairway, located near the front door, sloped at a steep angle to the second floor of the house. Kirk helped Kate up the stairs slowly, a firm grip on her elbow. They came to a landing, which led to a long, dark hallway. Kate turned and looked to the bottom of the staircase. Ken stood there, hands in his trouser pockets as he stared at her, expressionless. She felt a shiver go up her spine, and then looked away from him.

Kirk flipped on a light switch on the wall, flooding the hallway with light. Kate noticed the hardwood floor, its dullness partially covered by a rug runner that was darkly floral in design. His bedroom was the first door to the right, next to which was a large bathroom. He led her inside, where Kate noticed the yellow painted walls, white bathtub and shower, and an off-white shower curtain. A pile of dirty clothes, mostly blue jeans, shirts and stockings, littered the floor.

Her head was clearing somewhat, but she still felt queasy. Kirk seemed to tower over her as he glanced down. She placed her small hand on his chest. "I'm sorry I threw up in your living room," she apologized tremulously. "It came over me all of a sudden. I'm not sure why or how it happened."

"Your welfare is my primary concern," he told her gently. "Let me take care of you, okay? First, take off your blouse so I can clean it."

Kate stared at him, uncertain.

Kirk rolled his eyes. "Katie, I'm not going to take advantage of you. I just want to clean your blouse. You can wear one of my old shirts while it dries."

He bent down and rummaged through the pile of clothes on the floor, a few seconds later producing a black tee-shirt with short sleeves. "I only wore this once," he said, handing it to her and turning his back.

She slipped out of her blouse, grimacing in distaste as a small mound of vomit fell to the floor. She donned his shirt quickly, pulling it over her head and smoothing her hair with one hand. The shirt was several sizes too large for her, but she felt a pleasant coziness in wearing a piece of Kirk's clothing. She liked the feel of it against her skin. It smelled like him - a faint hint of Gray Flannel and cigarettes - giving her a sudden lurch of desire for him in the pit of her stomach. She caught a glance of herself in the small, round mirror over the sink, and gasped aloud.

She was deathly white, a stark contrast against the black tee-shirt. Her eyeliner had smudged, creating a circular rim around both of her eyes, giving her a sunken - and somehow haunting - ghostly appearance.

Kirk turned to face her again, drawing in his breath. He stared at her. "You're beautiful," he said simply, as if in awe. He reached out and touched her face gently, brushing a stray blonde tendril away from her cheek.

She returned his stare, their gazes locking for several long moments. Then he seemed to shake himself, bending down to retrieve her poet shirt from the floor. He placed it on the bathtub, and then began running cold water over the fabric.

Kate watched him, a slight smile forming her lips. "How do you know to run cold water over clothes to remove stains?"

He glanced over his shoulder at her, a lopsided grin on his face. "It must be something I learned from my mother a long time ago, or maybe my grandmother taught me." He shrugged. "My father isn't too proficient at laundry, so I usually end up washing our clothes every week."

"Where's your grandmother now?" Kate wanted to know.

"She died years ago," he replied as he swished her shirt around in the cold water. "She used to come over from England every year to visit us. She was a stern character for the most part, but she also had a quirky, humorous side. She liked to write poetry."

"She must be where you inherited your talent," Kate noted.

"Could be," he agreed, standing from the tub. "Her name was Elizabeth Lester. I still have some of her poetry notebooks in my bedroom."

"I'd like to see some of it."

"Maybe I'll show them to you one day."

Kate regarded Kirk with thoughtful eyes. "I'm not sure what caused me to get sick tonight, but I assure you it's not a regular thing with me."

"Dad's chili is a bit spicy. If you're not used to it like I am, it can pack a wallop."

"I feel better already," she admitted. "Thank you."

"Let's get your blouse rinsed and dried, and then I can take you home."

"Okay." She felt uncertain again. Was he anxious to be rid of her?

He seemed to know what she was thinking. "I'm not trying to get rid of you, Katie. You were just sick, for whatever reason, and you need to rest."

He rinsed her shirt in the bathtub, and then stepped into the hallway. He pulled open a double accordion door, revealing a white washer and dryer set. He threw her shirt into the dryer and turned it on.

"You shirt should be dry in about twenty minutes," he told her. "In the meantime, would you like to see my room?"

"Sure. I'd like that."

Surprisingly, Kirk's bedroom was tidy and ordered. A double bed was neatly made, covered in a dark red comforter, which was surrounded by two end tables with lamps. A small desk with a chair adorned one corner of the room, a computer on its surface. The walls were nearly devoid, a closet door painted dark red dividing the otherwise white room. A lone portrait of a medieval knight astride a horse rested above his desk. The knight in the painting was wielding a sword, his fierce, dark eyes glaring from underneath his helmet.

"Nice picture," she noted.

"I like medieval stuff, along with certain styles of the old west," he informed her, flashing a grin. "Although I wouldn't be caught dead in a cowboy hat."

Kate laughed. "I can't picture you in one, either."

He stepped closer to her, placing his hands on her bare arms. Their eyes met, and Kate felt herself carried away by the electrified contact. He made her feel weightless in her own body, every nerve ending alive and reaching for fulfillment. It was as if she craved his touch, and only became truly alive when he complied.

But it did not render her senseless. Her brow creased with a jolting memory, clouding her eyes and causing her pause.

"What is it?" he asked her.

"Your father," she replied haltingly. "He said some strange things while we were in the living room."

Kirk appeared puzzled. "Strange things? Like what?" He shook his head. "All he did was ask you what your parents did for a living. Shortly thereafter, you puked."

Kate looked away from him. He was lying to her. She could feel it, instinctively. She knew what she heard his father say. Dirty, despicable things. For the first time, she felt herself draw away from Kirk. Why was he lying to her?

"You're probably right," she murmured. "I was feeling sick, not thinking straight."

"I'm sure, but you're better now."

Why wasn't he asking her what she thought she heard Ken say? It gave her more pause.

"I'm feeling light-headed again," she said quickly. "I think I should go home."

He stared at her, and she wondered - not for the first time - if he was reading her mind. "Whatever you say, Katie. Let me get your shirt from the dryer."

"Thank you."

Kirk gave her privacy to change her shirt, turning his back again as she pulled off his tee-shirt and slipped into her now-clean poet blouse.

They were quiet as they made their way down the stairs, Kirk holding her elbow as they began their descent. She saw Ken at the bottom of the stairway, watching them as they reached the first floor.

"Everything okay?" he asked.

"Kate's fine," Kirk told his father. "But I'm taking her home so she can get some rest."

Kate forced herself to look at Ken. "Thank you so much for dinner, and I'm sorry I ruined it by getting sick."

Ken stepped forward, placing his hand on Kate's arm. "Don't you worry about it, dearie. We're all good here. You just feel better, okay? And I look forward to seeing you again."

Kate fought the urge to physically remove his hand from her arm. She felt the skin at her temples tightening as she regarded his touch, her pupils dilating slightly as she became still, almost statuesque. Loathing for Ken Lester coursed through her mind and body. She knew if she didn't leave soon, she would no longer be able to hide it.

She was surprised when Ken suddenly removed the offending hand of his own volition, his eyes going round as he gazed at her. Was she imagining it, or had she seen a brief flash of fear in his face?

Kate gave Kirk's father a tight smile. "Until next time, then?"

"Yes," he replied, his eyes back on her face. "Take care, dearie."

"And you as well," she said softly.