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An evil stalks the clubs and seedy hotels of San Franciscos shadowy underworld. It preys on the unfortunate, the outcasts, the misfits. It is an evil born of the eternal bloodlust of one of the undead, the infamous nobleman known to the ages as...the Marquis de Sade. He and his unholy offspring feed upon those who wont be missed, giving full vent to their dark desires and a thirst for blood that can never be sated. Yet while the Marquis amuses himself with the lives of his victims, with their pain and their torture, other vampires to their new lives of eternal night. And as the Marquis will soon learn, hatred and vengeance can be eternal as well undead can barely imagine.
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"What does blood taste like to you, monsieur?" Sade asked.
"Like blood. Doesn't remind me of anything else."
"Does not each victim have his or her own essence? A tingle on the tongue, a spicy burn passing down the throat. A shimmer of herbs pressing against the palate. A bitter rush sparking an involuntary wince. Ou a sublime sweetness that the taste buds savor."
"You get all that when you feed?"
"Ah, Monsieur Bridgewater, when you were mortal you probably feasted on fast food and TV dinners. Alors it is time to expand your appetite so that you are not just feeding but savoring."
Page 4
Other Leisure books by Mary Ann Mitchell: DRAWN TO THE GRAVE SIPS OF BLOOD
Page 5
Quenched
Mary Ann Mitchell
Page 6
To John
A LEISURE BOOK
April 2000
Published by
Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc. 276 Fifth Avenue New York, NY 10001
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as "unsold and destroyed" to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this "stripped book."
Copyright 2000 by Mary Ann Mitchell
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.
ISBN 0-8439-4717-9
The name "Leisure Books" and the stylized "L" with design are trademarks of Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.
Printed in the United States of America.
Page 9
PROLOGUE
Fog dampened every surface, sinking into clothing and through flesh to chill the bones of the San Francisco inhabitants. Day bowed out to allow night's darker citizens to walk the streets, moving freely in each other's shadows. Homeless huddled under a freeway overpass setting up their bedrooms on cement sidewalks. One man swept the sidewalk with a flimsy broom, losing straw with every pass, but cleaning away the day's trash, dumping it at the curb. Slices of cardboard rested atop mounds of blankets, clothes, and personal property that the man had collected into his Safeway cart. He had separated himself from the homeless crowd half a block away in order to retire for a decent night's sleep.
"Lookit old Sam across the street. He's going
Page 10
to wear himself out with all that tidying up. I can hear him huffing and puffing from here." The black man spoke the words with a smile on his face. He liked Sam, but like the others on the block thought Sam to be an eccentric. "Cliff, how much dirt you think he manages to eliminate with all his effort?"
Cliff rubbed his red beard and thought awhile. In the midst of his meditation, Cliff set his hands flat on the ground and lifted his behind, twisting his neck to the side, allowing himself to check the sidewalk on which he sat. Relieved, he plopped his rear back down on the ground. "I'd say he ain't accomplishing much."
The black man scratched his crotch and leaned back against the overpass wall.
"But he sure gives himself a workout each night, don't he? Cliff, if you ever see me, myself, and I, Emory Lansing, doing something like that, call the police and have me locked up."
"Shit, I couldn't do that."
"I know you'd miss me, but living with a nut is no life."
"Shit. I ain't got the change to call the police, and if I walked up to a cop to complain, he'd probably throw me into a cell."
"Lucky for you that you'll never have to face that tragedy. I mean having me put away in a loony bin. Jail you'll manage on your own. But I come from good solid stock. Nobody in my family ever goes bonkers. Had an old aunt that used to like to go down to the local bodega in Harlem topless on hot summer afternoons. Wasn't nuts,
Page 11
though; just too lazy to get completely dressed for such a short trip."
"Hell, man, when it hits the nineties in New York, I wouldn't blame a nun for going topless."
"You get to the shelter today?"
"Naw, managed to scrounge up some change and buy myself a burger down at the Mac's."
"Hell, you missed a great Jerry Springer Show. Eleven a.m. each weekday I'm down at the shelter, front seat, sniffing the beginnings of lunch preparation, goosing my appetite with some heavy repartee. I love that show. Best thing on the air. And I think it's good for society. These people get to go down to a television studio and work out their grievances within the confines of a well-refereed setting. Those Springer bouncers are better than those refs over on the boxing shows. Nobody gets hurt. Occasionally some babe complains about a broken nail, or scratch, but on the whole, it's a real safe way of airing your disagreements. A couple of times after a commercial I see a guest with a Band-Aid stuck to his nose or forehead, but it don't get any worse than that. Sometimes I get so excited I'm whooping and cheering 'Jerry' with the audience. You know what I mean?"
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