Hellbent

by Cherie Priest

“I bet.” He came to sit down on his bed, and he held out a brown paper bag that’d been rolled up like an oversized school lunch. “I … um. I brought you something.”

  “A present? For me?” I joked. But when I took it from him, it was heavy. And it sloshed.

  “It took me some time to track down a place that would give it to me, and I used your credit card. Sorry.”

  I unrolled the brown-paper top and stared down into three pints of human blood, sealed in the usual plastic pouches and labeled thusly. I was absolutely dumbfounded. I gazed up at him with abject adoration and asked, “Adrian … where did you get this?”

  He shrugged and began to kick off his shoes. “There’s a plasma donation center at the other end of town. It’s not the world’s cleanest joint; most of the donors are paid, and they obviously need the money. But there’s blood banking on the premises, too. You uh … you don’t want to know what it cost.”

  “I couldn’t care less what it cost,” I assured him, lifting the pouches out one by one as if they were filled with nitroglycerin. They were still cool from refrigeration, but not cold. I didn’t care how fresh they were, or if they were fresh at all. Nothing mattered except that I had acquired a snack—a snack via my not-a-ghoul, who had justified his existence like never before. “Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

  I heaved my bruised little self out of the bed and went pushing through the coffeemaker supplies.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Coffee mugs. You don’t want any coffee, do you?” I asked, holding up both of the provided containers.

  “No, why?”

  “These cups are microwavable. And if you don’t want one, I’m going to use them both so I can two-fist this stuff. They won’t hold it all at once, but they’ll hold enough to get me started.”

  “Ah,” he nodded. “I don’t guess it tastes very good cold.”

  “In fact, it does not. It’s better than nothing when it’s cold, but since I have a microwave right here …” I bit the corner of the first blood bubble and squeezed its contents into the mugs. Then I propped the baggie up against the counter and chucked the mugs into the microwave. “I’m prepared to delay gratification a few minutes for the sake of a warm meal.”

  He grinned at me. “You’re more human than you think.”

  I licked the edge of the tooth that’d punctured the bag. Blood, yes. Tasty, tasty blood—albeit cold blood. As the microwave counted down, I tapped my fingers impatiently on its door. “I never said I wasn’t human. I started out human, didn’t I?”

  “Fine, that’s true. You’ve never said it, but sometimes you act like you’re more different than you really are.”

  “Dude, I’m dead.”

  “I know,” he said, still giving me that grin. I wasn’t sure I liked the grin; it said that he knew something about me—something I didn’t know. I thought he was wrong. He and I were plenty different, and if he believed otherwise, it was only because I’d never showed him the extent of how different I could be.

  Maybe watching me down a few mugs of O-positive would give him a hint.

  I opened the microwave door before the final ding and pulled out both mugs. I stirred the contents with the plastic coffee stirrers (hey, nobody likes a scalding spot in a chilly drink), licked the stirrer clean, then pounded the mugs like a frat boy at a kegger.

  Adrian watched with only the mildest interest, and I’m not sure what that says about either one of us, except that he must’ve been getting more comfortable with me by the day. Perhaps having a sip or two of my bodily fluids had acclimated him to the idea faster than anything else possibly could.

  I guzzled every drop. It was laced with preservatives, not quite the right temperature, and it’d been sitting in a fridge for a couple of days. Regardless, it was the best blood I’d ever tasted and I couldn’t get enough. I squeezed the last bit out of bag number one, mashing its edges like it was a toothpaste tube and I was a cheapskate, and then I moved on to bag number two. Two more minutes in the microwave and another moment of stirring to get the temperature even, and I was back in hog heaven.

  In this way, I killed off all three bags—despite the fact that I almost never drank that much, and I was full by the end of the second bag. Didn’t care. Couldn’t let it go to waste, and if I didn’t down it then and there, it’d go bad overnight in the dinky dorm-room fridge with which our room was stocked.

  Besides, after a meal like that, I could go for weeks without taking another one. I liked the idea of being all full up before undertaking any further adventures, even adventures so mild as “trying to get a good day’s sleep on those fucking feather pillows.”

