by Alice Bell
“This is serious, Devon,” Erin said.
“You’re telling me? I know how it feels to lose your memory and it sucks. What’s wrong with you?”
“I’m worried about Scarlett, that’s what. She’s your victim, Devon. Don’t you understand? What have we been talking about? You’ve seen the research, the case studies. Scarlett will pine for you to the end of her days… which are numbered, mark my words. She won’t last long. First she’ll go insane and then—”
“Shut up,” I said. “Jesus…” I turned away from her, sickened.
My mind was going a hundred miles an hour. I kept thinking of how Scarlett clung to me, how she’d begged me to make love to her, as she put it, how she believed in fate. Obviously, she was a little nutty but not in a bad way. It came to feel like a good way, a way that forged a bond between us, a way that made me think maybe she was right and it was our fate to meet. We needed each other.
“You don’t understand,” I told Erin. “Scarlett is…” I couldn’t explain. I knew Erin would shatter it too, whatever I said, and she did.
“I do understand,” she said. “You were bound to find Scarlett. Or someone like her. It’s your natural instinct to prey on the weak.”
Prey on the weak.
I got dizzy and had to lean against the wall.
Erin came up and put her hand on my arm. I wanted to push her away but I was starting to feel feverish and her touch was soothing.
“I want to help you,” she said, quietly. “You know?”
I didn’t know anything.
“I might be able to get you into the Vampire Realm. In fact, I’m pretty sure I can. I’ve been studying the portals.”
“Why would I want to go there?” I said.
“For answers, Devon. To learn who you’ve become.”
“What I’ve become, you mean.”
“If you don’t know, how can you have a future?” she said.
I was really starting to regret running into Erin the psychic.
“I’m not your enemy, Devon.”
“You’re not?”
“I’m your only hope.” She smiled.
I shoved my hands in my pockets. “Okay, Obie-Wan Kenobi…”
* * *
Scarlett slept in my arms. She didn’t wake when I laid her gently against the pillows and got up. I was going to leave… for her sake. I even felt for the pill in my pocket, closing my fingers around it.
Did I have to use it? Wasn’t there another way? Gazing down at her, I noticed the bruise on her neck. Erin was right. I would only keep hurting Scarlett.
But she was my sweet beautiful tragedy. I understood her pain. It was her vice of virtue. She felt too much. More than anything, I wanted to stay with her, so she wouldn’t ever have to be alone again.
According to Erin, the portal couldn’t be opened until the new moon on Friday the thirteenth at the stroke of midnight, Pacific Standard Time. Scarlett’s alarm clock said it was 5:01 a.m., Wednesday, the eleventh.
There’s still time.
I stripped off my jeans and shirt and crawled into bed again beside Scarlett. She murmured and pressed against me.
Through the partially opened curtains, I saw the gray dawn outside. I felt like sleeping for a long time and when I woke, I would feel like having sex, and I thought it would be nice to go on like that, for a few more nights.
I closed my eyes.
Scarlett’s breathing was slow and even but I couldn’t relax. The numerals on the clock were too bright. I reached down and unplugged it. Then I got up and closed the curtains so the room went black.
That’s more like it, I thought, as I got back into bed.
Scarlett
I woke to the sound of the phone ringing.
I struggled to open my eyes.
A second ago, I’d been spinning through space. Creatures of light surrounded me and the most comforting song came from the beating of their wings. But now, I was trapped under darkness.
I sat up, gasping and fumbling for a light. The phone kept ringing.
Something crashed to the floor. And something moved next to me in the bed. I screamed.
“Scarlett!” a hand grabbed me.
I fell back on the pillows, my heart pounding. “Oh, God, Devon. You’re still here.” Joy washed over me, like sunshine.
He pulled me against him and nuzzled my neck. I moaned. Morning sex, I thought. This is what it’s like…
He unclasped my bra. I wriggled out of my slip. My underthings were swallowed by the covers.
His hands were everywhere. We were slow and languid, and fast and greedy.
