Companions of the Night

by Vivian Vande Velde

  "That's how your bodies heal," Kerry said, catching on, "by going back to the way they were."

  "Which makes it impossible to maintain either a tattoo or a permanent." Ethan let go of her hand. "Not that I've had personal experience with either."

  "So when you said that Regina made you a vampire to save your life, even if that had been true, it couldn't have been true." She paused, considering whether this had come out making any sense at all. Suddenly she wished she hadn't said it at all. It was too vivid a reminder of her dream.

  Ethan seemed to grasp what she'd meant. "It couldn't have happened that way, no. Vampire blood can heal vampires, and our saliva has healing properties, though hardly enough to cure the dying. It's just enough so that if a vampire is careful where and how he bites, somebody might not even know he's been bitten."

  Kerry touched her neck, wondering again if he'd taken some of her blood last night when he'd carried her in here.

  Ethan grinned at her. "Present company excluded, of course."

  Only the paleness of his skin convinced her he was telling the truth. "Do you plan to?" Stupid question. Of course he'd deny it.

  "Take your blood? No." He sat back on his heels and looked at her appraisingly "Why? Are you intrigued? Do you want to know what it feels like?"

  "No," she told him in a voice that she hoped sounded more firm than panicked. She tried to shove the sensations from the dream behind her. "I just want to know what to expect. I figured you probably didn't have time. Yesterday. To"—it was hard to say and he wasn't jumping in to help her, though he must know what she meant—"feed. Before we met."

  "I didn't," he said.

  When he didn't say anything else, she said, "I didn't think you did."

  He flashed another smile at her. "As with living as a human, there's more to being a vampire than feeding," he said. "Surely you can survive a day without food? You probably wouldn't like it, but you could do it."

  "Without turning into a beast?" she asked.

  "Ah," he said in an adult-to-a-child So-that's-what's-been-worrying you? tone. "That's after much longer than a day," he assured her. "Besides, if I fed on you, I don't think you'd ever forgive me."

  Kerry found it hard to believe he would really be concerned about that.

  "And if I did something for which you didn't forgive me," he finished, "I could never trust you again." He stood, one of those disconcertingly fast movements that was hard to follow. "Hurry up and get changed," he said. "There's no reason for both of us to go hungry."

  ***

  AFTER A CONSIDERABLE hike over rubble, they eventually came out at a spot near where the Genesee ran into Lake Ontario. Kerry was amazed to think of Ethan hauling her over all that the previous night, and how she'd slept through it. They left behind Regina's quilt—"In case I ever decide to bring another date here," Ethan told her—but carried out Kerry's backpack and what was left of the groceries.

  He took her to a Greek-style family restaurant because, he said, the Greeks generally served breakfast all the time, day and night.

  "Why is that?" she asked. "Are there a lot of Greek vampires?"

  He just smiled in that way that might mean she'd hit on something he wanted to hide, or that might mean she'd just said something really dumb.

  In the restaurant she came back from using the rest room to find Ethan sitting at their table reading a newspaper. "Anything interesting?" she asked when he didn't put it away.

  "Mmm-hmm," he said in the same distracted way her father did at the breakfast table. Thinking of her father made her eager to be doing something, and she found herself getting furious at Ethan's slow pace.

  "Reading the personals for secret messages from your friends?"

  He gave her a dirty look.

  She wanted to shake him and scream, Do something! but suspected that if she annoyed him too much, he would start moving even more slowly. Determined not to ask any more questions, figuring he wouldn't answer them anyway, she concentrated on her cheese omelet. When she finally looked up, she saw Ethan drinking from the glass of orange juice that was all he'd ordered. "Are you really drinking that?" she asked.

  "No, it's all done with mirrors," he answered, still not looking up.

  "I didn't think you could."

  He did look at her then, peeved. His glance darted about the practically deserted restaurant. "Are you talking about that special diet my doctor has me on?" he asked tightly.

  She nodded, delighted to be an irritation to him.

  "I can have liquids," he told her.