  When I was finished, I collapsed back on the bed and closed my eyes. “Adrian?” I said softly.

  “Yes?”

  “That was the most awesome thing you have ever done. And I want you to know, I’ll make it up to you, one of these days.”

  “Oh, I know you will,” he said, and I couldn’t see the nefarious grin, but I could hear it. “You’re going to take me to Atlanta to see about my sister.”

  I frowned but didn’t open my eyes. “We didn’t agree to that. Not yet.”

  “You have to admit, I’m wearing you down.”

  “I only have to admit that you’ve made yourself inordinately useful. Which you have. And which I appreciate.”

  “Isn’t that a ghoul’s job?” He asked it with a faux innocence that jolted me out of my near-catatonia.

  “Hold up now. We didn’t agree to that, either. And when we talked about it last, you didn’t like the idea.” I sat up, determined to square this away once and for all. “You’re not my ghoul. That little swap of blood wasn’t enough to do it—”

  “Or so you think.”

  “So I’m sure. You know why I don’t like ghouls, and I don’t want a ghoul. I think that whole nonsense with Jeffery Sykes ought to be enough to explain why,” I reminded him. Sykes had been a ghoul once, and now he was something much, much worse—and much more dangerous. To vampires, to humans, and to everything else. He’d been mutilated after betraying his master. They’d left him deaf, blind, and mute. And piece by piece, Sykes was attempting to repair himself—at the expense of the rest of us. Wherever he was, and whatever he was doing, I intended to put a stop to it one of these days.

  But first, I had Adrian playing mind games.

  He said to me, “I can hear you better than I used to, and now when you concentrate I can almost hear you perfectly. It used to be you could only send me a vague idea of what you wanted or what you meant. Now I knew, even though you hadn’t told me, that you were dying for some blood.”

  “You could’ve known that just from hanging around me for the last half year. You know how it goes when I get hurt. You know the blood makes it easier to heal.”

  “Sure, but I never cared before. Or … well, care isn’t exactly right. This afternoon, when I left to go find food for myself, it was almost like I could hear you being hungry. Does that make sense?”

  “No.”

  He gave me one of those lovely, fluid shrugs that he always delivered with the grace of a martial artist. “It doesn’t have to make sense to be true. Shit, I just watched an old lady fly off a two-hundred-year-old church with a box full of penis bones. That’s true, and that doesn’t make a damn bit of sense.”

  “She’s not that old,” I corrected him. “She’s fifty-eight.”

  “All right. But the rest of it—”

  “You’ve got me on the rest of it. But let me get this straight.” I rubbed at my temples, which were faintly throbbing. But only faintly. “Last night you were utterly freaked out by the prospect that you’d downed enough vampire juice to bind you; and tonight you’re … what? Auditioning for the role of Raylene’s ghoul?”

  “I’ll audition for it if it’ll get me into the Atlanta House, sure. You’ve already made the arguments against it”—he interrupted me before I could repeat myself—“and I understand them. But I also understand that
if I go there as your ghoul, I can walk in through the front door—and I won’t have to break into the place in the middle of the day. I’d rather deal with a whole horde of petty, politicking vampires than a bunch of idiot people and their daytime security systems.”

  “Then maybe you’re the idiot,” I accused.

  “Maybe, but I’m getting into that House one way or another. And if I have to pretend to be your lackey to do it, that’s fine.”

  “I’ll remember you said that.”

  “Just remember who brought you blood. Hey look—you’re already looking better,” he noted.

  “How can you tell? All the bruising was on my back.”

  “Your eyes looked weird. Like you’d been punched, or had a nose job, or something.”

  “Awesome.”

  He insisted, “It wasn’t bad. It was just something I saw, when you were standing in the light. Anyway, you look more like yourself already.”

