A Taste for Red

by Lewis Harris

  I nodded once more toward the stairway, and Foote once more stubbornly refused.

  Useless.

  I tiptoed softly across the carpet. Must, dust, and decay filled my nose. The rotting smell was strong at the bottom of the stairs. I eased my foot onto the first step; it creaked. I could feel Foote wince behind me. I ascended slowly, as if moving through molasses. The steps made little mouse noises beneath my feet. The stench of decay ripened as I climbed.

  Thankfully, Foote started up after me. He was a jerk, but not entirely.

  I paused on the top step. A darkened corridor ran the length of the second floor. The window at the end of the hallway was curtained off. Two closed doors faced each other on either side of the hall. A dim light glowed beneath the door on the left. I crept forward and bent at the keyhole; there was only a flickering blackness inside. I rested my hand on the doorknob. Beside me, Foote shook his head furiously. He mouthed the word "No," but I turned the handle anyway. There was a slight metal click as the latch freed itself. The door swung inward.

  A stifling stench roiled outward. I flinched against the foul wave of putrid air. On the far side of the dimly lit room, a four-poster bed was positioned against the wall. A billowing red canopy hung from the ceiling. Ms. Larch lay face-up on the covers, asleep. Candlelight flickered at a bedside table, the slender taper nearly finished, melted down to a waxy puddle. The dying light played across her alabaster skin. Shadows writhed in the room, uncoiling like snakes.

  I shrugged off Foote's gripping fingers and eased through the doorway. Half of me wanted to flee, to drop the stake and mallet and run screaming. But that was only half. The rest of me wanted to destroy, to squash Larch like a bug, to crush her like a disgusting spider. That was the reason I was here. The very sight of her filled me with dread—with anger borne of self-preservation. I wanted to protect myself—to protect everyone. I wanted to lash out. I wanted to stop her. She was a monster. She was hideous and foul and ... beautiful.

  Her skin was unblemished, snowy white. Her raven hair spread like a glossy pillow around her perfectly sculpted face. Her long neck, her long fingers, and her long legs were the shapely design of a goddess. A sleek dress sheathed her supermodel body in silken black. Her lips were full, and red. A pulse jumped in her luminous throat, pumping stolen blood, corrupted blood. Her mouth was stained, like a Kool-Aid stain—but not with Kool-Aid. A drinking glass on the bedside table was black at the bottom. Black with dried blood.

  I shivered.

  Foote trembled beside me, gawking over Larch's blood-drunk body. I slid the wooden stake I was holding back into my belt and pointed at the stake in Foote's grasp.

  The look on his face said: What?

  I jabbed my finger at his stake and then tapped my chest.

  Again:What?

  OMG!

  I tapped my chest and pointed to Larch's chest. I gripped the mallet handle with both hands and hefted it above my head. Foote stepped away. I flashed him a look of raw fury. I bared my teeth. "Do it!" I mouthed, silently, willing him to step forward. I was ready to whack him with the mallet if he didn't.

  He held the stake out. The sharpened length wavered in his trembling hands. His shoulders trembled. His lips trembled. His knees trembled. His eyes, wide with fear, blink-blink-blinked behind heavy glasses. Reflected candlelight danced in the thick lenses. He lifted the stake over Larch, the deadly point quivering only inches above the left side of her chest.

  Grr...

  His dad was a freaking cardiologist! And Foote didn't even know where the heart was! I wanted to drop the mallet on his stupid head. "Over," I breathed.

  Foote furrowed his brow, then realizing his error, moved the stake so it was centered over her chest.

  Geez.

  I swallowed. I'd have to pound with all my might to hammer the stake through bone. Could I even do it? And what if I missed? The mallet felt like stone in my hands, so heavy. My palms were slick with sweat. I focused on the quivering stake. It blurred. I squeezed my eyes shut and opened them. Larch's face floated below me like a white mask. The candle sputtered. The pulse in her neck throbbed with the beating of her heart.

  Thump-thump.

  Thump-thump.

  Thump-thump.

  "C'mon," Foote whimpered.

  But I couldn't do it. My arms had turned to jelly. My willpower had dissolved. The mallet shook in my hands. I'd been rigid as steel, but now I was rubber. I wanted to melt away, the same as the sputtering candle.

