“I’m coming with you,” Shane says.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Looking back at him, I open the door. “You need to drink. I’m just in the way—ack!”
I grab the doorjamb to avoid trampling a little boy. He stands just outside the bedroom, clutching a stuffed blue dog around its neck.
I look down into his wide dark eyes. “Uh, hi.”
“Oh, dear,” says the woman. The music shuts off. She comes over, straightening her dress and smoothing her hair. “Sweetie, Mommy has some friends over. We’re just playing a game.”
“I can’t sleep.” He looks at me. “Can I play?”
I lean back against the doorjamb and focus on the ceiling. It’d be really rude to barf on her freshly shampooed carpet.
The woman leads the child down the hall. After a moment’s hesitation, I go back into the bedroom and shut the door behind me. Shane is sitting on the bed now, holding his shirt in his lap, a mixture of guilt and frustration on his face. We look at each other, then away, quickly.
Muffled noises of love and comfort come from outside the door, along with a short stretch of water running in the hall bathroom.
Shane and I say nothing. I sit on the window seat and look outside. Now that my eyes have adjusted, I realize that the structure I saw before is a swing set.
The woman reenters the bedroom and locks the door. She turns to Shane and tucks her hair behind her ear. “Maybe you should just bite me.”
He looks relieved. “Yeah. Good. Okay.”
Thank God. A quick chomp and we’re out of here, then I can go home and scour my frontal lobe to forget that kid—
Shane pounces on her so fast, I emit a little squeak, echoed by the woman. He slides down her body until his knees slam the carpet. She runs her hands through his hair, sweeping it back from his face.
As he pushes her dress above her waist, his eyes open and fix on me. My muscles lock into baby-bunny mode again. His triumphant smile skewers me a moment before his fangs pierce her creamy skin.
She cries out, and her hands tighten in his hair, as if to pull him away. Then they drop to the top of his shoulders, where her nails dig into his flesh as she hisses through her teeth.
His eyelashes flutter as he draws the first swallow. He groans, and the sound sends a hot, dizzy feeling creeping over my scalp from nape to forehead. A single drop of blood escapes to trickle down her waist. Mesmerized, I watch it disappear beneath the red silk of her bikini panty.
It lasts much longer than I expected. Pins and needles prick my feet, but I don’t dare move. The atmosphere in the bedroom feels fragile, every object connected by sticky, weblike strands of energy. If I move an inch or even breathe too hard, the balance between his survival and hers could tip.
Her legs buckle. Shane lowers her to the floor in a smooth, controlled maneuver that looks all too practiced. Her hair splays on the carpet like a dark halo.
Shane’s hair covers his face now, but I hear him breathe deep and long through his nose as he drinks. Though her body lies limp in his arms, Shane looks like the helpless one. His right hand clutches her thigh, knuckles pulsing in a kneading motion. He begins to rock back and forth to a rhythm only he can hear. Is it her heartbeat? Is it slowing?
Suddenly the woman’s body bucks and stiffens against him. Her nails rake over his bare shoulders, drawing eight thin trails of blood, red as any human’s.
With a thud, her legs and arms fall limp against the floor. A moment later, Shane rolls onto the carpet, panting and staring through the ceiling. Blood stains his gums, setting off the white of his fangs, which recede in the span of a few seconds. With their pupils constricted to dots, his eyes shine brightest blue.
Lying on her back, the woman stretches like a cat waking from a nap. She draws a finger down his chest in a lazy motion. “Good?”
Between gasps, he manages an “Uh-huh.”
“Good.” Under her eyes lie dark semicircles, accentuated by the new paleness of her skin.
Shane closes his eyes and groans deep in his throat, a noise that embodies sex and death. His back arches, and his fingers rake the carpet as if to pull it up like grass.
“Yes,” the woman whispers. “It’s all yours now.”
Slowly his body relaxes as he returns to our plane of existence. He looks at me, blinks hard, and sits up.
“Hang on,” he whispers.