  She smiled brightly, but a second later he turned his attention back to the paper.

  "Didn't your mother ever teach you it's rude to read at the table?" she asked. It got her wondering if his mother had known he was a vampire. How would her own mother react if she knew what Kerry had done in the last twenty-four hours? If Kerry had been a disappointment before—and she had to have been, or Mom wouldn't have left—the opposite coast wouldn't be far enough should she find out about this.

  Ethan brought Kerry back to the East Coast when he answered, "I figured it was all right since I'm reading about you.

  "What?" She grabbed for the paper, but he smacked her across the knuckles with it. "What's it say?" she demanded, lowering her voice, suddenly convinced that people were listening.

  "'...disappearance last night of Kerry Nowicki, sixteen, described as having brown hair, hazel eyes, standing about five feet, three inches, and weighing a hundred and twenty pounds.'"

  "A hundred and twenty!" Kerry squeaked.

  Ethan grinned at her outburst but shushed her "There's a picture."

  He flashed the newspaper in front of her, and she winced It was from last year's school yearbook, taken shortly after her mother had left, when—in a fit of depression—she had let her friend Nelle talk her into a home perm.

  "'...last seen in a pink jacket, white shirt, black pants, and purple apron—'"

  Yeah, right, like she'd wear the apron out of the store. She hoped they at least mentioned it was a uniform. "Who reported me missing?"

  He motioned her to wait and continued reading. "'It is not clear whether Kerry ever arrived home after leaving the store parking lot at about eight forty-five in the company of a young man named Evan,'"—he gave her a significant look—"'described as being in his late teens or early twenties, having dark hair, dark eyes, and wearing a vinyl jacket.' Vinyl," he scoffed, rolling his blue eyes. "Wonderful witnesses. One of your friends describes you here as 'quiet but friendly' and always having 'a friendly word for everyone.'"

  "Who said that?" Kerry asked.

  "Craig McDougal, night manager."

  "Oh, puke," Kerry said.

  "That doesn't sound very friendly."

  "What do they say about Ian and my father?"

  Again he hushed her.

  "What?" she said, seeing him frown. "Ethan!"

  "Shh."

  She repeated his name in a whisper.

  "What bus do you take?"

  "What?"

  "School bus. Is your driver Cindy Dickerson?"

  Kerry shivered. "What happened?"

  "An accident that wasn't an accident, involving the bus and a nineteen eighty-five white Skylark registered to Stephen Nowicki of Fawn Meadow Circle."

  "My father?" she asked incredulously, not knowing whether to be relieved or if this was further bad news.

  "Your father's car," Ethan corrected. "Is your father in his mid-to-late fifties with a receding hairline and a tendency to wear flannel shirts?"

  "No."

  "Good." Ethan read, "'Witnesses say the Skylark sideswiped the bus, driving it off the road near the corner of Brockport Townline Road and Route Thirty-one. The bus skidded along the guardrail for a hundred and fifty feet, with the Skylark remaining in position alongside the bus so that Dickerson couldn't get the vehicle back up on the shoulder. At the point where the guardrail ended, the bus's right front wheel went up over the concrete divider, causing the bus to tip over o
nto its side and fall into the drainage ditch along the side of the road Meanwhile the Skylark came to a stop after hitting a fire hydrant.' There's a diagram."

  He held the paper up so she could see, but it was hard to focus. "Was anybody"—she couldn't say killed—"hurt?"

  His blue eyes moved rapidly back and forth as he skimmed the article. "Cuts, bruises, a couple broken arms and cracked ribs. Most of the people were treated at Lakeside, then released. One kid, Kurt Wilmier"—Kerry nodded to show she knew who he meant—"was hit by flying glass and he was taken to Strong Memorial in Rochester. The rest all seem to be in satisfactory condition at Lakeside. They say the bus normally transports forty-five students but most had been dropped off already, so there were only seven still in the bus. The driver of the Skylark took off on foot during the confusion."

  "They're saying," Kerry asked, "that it was intentional? The driver of my father's car purposefully ..."

