Hunting
Chronicles of Lana — aka the Blade — Part 2
My den was an abandoned warehouse in the industrial district of northwest Portland, Oregon. I owned it outright, but from the outside it looked delipidated. The place was warded to appear unwelcoming, just how I liked it. It cost a mint to get such a big building warded, but worth every penny. The two-story jump to the fire escape was one of two ways to enter my building. I punched in the security code to the window and crawled in.
A low growl, followed by a hiss greeted me from the stray tom who seemed to think he owned the place. I called him Charles Manson, well, Charlie for short. He was pitiful when we met. His grey and black hair was matted in areas, he was infested with fleas and one of his eyes had scarred over. I got rid of the fleas and received the scratches to prove it. Charlie did not like to be touched. I respected that and fleas didn’t bother me because my tainted blood didn’t appeal to them.
My solution? I put a little of my blood in Charlie’s food once a week. He looked half dead when we met, but with my blood, he was in amazing shape, and had a long, long life ahead of him. Charlie lived here when I bought the place. We’ve kind of come to an understanding. I let him stay and didn’t kill him. He doesn’t crap or piss in my den. Kind of like our love-hate relationship. He hates me, but loves…