He rises to his feet in a fluid motion and grabs a box of gauze pads from the dresser. Eyes glazed, he tears two pads open, then kneels and presses them to the wound on the woman’s waist.
She sighs and places her fingers over the cotton squares. “I’ve got it. Thanks.”
Shane glances at me again and wipes his mouth. “Let me clean up, then we’ll go.” He heads into the master bathroom. The door shuts, and soon I hear the mundane sound of toothbrushing.
The woman lets out a deep sigh. She seems content to remain on the floor.
“Can I get you anything?” I ask her.
She smiles dreamily up at me. “Smokes. By the window.”
I fetch her a cigarette. She puts it in her mouth and motions for me to light it. Her first exhale sounds ecstatic.
“You look like you could use one, too,” she says. “Help yourself.”
“I don’t smoke anymore.” My hands are trembling. “But I think I’ll make an exception.”
She flicks her long fingernails in the direction of the bathroom. “What’s he to you?”
I light the cigarette, then take a shaky drag. “I don’t know yet.”
“Shane’s a good man. Almost too good. I bet when he was alive he was one of those guys whose female friends complained to him about their jerky boyfriends but never noticed he was right there waiting to make them happy.”
I consider introducing myself, but decide I don’t really want to know her name. The opportunity passes as she falls asleep. I snatch the cigarette out of her hand before it burns a hole in the carpet.
Shane opens the bathroom door and gives me an apologetic look. “I hate to ask, but—I can’t reach.” He motions behind him. I set the smokes in an ashtray and join him.
He hands me a moist washcloth, which I draw slowly over the cuts on his back. With the blood wiped away, his skin is perfect again. If anything, it looks more luminous than ever, like he’s had a full-body seaweed wrap.
“Thanks.” He takes the washcloth and rinses it in the sink. “I’m running out of shirts without bloodstains.”
“Nice.”
He wipes his face and body dry with a towel. “We’ll talk in a few minutes. I need to make sure she’s okay.”
The woman moans when he picks her up—as easily as I could lift a kitten—and lays her in bed. With tender motions, he dabs iodine on the wound and covers it with a butterfly bandage.
As he draws the sheets over her, she mumbles, “Get my purse. On the dresser.”
I grab it, but when I turn back to hand it to her, Shane signals me to stop. Too late. She takes it and wakes up enough to rummage through her wallet.
“Don’t,” he says.
“Let me pay you.”
“I’ve told you, no. No fucking way.” He picks up his shirt and jams his arms through the sleeves. “This is the last time you offer, or you’ll never hear from me again.”
The thought seems to frighten her, and she looks to me for help. If she hands me the cash, I’m keeping it as emotional restitution.
“Just go to sleep.” The softness returns to Shane’s voice. He kisses her forehead and smooths the hair from her face. “Remember, extra iron for the next few days.”
“Eat my spinach. Promise.”
He holds her hand and looks into her eyes. “Thank you. Again.”
Outside, the night’s humidity has dropped a notch, and a tepid breeze stirs the leaves of the small trees that line the sidewalk.
I wait to vent until we reach the main road. “Why didn’t you tell me she had a kid?”
“He never woke up when I was there before.” Shane clears hi
s throat. “I’m sorry about what happened. Not just the boy, but before. If I’d known she would insist on sex this time, I would have called someone else.” He rubs his stomach and winces, as if he has a cramp. “She thought I would do anything for the blood.”
“How do you find these weirdos?”
“Anymore, it’s easy, thanks to the Internet. Type ‘mortals seeking vampires’ into any search engine, and you’ll see what I mean.” He glances back at the street we just left. “This one moved from Baltimore to Sherwood to be closer to me. That and the better school system.”
“But these mortals on the Internet, are they actually seeking real vampires?”
“Most of them, no. They think it’s a fantasy, and they’re bummed when we show up without capes.”
“What happens when they find out you’re real?”
Shane slows his pace, scuffing his Chuck Taylors against the sidewalk. “I’ve always been careful. Too careful, the others say. If I think a potential donor won’t play along, I get out before things get—” He comes to a full stop. “If they don’t want to be bitten, if they scream and fight back, it triggers our . . . instincts.”