  Ethan was nodding.

  Kerry sat back in her seat, stunned.

  "The police checked the registration on the car," Ethan said, "and when they went to your house, they found it as we found it. Your neighbor"—he glanced again at the paper—"Mrs. Armendariz thinks your father and brother may have been missing since Friday evening, based on a phone call from you."

  Kerry nodded.

  "Either they haven't caught on yet—or they just didn't mention—that that's your bus."

  "I don't take that bus home on Fridays," Kerry said. "Because of working at the store. But Brockport Townline Road and Thirty-one, that's right before my stop. Do you think this had anything to do with"—Ethan raised his eyebrows at her—"us?"

  "If not, I would say that's a fairly incredible coincidence. Our pursuer is beginning to get a face. Or at least a hairline."

  "This is not something to take lightly."

  "Oh, I'm not taking it lightly," Ethan assured her. "One thing we've learned over the years, the number one rule—after You can never have too many covers on a window—is Don't mess with kids."

  She remembered the very first night, when he had talked her into not going to the police, arguing that the people from the laundry would never mention her.... "People go crazy when other people hurt kids," he'd said. It was to lessen their chances of being found out, but still, she thought, it was one point on the side of the vampires.

  "This is awful," she said. "Whoever this is, he risked killing a school bus-load of kids to get at me What kind of a person would do something like that?"

  "Not a very smart one," Ethan said, "if he's after you because he thinks you're a vampire, and he rammed the bus in the afternoon."

  Kerry picked up her fork and jabbed it into her omelet several times before she realized what she was doing She mushed what was left of her food into a soupy mix. "Now what?" she asked.

  "We need another car," Ethan said.

  Kerry looked at him in shock.

  "We'll rent it," he assured her. "It's just at this point I don't know if my name has gotten tangled up in all this."

  "You mean because of"—she finally remembered that they were in a public place—"the people from the laundry disappearing?"

  He was obviously startled at the suggestion. "No They didn't disappear Regina and I made it look like it involved drugs and prostitution."

  "What?" Kerry asked. "Why?"

  "Because that's the kind of thing the police see so often they're the least interested in it. And to keep the families off track."

  "The poor families, though." Kerry thought of shocked parents and spouses spending the rest of their lives thinking they'd never really known their loved ones. Like she'd realized she'd never really known her mother.

  Ethan shrugged.

  "What about Regina's house? Has that been tied in to this?"

  "A different article entirely" Ethan turned to the local section. Kerry could read the headline upside down: SINGLE-FAMILY HOME COMPLETELY DESTROYED BY BLAZE, and underneath that, in smaller print: Fire of Suspicious Origin. Ethan read aloud: "'...arson suspected ... no one hurt in the blaze.... The owner wasn't home at the time of the fire, and the police are seeking her for questioning.'"

  "So," Kerry said, "nothing specific has you worried, but you're just going to"—she suddenly realized, halfway through the sentence—"drop Ethan Bryne and pick up a new identity."

  He didn't answer.

  "It must be tough," she said, "living through eternity always having to look over your shoulder."

  There was a flicker of annoyance across his face, but before he had a chance to say anything, his attention suddenly shifted to the front door.

  Kerry saw a policeman had just walked in. For a moment she thought about jumping up, asking him for help. But how likely was a policeman to believe in vampires? And besides, who was better suited to rescue her father and Ian from vampire hunters—a policeman or a vampire?

  Ethan, she was sure, read all of these conflicting thoughts on her face. He gave her a second to be sure of her choice, then: "So," he said breezily, opening the newspaper to the last page, "which is your favorite comic?"

  It took Kerry a moment to catch up. "'Calvin and Hobbes.'"

  "That's the morning paper. How about 'Peanuts'?"

  "Fine."

  The policeman seemed to know the woman who was the hostess, and the cook, who came out from the kitchen wearing a chef's hat and a white apron.

  Ethan spread the paper out on the table, and they both leaned over it to read "Peanuts." "Cute," Ethan said.