  Do it! I shouted inside my brain, commanding myself to act.

  I raised the mallet higher.

  DO IT!

  The door across the corridor clicked open, and suddenly Mr. Dumloch appeared, standing there in his pajamas. He filled the doorway, horrible and fat, yawning and scratching. I was frozen over Larch, poised to strike. Foote gulped guiltily and pulled the stake away, almost embarrassed. Dumloch looked up from his scratching, startled, then confused. Then he came roaring, bounding into the room, his fat rippling all around him as he rushed at us.

  Foote screamed and backed away, waving the point of the stake in front of him.

  On the bed, Larch's brilliant green eyes snapped opened. Svetlana! Her voice bloomed inside my head. What a surprise!

  I jerked up the mallet, but it was too late. Her talon fingers locked on to my wrist and squeezed like steel tentacles. The mallet dropped, thudding to the floor. I was forced to my knees as she twisted my arm roughly. My cheek pressed into the rug. She twisted harder. I thought for a moment my shoulder would pop free of its socket. The pain was searing, an electric shock running the length of my arm.

  Dumloch had snatched Foote into a powerful bear hug. The wooden stake dropped from Foote's hand. He hollered, writhing against Dumloch's grip. The history teacher lifted him off the floor like a sack of laundry.

  "What in the world are you doing slinking around my bedroom, Mr. Foote?" Larch purred. She gave my wrist a vicious twist, and I yelped. Hot tears leapt to my eyes. "What terrible tales has Little Miss Grimm put into your giant, empty head?"

  The smell of rot and dirty carpet filled my nose. Larch's red-painted toenails were in my face. Her grip tightened. I gritted my teeth against another painful twist.

  Larch wagged a finger at Foote. "What were you going to do with that terrible toothpick, little man? You don't want a failing grade in my class, do you?" She giggled, a wet sound bubbling up from her dark heart. "You surely don't want an unsatisfactory mark on your permanent record." She jerked a thumb to the heavy drapes hanging against the wall, speaking to Dumloch. "I think Mr. Foote needs to be ... expelled."

  I squeezed my eyes shut. The stench of decay suffocated me. I cried out inside, the silent scream bursting from every cell, splitting me, half madness and half rage. The cry filled my head like a white light. I mustered my strength and jerked with all my might, snatching my hand free from the teacher's grip.

  Foote was screaming, too, quite audibly, and flailing as Dumloch carried him across the room. At the window, Dumloch grunted, hurling Foote through the air into the closed curtains. Glass shattered behind the dark material, and both Foote and the drapes disappeared. Dumloch leaned out the broken window and peered at the ground below. "He's still moving," he said.

  "Then go outside and unmove him," Larch commanded.

  I jumped to my feet, sprinting for the doorway, but Larch snagged the collar of my shirt, pulling me backward, spinning me into Dumloch's waiting arms.

  "Don't be in such a rush," she cooed. "Why invite yourself over if you're just going to run off?"

  Dumloch lifted me from the floor. I was locked in his beefy embrace. I was smothered against his chest. The stink of cheap cologne came off him in a wave and, beneath it, the underlying stench of spoiled meat. He was one of them, his blood turned, corrupted. A vampire.

  I thrashed against his hold.

  "Tsk, tsk, tsk," Ms. Larch began. "You don't know whether to stay or go, do you?"

  "Be still," Dumloch ordered, squeezing
me tighter.

  I punched against his wide chest. The foulness wafting off him sickened me. I kicked my legs. I thrashed. I was electrified with fear. If I could just break free of his grasp...

  "What a nuisance you are," Larch said. She'd crossed her arms and was tapping her foot in mock impatience, frowning as I convulsed in Dumloch's idiot grip. "Is she more than you can handle, Cecil?"

  Cecil?

  "Fat lot of help you are," Dumloch complained.

  I wrestled against his tarantula hold. I tugged a hand free and brought it hard across Dumloch's stubbled face, the force of it stinging my palm. His red jowls wobbled. He grinned, and I slapped again, harder. He laughed. I felt a jabbing in my side and remembered the stake I'd slipped into my belt earlier. I snatched it free and stabbed downward with all my strength. The wood point sank into his shoulder, and he roared in pain and surprise. His grip loosened, and I dropped to the floor.