My face goes cold as the blood drains from it. I sit down hard on the curb before my knees give out. He sits next to me, a few feet away.
“What happens to them?” I ask without looking at him.
His voice flattens. “Usually they die.”
I don’t know why this shocks me. I slide my hands through my hair and hold my head. “Oh, God.”
“I’ve never killed anyone,” he says. “I swear.”
“What about the others? Regina, Noah, all of them?”
“Not as careful.”
I close my eyes. I’ve made it my mission to protect a bunch of rabid beasts. Does that make me an accomplice?
I stretch my scalp back and forth over my skull to ease the pounding inside. “David said you guys don’t kill.”
“It’s rare someone dies,” he says. “When it happens, we don’t tell him. We call a Code Black and help each other cover it up, make it look like a suicide or accident.” He moves closer and touches my arm. His skin is warm, as warm as mine. “Ciara, I need to tell you something.”
“You’ve been telling me plenty, thanks. Stop any time.”
“Last week, with you, was the closest I’ve ever come to killing.” His words echo in my head, muffled by my internal screams. “David only wanted me to show you my fangs to convince you. I never planned to bite. But I got... distracted. I wanted you, in the human way. So I figured we’d just fool around.”
Fool being the operative word, and me being the one operated on.
“Then you smelled so good.” Pain infuses his whisper. “You tasted so good. And the way you screamed when you came, like a rabbit in the jaws of a wolf.”
I jerk my arm away from him. “So it’s my fault for being scrumptious? Didn’t they have date rape back in your day?”
He pulls his hands back to his lap. “I’m not making excuses, just trying to explain. What happened was my fault, and I’m sorry.”
There are few sarcastic comebacks for a sincere apology. “Why didn’t you kill me?”
“Because you were smart. You stopped struggling, stopped acting like prey. It gave me a chance to remember who I am.” He pauses, waiting for my reply, which doesn’t come. “I promise I’ll never bite you again unless you ask me to.”
“Why should I believe you? How do I know you won’t go all grrr again and rip out my throat?”
“You don’t know that, and you’d be stupid to trust me now. I’ll earn that trust, if you give me a chance.”
I scoff. “You just told me you almost killed me. Now you want to, what—date me? I don’t even want to be alone with you.”
He looks around. “There’s no one else here.”
“We’re on a well-lit street corner in the middle of Sherwood. You can’t bite me in public, or even semipub-lic. If I scream, you’re discovered—and all your friends, too.” I jab the air with an imaginary stake.
“Thanks for the image.” He stands and stretches. I can almost hear his muscles singing with new strength. “Let me walk you home.”
“It’s not that far.”
“It is when the streets are full of monsters.”
“David said you six were the only vampires in Sherwood.” I get to my feet and stride down the sidewalk toward my apartment.
He catches up to me. “We are, but there are those from out of town who like to keep an eye on us. They think we interact with daytimers too much as it is.”
“Daytimers. Sunnysides. What do you call us behind our backs?”
“Dinner.”
This shuts me up until we reach my door.
I pull out my keys. “Well, thanks for defending my fluids, if not my innocence.”
“You called me human.”
“What?”
“You said if I worked for Skywave I’d be a human jukebox.”
“Oh. Sorry. I guess human is an insult for your kind.”
“Not to me.” He pulls a folded piece of paper from his pocket—the list of stations. “I’ll do what you and David asked, listen to Skywave’s garbage. But you have to do something for me.”
I step back. “Will it require medical intervention?”
“Listen to my show tonight.”
“You want me to wake up at three a.m.?”
“Five forty-five. Just for the last few minutes.”
I flutter my hand against my heart in exaggerated coyness. “Why, Mister McAllister, are you going to dedicate a song to me?”
“That would be unprofessional.” He takes a step toward me. “Just know that the last song I play every night will be for you.”