  "Mmm-hmm," she agreed, though she was too distracted for the words to make any sense. Police, or even mall security guards, always made her feel guilty—even when she hadn't done anything. She hoped she didn't look guilty.

  The policeman was looking around the restaurant, and she was sure he paused an extra few seconds on her.

  "I don't get 'Doonesbury,'" she said.

  "I never get 'Doonesbury,'" Ethan said.

  The policeman was definitely heading toward them.

  "Excuse me."

  Ethan looked up; and if she hadn't known better, Kerry would have sworn he was startled to find a policeman standing there wanting to talk to them. Startled, but not worried. Curious—the way a perfectly innocent person would be.

  "We're looking for a young girl," the policeman said. He even had a picture.

  "My God," Ethan said, "she looks just like you, Steffie."

  Kerry reached for the picture. It was a copy of the one in the paper. Hesitantly, as though thinking about it, she said, "Naw. Maybe our eyes are the same."

  "Oh, the nose, too," Ethan said. "She definitely has your nose." He took Kerry by the chin and tilted her head so she was in profile for the policeman. "Don't you think?" he asked.

  The policeman nodded. "The hair's different, of course, curlier and lighter." That had been a side effect of the perm. "May I ask your names?"

  "Tim," Ethan said, then corrected it to "Timothy Davin, and my sister."

  "Steffie Davin," Kerry said.

  "Do you know this girl?" the policeman asked. "Her name's Kerry Nowicki."

  "Do we have any Nowickis in the family?" Ethan asked her.

  "What's the name of Aunt Fern's daughter's family—the one in Sodus?"

  "Noland, I think," Ethan said.

  "Well," the policeman said, "then I take it you haven't seen her?"

  "I don't think so," Ethan said.

  "I don't think so," Kerry repeated.

  "Thanks for your trouble." The policeman went back to the hostess and asked if he could set the picture up by the cash register.

  "What do you think she's done?" Kerry asked.

  "Run away," Ethan answered with a knowing nod.

  The policeman left.

  "...or arson, accessory to murder, grand theft auto, and obstructing justice," Ethan finished.

  Kerry pushed her plate away. She was becoming an accomplished liar—just as her mother had been those last several months. "What? No credit card fraud?" she asked.

&nb
sp; "Ah," Ethan leaned in close to whisper, "that comes when we rent the car."

  Chapter Thirteen

  ETHAN USED ANOTHER name to rent the car, charging it to MasterCard. He had several MasterCards. The new car was a blue-gray Monte Carlo, rented from a counter at the airport.

  "What about the Skylark?" Kerry asked. They were on a fairly busy road, and Ethan slowed to wave ahead of him somebody who was having trouble getting out of a parking lot. That he was a polite driver was just one more thing that didn't fit in with her increasingly confused picture of vampires. "If you just abandon it, surely the police will try to track you down."

  "In a few days," Ethan said. "By then, if all goes well, I'll have had a chance to return and cover my tracks. If not..." He shook his head. "I don't like to just drop out of sight—unexplained disappearances generate too much interest—but on the other hand, there won't be anybody pressing the police for answers on my behalf."

  If he gets killed, Kerry realized. He was saying what would happen if they succeeded in tracking down the vampire hunter—or if the vampire hunter found them—and he didn't survive the confrontation.

  So she wasn't the only one who was worried. Or afraid?

  "And what does 'covering your tracks' mean?" she asked. "Fabricating evidence that Ethan Bryne was killed in a drug-related execution?"

  She didn't think he was going to answer, but he said, "Possibly. Although I'd prefer to make it look like Gilbert Marsala killed him, probably as part of a Satanic cult ritual That would explain the message on your living-room wall. The paper didn't mention it, but I'm sure even the Brockport police had to notice it."

  Kerry didn't ask what he had against the Brockport police. Instead she asked, "Who's Gilbert Marsala?"

  "He's the one who's after us."

  She looked at him in stunned silence before managing to ask, "What makes you say that?"