  Sylvia Larch laughed now.

  I scrambled to my feet and bolted.

  "Don't go," she called, her laughter chasing after me.

  I heard her tell Dumloch not to just stand there bleeding.

  I burst from the bedroom and lurched in a panic down the corridor toward the stairway. I slipped and stumbled down the steps, hugging the banister. Downstairs, I hit the floor running. I banged my shin, grimacing at the white-hot shock of pain, tumbled over the coffee table, and sprawled headlong across the living room floor. Somewhere a switch flipped and the dark house snapped into brilliance, every light in every room erupting into electric life. Footfalls landed heavily on the stairway behind me. I scampered on hands and knees into the kitchen.

  Svetlana?

  I tried to shut the invading voice from my mind.

  Don't be shy.

  A mechanical rumbling began. It was the automatic garage door closing. No! I jumped to my feet and ran. I slid across the laundry room floor and leapt through the doorway and over the stone steps into the garage. The steel door was rattling down. I crashed into the side of the white van and scuttled for the shrinking opening, diving and rolling. I slammed into the bottom of the garage door just as the metal met the floor.

  Trapped!

  Svetlana!

  I fumbled to my feet, racing back toward the doorway, but Larch and Dumloch were already approaching. A shadow fell through the doorway into the garage from the laundry room. I cringed and bumped against the freezer. I opened the freezer door and let myself fall inside, dropping down into the suffocating funk. I pulled the door closed behind me. The trapped air was noxious. I choked back a gag, closing my hands over my mouth, fighting not to retch. I heard footsteps in the garage now, followed by muffled voices.

  "The girls aren't in the basement."

  "She got out."

  "We'll catch them all on the road."

  The garage door began grumbling open.

  "They've taken the bicycles."

  "We'll run them down. We'll have all of their blood."

  I heard vehicle doors open and then close. Thunk. Thunk. An engine roared to life. I cracked the freezer door open and peeked out. Dumloch and Larch were sitting inside the van. The van moved, backing out of the garage.

  The dynamite under the wheels!

  No!

  The image must have escaped my mind, because Ms. Larch picked up on it. I heard her velvety voice inside my head, a worried question: What?

  Then the world exploded.

  Twenty-two

  I sensed that my head was filling with air, that it would continue filling until it finally burst. Pressure built behind my eyes. I had a horrible vision of them popping free from my skull. Then I was crashing through the darkness, my body banging from surface to surface. My knees, my elbows, my coccyx (butt), my head—slapping, cracking, and tumbling into oblivion.

  Then nothing.

  Forever.

  Then the sounds of trickling, the blackness around me filling with water. My eyes were open, but I couldn't see! Were they open?Yes, I was blinking them! But then I grew tired of blinking them. I let them close. I listened to the falling water. And slept.

  More nothing, only sleep, but not sleep—unconsciousness. I couldn't allow that. That was the kiss of death! I had to fight. I couldn't let myself pass out. I had to stay awake. "Svetlana," I whispered into the darkness. Svetlana... I breathed my name and clung to the world.

  Voices now.

  "Over here!" someone shouted.

  Splashing sounds, then thumping sounds as I was rocked in the blackness.

  Suddenly, a stabbing light and cold water falling over my face. I squeezed my eyes against the brightness. Hands grabbed and pulled.

  "I found someone!" the voice shouted.

  I was lifted away.

  Twenty-three

  For the record, let me say that twenty-two sticks of dynamite are way too much. In fact, I shouldn't even be alive. The only reason I survived is that some of the dynamite failed to detonate. I guess that's one of the benefits of using unstable explosives, although I certainly don't recommend it.

  I awoke in the hospital surrounded by those awful smells: alcohol and bleach and rubber and old feet. Why do hospitals have to smell like that, anyway? Would a nice, fragrant potpourri be so detrimental? I was up to my neck in crisp white sheets. The sterility tickled my nose. My eyes fluttered. Above, fluorescent lights glowed, swimming in the ceiling.

  I breathed in deeply and found a smell I loved.