We took breaks. Sweat cooled on my skin. I fell asleep and woke with him inside me. I gripped the sheets. He guided me onto my hands and knees. His strokes were softer and shorter. An alien sound came from deep in my throat.
We collapsed. My whole body quivered with pleasure.
At some point, I heard the phone again. The ringing wouldn’t stop and it got louder and louder until I thought my mind would explode. I felt for Devon, relieved to find him next to me. I swung my feet over the side of the bed. The floor was cold.
My bare foot hit something soft. I bent down and picked up my sweater. I put it on. It was all I could find to wear in the dark. I pulled it down over my hips.
I went downstairs, confused by the darkness outside. I thought it must be morning but I had no idea what day it was.
You’re dreaming.
The porch light shone dimly through the kitchen window.
The old answering machine blinked rapidly, as if it would burst with its urgent need to relay messages. I pressed play. “Wednesday, eight eighteen a.m.” the mechanized voice said, and then Mr. Stroop was talking. “Scarlett? Where are you?” he paused. “I’m hoping we’ll hear from you soon. I’ll send your class to the library.”
There were six more messages from Stroop. I hit skip every time I heard his voice.
What a nightmare.
“Thursday, six p.m. Hey, Scarlett? It’s Melissa… Melissa Wong. Look, where are you? Everyone’s in an uproar. Give me a call as soon as you get this, okay? Seriously, we’re all worried about you.”
The last message was from Henry: “Hey, Scarlett. I hope everything is alright. If we don’t hear from you soon—”
Beep. Message deleted.
I sighed and dragged myself up the stairs, back to Devon and my bed.
SEVENTEEN
Devon
There was something outside. I sensed it. I was losing track of time again, like those endless nights on my way up from Central America. I glanced at Scarlett in the bed. Her hair was ratted and her skin gleamed with sweat.
I stepped over her broken lamp on the floor and went to the window. I lifted the curtain to scan the dark yard.
A pair of headlights shone outside the gate. A man stood at the intercom. It must be broken, I thought, and found myself wondering if he would find his way inside. I remembered who he was. I could easily see his chiseled profile from my distant vantage point. Henry West.
I watched as he poked around, reaching his hand through the gate, fumbling for a way to open it. I felt superior, thinking how I would have been in and out in seconds flat.
Henry stared at the house for a while and then reached in his pocket. Out came the cell phone. Downstairs, Scarlett’s phone rang. Her machine picked up. I honed in. “Scarlett. If you’re there, please…please pick up. Scarlett? Are you there? Scarlett?”
Christ, man. Give up.
“I’ve called all the hospitals. I’m calling the police now…” the machine clicked off.
Something in his voice cut through the fog in my head. I rubbed my eyes. I went to the bed and gazed down at Scarlett. She lay there like a wilted flower. She had shadows around her eyes. Her lips were chapped.
I reached down and gripped her shoulder. “Scarlett, wake up.”
She barely stirred but I could hear her heart beating. I sat on the edge of the bed and lifted her into my arms. “
Devon,” she murmured in my ear. She laughed softly. The sound sent a chill down my spine.
You’re a monster, Devon.
I carried her into the bathroom and she giggled again, like she was drunk. “Stand up, now,” I said. She was wobbly on her feet. I had to balance her. I got us both into the shower. I soaped her skin and her hair. I couldn’t find any shampoo. She closed her eyes and her head lolled.
Fear raced through me.
I turned off the water and toweled her off. She tried to lie down on the floor. I pulled her up. These were our final moments together.
What have I done?
I put her in the bed and let her lay down while I hurriedly pulled on my clothes.
Then I grabbed a nightgown from the floor of Scarlett’s closet. It was black and satiny. I sat her up and got her into it. She looked gorgeous with her hair wet, her skin still damp. I found a jar of lip gloss and applied the shiny balm to her lips. She smiled.
“Can we go back to sleep now?” she said.
“No.” I carried her downstairs. I made her sit up at the table.