  “Good.” I pulled a pillow over my face, and learned that the downy contents were easier on top of my head than under it. I liked the darkness, and the softness, and I liked how they didn’t really smell like anything but the cotton pillowcase. They weren’t entirely useless after all. “But just so you know,” I said, enjoying the muffled sound of my voice, “we aren’t going to Atlanta yet.”

  “I know. You have to go to Seattle and get Ian to talk to his brother.” He vacated his own bed and sat down on the edge of mine, right beside me. He smelled like lettuce, sour cream, and Mexican beef with a whiff of Dr Pepper. The weight of his body made mine roll toward him, just enough to be uncomfortable. He said, “It won’t be long before Max figures out Ian isn’t coming back, and you can’t make him.”

  “Max is bad news. I have to stay between him and Ian, and I don’t want to throw you into that mix.” I was going to fall asleep again, I could feel it. My body was delighted by the fresh infusion, and it was sucking every last platelet into my system, making me drowsy despite the early hour.

  Adrian pulled the pillow off my face. “But you will. If I’m a good ghoul.”

  I squinted up at him. “I’m too tired and beat up to argue with you right now. Let’s save it for later. Hey, you want to boost your odds?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then book us a hotel room, back wherever we stayed on the way down here. We start back for home tonight. I think you know where my credit card is,” I said, waggling an eyebrow at his crotch—though I meant to waggle it at his pocket. It was hard to differentiate when he was sitting so close.

  He didn’t get up right away. Instead he said, “You’re going to keep doing this, aren’t you?”

  “Doing what?”

  “Bribing me into helpful little favors.”

  “Yup,” I confirmed. “Hey, you want to be like a ghoul? Act like a ghoul. Look at it this way, I’m prepping you for the hypothetical possibility of a Georgia adventure. You were rusty at Max’s place. You’ll have to be smoother with your duties if you want to breach the Barrington House.”

  “So you say,” he replied suspiciously.

  I sighed and put a hand on his leg. I tried to make it friendly, warm. Motherly, almost. But it’s hard to feel motherly about someone with a thigh that could crack a horse’s ribs. “If I honestly thought you wouldn’t get yourself killed within an hour, I’d tell you to check it out for yourself.”

  “I’m not helpless, you know.”

  “I do know. But you don’t know the Barringtons like I do, Adrian. Please trust me on this.”

  “I’ll trust you if you agree to take me with you.”

  “We’re not having this conversation right now.”

  “Sure we are.”

  “No,” I said. “Go get us a hotel room. We’ll hash it out when we get back home, and when we know how Ian’s going to take what I’ve learned. You never know. He might freak out on us, and blow the whole thing. Our free pass to Atlanta depends on his cooperation, so really, you should direct some of this charm offensive at him.”

  “When we get home?”

  “Yes, when we get home.”

  9

  We arrived home Sunday which was good—since that’s roughly when I’d told Max he’d hear from Ian. Adrian and I had discussed my strategy in the car on the way up, and together we decided I’d drop him off at home and I’d work on Ian alone first. I could always summon Adrian as backup emotional blackmail, if such became necessary.

  I hoped it wouldn’t. And the truth was, I was afraid Adrian would push too hard. His eagerness at the prospect of infiltrating his sister’s old House … I’m not saying it made him sloppy, but it worried me. I didn’t think he’d stay put if I ordered him to, and I’d been absolutely honest with him when I’d warned of his one-hour life expectancy there.

  Adrian is a badass. Let the record reflect. But let the record also reflect that the Atlanta House is considered a badass house among badass houses—tempered with a good measure of insanity and very bad behavior, both in public and behind closed doors.

  I told myself that if I had to, I could drug Adrian and leave him locked up in the penthouse flat with Ian and the kids to look after him for a few days, but that was an idle threat. My not-a-ghoul was full of surprises, and even if I could keep him home for a few days, I couldn’t keep him there indefinitely. He’d find a way to get loose, find a way to Atlanta, and get himself killed if he tried to get inside without me.