He takes my hand and draws it to his lips, closing his eyes as he kisses the gap between the first knuckles of my middle and ring fingers. Something wakes and squirms inside me.
He lowers my hand but doesn’t let go. The barest tug moves me closer. My chin tilts up, and the kiss is sweet, promising rather than insisting. His mouth tastes like mint, with a faint coppery undertone.
The kiss ends when it should. We say nothing more, and I enter my home and go to bed, alone.
I’m awake long before 5:45. In fact, I’m awake at 3 a.m., listening to Shane’s Whatever radio show. To my surprise, it’s not just grunge—though that’s heavily represented—but includes samples of cerebral indie/college rock, buoyant pop-punk, and even a little alt-country. The common denominator seems to be an almost pretentious lack of pretension.
When Shane speaks, I close my eyes and imagine him lying here behind me, murmuring softly. Not words of dark seduction, just whatever’s on his mind, some fascinating fact about Nick Drake or the Hammond B3. His breath moves my hair, tickling my earlobe, but I don’t brush my hand between us because it’s tucked inside his. Our entwined arms lie on top of the covers.
I open my eyes. Yecch, boyfriend thoughts, the kind I haven’t had since I was a teenager. It’s one thing to imagine Shane naked and slathered in olive oil, but another animal entirely to picture us cuddling.
I roll over and tell the ceiling, “He’s not human.” The ceiling stares back, dingy and unresponsive.
5:54 a.m. arrives. I expect him to finish the show with a tune lambasting modern bourgeois society, with a particular dig at the commercialism I so ruthlessly represent.
“Time for me to crawl back in my hole,” he says, “so I’ll leave you with one last song to start your day—or end it, as the case may be. A lot of people don’t know that Otis Redding wrote this. The Dead covered it, but this is the best-known version, and, I think, the most kick-ass. Good morning, and good night.”
After a brief drum intro, a bass guitar joins a piano in a ballsy, bluesey series of notes.
I laugh and pull the pillow over my head, wondering whether The Black Crowes’ “Hard to Handle” is meant to describe me or Shane.
Probably both, which could be the most fun of all.
10
Just a Girl
June 7
We embark on our mission to rock the world. I write press releases, contract a new Web-site designer, and order WVMP merchandise. Franklin divides our duties into sales (him) and marketing/promotions (me). I’m thrilled; marketing puts me at arm’s length from my targets and feels less like a con job than sales. Besides, Mr. Hyde is the master in that department.
The sutures in my thigh itch like crazy, requiring several trips to the bathroom to indulge in unrepentant scratching.
June 12
David takes out my stitches and buys me more bagels.
June 13
I fire our Web-site designer.
June 14
I create fliers and hire a new Web designer, one who doesn’t think spinning logos and cheesy Flash animations are still cutting edge. If I hadn’t met the first one during the daytime, I would swear she was a vampire.
June 15
Friday night I wander into the lounge, where I find Shane, Regina, Spencer, and Noah playing poker. I gesture to the empty chair, currently occupied by Shane’s feet. “Mind if I join you?”
They all gape at me, even Shane. Regina turns to him, on her left. “Did you invite her?”
He smiles and pushes the chair out with his heels. “I am now.”
“I hardly ever play,” I say as I sit. “You’ll have to remind me how.”
Their laughter has the force of an air horn.
Regina tosses down her cards. “Why don’t we just write you a check and get it over with?”
I wave off her concern. “Not all con artists are good poker players. Don’t believe everything you see in The Sting.”
They all look at Spencer. His shadowed gaze pierces me, but not long enough. He nods. “I don’t see any harm in letting the little girl play. Everyone knows ladies are bad at poker.”
“Sod right off,” Regina says.
“Not you.” Noah kisses the air in her direction. “Jah have mercy on the man who dare to call you a ‘lady.’”
Spencer’s knuckles rap the table. “Back to the game, boys and girls.”
They finish the hand, and I pretend not to watch their patterns.
Regina gathers up the cards to deal. She eyes me as she shuffles. “Which games do you know?”
Wicked Game Page 10