“I’m too tired,” she said.
A decrepit answering machine blinked on the counter and it was hooked up to an old handset. I was methodical, doing what had to be done. I prayed it wasn’t too late. I gave Scarlett the phone. She held it, gazing up at me with her big blue eyes.
“Listen to me Scarlett. You remember your friend Henry?”
“He’s not my friend,” she said.
“I need you to call him. You know his number?”
She shook her head.
I took the phone. “Well, I want you to tell Henry that you’ve been very sick and ask him to come over. Okay?”
She didn’t answer. Her eyelids drooped. I scrolled through the caller I.D. and dialed the last incoming call. When the line started to ring, I handed the phone back to Scarlett. I heard Henry pick up.
“Henry?” she said.
“Scarlett. Thank God. Where are you?”
She looked at me questioningly. I mouthed ‘home.’
She frowned. “At home?” her voice was unbearably soft.
“Tell him you’re sick,” I whispered.
“Henry?” she said. “I—I think I’m sick.” She looked at me for approval and I gave her the thumbs up.
There was silence on the other end of the line. I was starting to think Henry was a real asshat but then I heard him say, “Hold on. I’m turning around… I’m on my way, Scarlett.”
I filled a glass with water and brought it to her with the pill. “Here,” I said. “I found an aspirin.”
She took it without question and I was filled with the most terrible sorrow.
Kneeling at her feet, I held her hands and gazed into her eyes. They were the exact color of a bright blue sky.
“I’ll never forget you,” I said.
She touched my cheek. “Oh, Devon. Don’t cry…”
PART TWO
EIGHTEEN
Zadie
Devon and Zadie were only fourteen when they fell in love. They were imprinted on each other, carved into one another’s souls. He’d left her once. But not for long, not compared to eternity.
Her human memories were fractured into disparate images. She couldn’t sort out the order of events. It didn’t matter. Chronology wasn’t important when your life expectancy was forever.
She remembered being lost and poor on the streets of L.A. She remembered how it made her feel; horribly homesick. Not for a place. For Devon. She’d needed him.
And yet, he stayed away on the opposite coast, living the life she’d always known he would, in a world where she didn’t belong.
She wanted him to be sorry about losing her. When she became a star.
Her face was supposed to haunt him from magazines and billboards and the golden screen, such sad human fantasies. She remembered how it hurt when no one believed in her, how her parents cut her off so she had to work two jobs. Her diner uniform had permanent stains in the armpits and grease spots that wouldn’t come out.
One minute she was eighteen, the next she was twenty-five.
And then one night, she was headed up to a party in the canyon, crowded into a car and sitting on someone’s lap, trying not to get sick around the curves.
A famous band played. There was food and drink and so much beauty. She floated on her back in a turquoise pool and saw stars, like pinpricks in a blanket of black. The water held her.
She remembered everything about that night.
Inka sitting cross-legged on a fur rug, perfect and alone, disinterested in everyone… except Zadie.
“No one here is important.” Inka cradled Zadie’s head in her lap and stroked her hair. “They think they are but they are just pointless people.” Her laugh sparkled.
Inka took Zadie under her wing. She brought Zadie low for her own good. To build her up. Scar tissue is stronger than virgin flesh. And after she tested Zadie and Zadie proved she was worthy, Inka gave Zadie a precious gift—a chance at immortality. Though immortals could die, it was only at the hands of another immortal and rare indeed. Most immortals lived infinite gorgeous lives, forever young.
Best of all, Inka brought Devon back to Zadie. She did it with her mysterious ways, whispering perhaps in Devon’s ear while he slept, or maybe casting a spell on him from afar. It didn’t matter. Devon was once again in Zadie’s arms and life was so perfect then. The stars and the moon shone brighter than they ever had.
Zadie took Devon down south to Mexico and Central America and on to Nicaragua and Ometepe, that mystical island of volcanoes and white sand beaches.