  No matter how I approached the problem, the same conclusion always worked its way to the top: I would almost certainly have to bring him along. And if he could present himself as a plausible ghoul, so much the better. He’d be safer, for a feeble value of “safe.” If something were to happen to me, they might not kill him. They might just absorb him into the House—a nightmare scenario if ever I heard one, though I didn’t think he’d see it that way. Adrian would look at it as a silver lining in case of my death—an opportunity to get even closer, even more quietly.

  I hated all those goddamn variables. It made it tough to plan, and if I can’t plan, I start getting crazy. Not that I’m always a very good planner. I think this ought to be apparent by now.

  So. One thing at a time.

  First: Ian.

  I entered my compound via the old service elevator and found the place in cheerful havoc, with Pita tearing around and Pepper tearing around after him—and Domino ignoring both of them while playing a video game in the common area. Whenever the kitten felt cornered, he’d rush to Domino and try to hide in his lap, as if the boy were “base” and it meant Pepper couldn’t grab him and … I don’t know. Tickle him, or whatever torture she was inflicting. I could tell by watching the cat that he wasn’t really afraid and that Pepper wasn’t really out to hurt him, so I didn’t worry about it.

  “Hey,” I announced myself.

  Domino paused his game, looked over at me, and replied, “Hey.”

  “Hey!” Pepper shrieked as Pita ran across my feet, and she followed close behind.

  The kitten doubled back, climbed my pants like a ladder, and snuggled up on my shoulder, panting happily into my ear. Pepper drew up short in front of me, likewise panting, and she was smiling, too.

  “I’m glad everyone’s been having a great time,” I said, scanning the room for Ian. I could sense him back in his room, and within a few seconds he emerged to join us.

  Pepper composed herself, clearing her throat and adjusting her posture so that she stood up straight and appeared fully calm. “It’s been okay,” she informed me.

  “Okay?” Ian said from his doorway. “I’ve been listening to you shriek for the last hour.” It sounded like a complaint, but it didn’t look like one. He wasn’t angry. However, he was tense—that much was apparent, despite the show of pleasantness.

  Domino leaned forward and pressed a button to end his game, or turn it off, or whatever. He unfolded himself from a cross-legged position and stretched, then stepped immediately to Ian’s side.

  Ian didn’t need any assistance; he knew the layo
ut of our flat well enough that if you didn’t know he was blind, you wouldn’t be able to tell it from watching him navigate the place. It was a nice gesture all the same. Domino had been such a total, complete little shit when I’d first found myself taking care of him … it was nice to see him attempting responsibility for a change.

  Mind you, I didn’t trust it. I casually suspected that he was up to no good, regardless of his good behavior. But I’d like to think I was doing a decent job of keeping that opinion to myself. Most of the time.

  “Ian, darling,” I said in an exaggerated fashion. I even smooched his cheek, which made him smile. “I believe we have some things to talk about.”

  “You’re not leaving us,” Pepper declared. Like she was informing him that this had been decided without him.

  I told her, “Mind your own business, you nosy kid.” But I tried to keep my tone light enough that it wouldn’t worry her. “I have some things to run past your favorite babysitter, and I think it’s all going to work out fine.”

  “Are you sure?” Domino wanted to know.

  “Pretty sure. Ian, how about you and I head outside for coffee or something? The twenty-four-hour place around the corner,” I added upon checking my watch. We were barely too early for the very early breakfast crowd, so we’d have to keep it short and sweet. That drive through California is a killer, even for lead-footed souls like me and Adrian.

  “That sounds fine to me.” He sounded relieved, though not entirely. He’d been waiting for word for days, keeping up his end of the bargain—and now it was time for me to come through on my end. I’d been doing a lot of thinking about how to spin the situation, and I was reasonably confident I could keep him in our weird little court.

  “Okay. Let me drop this stuff off in my room.” I wanted to unload my jacket which, in true Seattle fashion, was suddenly too warm to wear, and I didn’t intend to bring the week’s luggage along for the faux coffee break. So I dumped everything on my bed without bothering to sort it, shut the bedroom door (as if that’d keep anybody out), and rejoined Ian in the common area.