Dark Impulses
Ch.3
Jerry stood in his kitchen staring off into space with a small smirk on his dark handsome features. His mind wasn't here—not on the apple in his hand or the sterile quiet of his house. It was across the street, tangled in raven-black hair that glinted blue under moonlight, locked on emerald eyes so vivid they could've been carved from stone. Scarlet Lee. Her slender frame, her pale skin, her scent—God, that scent—stirred a hunger in him that clawed at his restraint. He could march over there right now, claim her, sink his teeth into that soft neck. But no. Timing was everything. She had to come to him, willing, ripe for awakening.
Four hundred years he'd waited for a pureblood like her. A few weeks more? Child's play.
He'd nearly missed it, that telltale whiff beneath her human mask, distracted by that shameless blonde—Anna—flaunting herself last night. But when he'd cornered Scarlet later, tasted her air up close, he'd known.
Pureblood. Undeniable.
The name "Lee" gnawed at him, though—no lineage he'd hunted bore that mark. A fake, maybe.
A shield perhaps.
"Some digging's in order," he murmured, the granny smith apple in hand. He bit into it, juice dribbling down his chin as that panty-dropping, fear-stoking grin spread across his face. A challenge. He loved a challenge.
Wiping his thumb across his chin, he tilted his head back and laughed. "Let the games begin."
Vegas was a vampire's paradise. Odd hours? Normal. Blacked-out windows? Expected. And the buffet of washed-up PI's and ex-cops itching for cash? Priceless. Most wanted payment, sure, but Jerry didn't pay. Why bother when you could order intel like takeout, wait for delivery, and feast? The thought quickened his pulse, his mouth watering.
Downsides existed—hacks peddling garbage intel, or real investigators too tapped out to deliver. Didn't matter. True or false, they all ended up the same: drained dry, another snack for another endless night.
He flipped open the phone book, thumbed to the PI section, and scanned. A few names caught his eye. He dialed the first, then the next, feeding them Scarlet's basics—name, address, "urgent case." Most sounded like they'd trip over their own feet, but one stood out: Walther PI. Cocky bastard demanded a fat fee. Jerry smirked. Hope you're worth it, Walther. Not that you'll live to cash the check.
"Get what you want, rip out their throats," he muttered, his motto since the 1600s. The ripping part was the best—though he wasn't above enjoying the chase. And what he wanted was yards away, pulsing with untapped power.
He sank into a chair, legs sprawled, and waited.
Awakening a pureblood was a brutal affair—agony as the beast clawed free, shredding its host from within. Jerry's smile widened at the thought. Wider still imagining Scarlet's lithe frame writhing beneath him, eyes blackening with hunger, lips red with blood, raven hair fanning out like a devil's halo. Another like him—not some pathetic turned human, but a born predator.
A hunter.
Humans were toys—fish on a line. Reel them slow, watch them thrash 'til they broke, or yank them fast before they blinked. Fear was the prize: the racing hearts, the rushing blood, that intoxicating tang. One taste, and you craved more.
He licked his lips, hunger coiling tight, and shoved off the basement wall. Dirt crunched underfoot. The space was raw—concrete, shadows, a half-dug pit. Still a mess, not yet a nest. Grabbing a shovel, he scooped earth into the wheelbarrow, muscles flexing until it brimmed. He brushed sweat-damp hair from his eyes and checked the clock: 4:12 p.m. A few hours 'til sunset. A few hours 'til his next move.
Scarlet groaned as she began slowly awakening. Rolling onto her side she cracked her eyes open, squinting against a throbbing haze. A hangover? She hadn't touched a drop.
Frowning, she dragged herself upright, rubbing her temples. The room tilted. She stood—too fast. Her vision swam, stomach lurching, and she gripped the couch arm with a pitiful "Oh."
Wobbling to the stairs, she clutched the railing and hauled herself up. Halfway, she glared at the steps stretching above. "Why'd I buy a two-story?" Defeated, she plopped onto a step, stretching her legs. Her left knee twinged, stiff and sore.
She closed her eyes, grasping for last night. Fragments flickered—pain, dark smoldering eyes, a sweet-copper taste. Nothing solid. She hissed, slamming her fist into the wall. She hated this—fuzzy, out of control.
Standing, she flexed her knee 'til the stiffness eased, then trudged upstairs. A scalding shower might burn the fog away.
It did—mostly. Hot water sluiced over her, clearing her head, but the gaps lingered. Jerry had come over. That much stuck. Then… blur. "Maybe we drank," she muttered, toweling off. "He's sexy enough to make me stupid."
"Sexy," she whispered, lips tingling as her mind snagged on hard muscles and molten eyes. She yanked on a black rock tee and froze at her reflection. For a split second, she didn't look like herself—eyes too dark, too hungry, lips too red. She blinked, leaning closer. Normal. Just wet hair and pale skin. "Seeing things," she decided, shaking her head as she tugged on cargo shorts.
Sinking onto her bed, she glanced at the clock: 3:43 p.m. "Seeing things," she repeated, scowling. If she was awake at this ungodly hour, might as well do something.
In the kitchen, she grabbed a glass and filled it at the sink. The first sip hit her tongue, and suddenly she was parched—ravenous for more. She downed it, refilled, downed it again. Third time, she paused, glass trembling under the faucet. "Why am I so damn thirsty?"