Inka stayed in the background. She hadn’t introduced herself to Devon yet. “Your honeymoon,” she told Zadie. “Make him your love slave.”
Those last days with Devon were now constantly at the front of Zadie’s thoughts, turning obsessively on the wheel of her inhuman mind.
The very last day, the sun slipped down into a glorious sunset; red and pink and orange. Monkeys howled. The sound echoed through the trees. Waves lapped on the shore of the lake, leaving tiny bubbles on the sand.
Zadie waited for Devon in the four poster bed. A mosquito net fluttered, moved by a fan that hung from the beam of the thatched roof. At some point she fell asleep. She woke to Devon propped on his elbows, gazing down at her. She saw her love for him reflected in his eyes.
Make him your love slave.
But she couldn’t tell him what she wanted—to be together forever and never grow old. She knew him too well. She could just see his scorn, once he understood she was serious, once he comprehended there was a way. She imagined the disgust in his eyes. He would think her a monster.
Already, in their short time together, she felt him slipping from her grasp, little by little. She wasn’t smart enough, educated enough, cultured enough. She wasn’t deep enough for him and all his lofty notions about life.
It was the sad truth. Not even his fault. It was how he’d been raised by that hideous woman—his mother.
Devon’s mother was the reason Zadie had gone to California and not to college back east with Devon. She’d taken Zadie aside the day before they were supposed to leave. “You might think you’ve got your hooks in him now,” his mother said. “But it’s just sex. Be smart, my dear. Don’t follow him. It will only lead to heartbreak. Yours.”
Later, when she told Inka the story, Inka became enraged. “Your heartbreak? Yours?” she’d cried, stomping around the room. “The bitch was afraid of you, oh sexy powerful one. You had her son by the balls. Which is how it should be. We must save him from his mother—the Oedipal nightmare.”
But the plan went all wrong in unforeseen ways, starting with Heather, that nasty little slut from high school. As soon as Zadie laid eyes on her, in the bar in Nicaragua of all places, she wanted to kill her.
Heather was born a bad omen.
“Oh my God, Heather…” Zadie had pretended joy, catching her old so-called friend in a huge phony hug. Devon’s scent wa
s everywhere on Heather, wafting from her pores. She’s been screwing him for years, Zadie realized.
Rage licked through her veins.
No doubt Heather had followed Devon to the backwoods of the third world for one reason. To claim him. And take him away from Zadie.
Heather didn’t deserve to live.
Zadie thought how pleasurable it would be to break Heather’s neck and bury her in the lake. But there was a slight hindrance—Heather’s male entourage. Heather always picked up a following of admirers wherever she went.
The men were handsome in a magazine quality way that wasn’t to Zadie’s taste. She didn’t like anyone who wasn’t Devon. The men played guitars and bongo drums, somehow looking awkward in their cut off shorts and flip-flops. Zadie bet they were more comfortable in Armani suits.
She danced with Heather, keeping her close, while Heather’s companions watched, enthralled. Or so Zadie thought.
Devon headed out early, which was just as well. One less complication.
The night wore on in a haze of sloshed drinks and dancing and drunken antics. Zadie sidled up to the bar to order another round of tequila shots. The drunker Heather got tonight, the better.
It was a primitive bar, open air. They were the only patrons. Earlier, a middle-aged couple had been having dinner but they were gone now. Zadie was surprised when a strong hand grabbed her by the back of her dress and yanked. Her collar cut across her throat. She choked.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Inka hissed in her ear before releasing her.
Zadie stumbled back. “Jesus… nothing. Nice to see you too.” She rubbed her neck.
The bartender hurried over. “Is there a problem?” he glared at Inka. To Zadie, he said, “You okay?”
Inka was as tall as Zadie with a more athletic build. Zadie was model thin. Inka often dressed like a man but kept her nails long and painted red. Her long hair was black, plaited into tight braids. Her face was undeniably feminine; soft cheeks, big kissable lips. She had huge doe eyes, which she turned on the bartender. “We are fabulous, doll. Thank you for asking.”