  "Stephanie, baby," Mom whispered. Her face was next to my face, her cheeks damp with tears. Her lips pressed cool against my cheek. I didn't mind that she called me Stephanie—at least for the moment.

  "Hey, sweetie," Dad said. He knelt at the other side of the bed, his hand on my hand.

  "If I could," a voice interjected. A doctor stepped forward and leaned over the hospital bed. "Would you look straight ahead for me, Stephanie." He shined a bright penlight in my eyes, moving from one eye to the other before clicking it off and sliding it back into his jacket pocket. "Is this uncomfortable?" His hands moved across my forehead to the top of my head, probing.

  "Ow," I winced.

  Jerk.

  "Can you wiggle your fingers and toes for me, Stephanie?"

  The doctor observed as I frowned and wiggled. Dad's worried face peered over the doctor's shoulder.

  "I'm fine, Dad," I croaked, squeezing one eye shut against the throbbing in my head. The ache was like a permanent ice-cream brain freeze.

  "I don't think there's any call for concern, Mr. Grimm," the doctor said. He was scribbling on a clipboard. "Young people bounce so much better than we do, eh? A nasty knock on the head and probably a few bruises—nothing broken. I'd say we keep her in the hospital overnight for observation—just to be safe."

  Mom's shiny eyes were close to my face again. "What in the world happened, Stephanie?"

  "Ahem..." A tall man who'd been standing quiet and invisible against the wall stepped forward. He seemed almost to appear from thin air. "If I might ask a few questions, doctor? Mr. Grimm?" He had a long face and a prickly looking mustache. He was attempting to smile and not quite succeeding.

  Dad was furious at the intrusion. Most people can't tell when my dad's angry—for one thing, he hardly ever is (he used to meditate). But there is something he does with his left eyebrow, just drops it a little lower than the right one and tugs it slightly toward his nose. When that happens—watch out! It was happening now as he turned to the tall man who I somehow already knew was a cop. He growled, "My daughter just woke up in the hospital, detective. Do you really think this is the best time to be asking your questions? Do you have a son or daughter? Would you think this an appropriate time if it was your family?"

  Even Mom piped in, her mouth cutting a severe line across the bottom of her face. "I have to agree with my husband. We'll certainly help if we can, but I think any questions you have can wait until morning."

  The cop nodded but continued anyway, his eyes moving from Mom to Dad to me. "I understand, folks�
��and agree with your concern—but I wouldn't be here if this wasn't urgent. The fact is we've got some banged-up, frightened kids on our hands, including three missing girls who've suddenly reappeared out of the blue. I've got a corpse in a car, a house blown to smithereens, and your daughter fished from the Flint River inside an icebox" His hard eyes measured me coolly before moving back to my parents. "I think we can all agree that I need to ask Stephanie at least a few questions right now. There might be some dangerous people running around we need to know about."

  Not anymore, I thought.

  I reached up and gently pressed the knot at the top of my head. Pain pulsed dully, making me squint. Even in a fog, I knew I had to step carefully with this detective. I hadn't thought much beyond the confrontation with Ms. Larch—I hadn't thought beyond it at all, in fact. What kind of trouble could I be in here? Probably mountains of it.

  The detective stepped to the edge of the bed and laid his hand firmly on my shoulder, eyeing my dad to make sure that was all right. He telegraphed a false smile, fixing me with gray eyes and a serious face. "Stephanie," he said, "what happened tonight?"

  I'd definitely had enough of this "Stephanie" business. I slapped on a false expression of my own: bewilderment, with just a dash of confusion and sadness thrown in for good measure. I pressed the knot on my noggin and winced. "I don't remember a thing," I lied.

  Twenty-four

  After I returned home from the hospital, I found myself on serious restriction. I had to pull an extra-long face just to be let out in the yard. Razor and I were practically on the same leash. But Mom and Dad did allow me to deliver Ms. Bones her dinner in the evenings—even let me eat with her sometimes, just to keep her company. They thought Lenora Bones was simply the sweetest little old lady. Of course, they had no idea that I'd ridden ten pounds of that little old lady's dynamite into the Flint River.

  "Knock, knock," I announced, tapping on the frosted glass of the back door. I elbowed the latch and stepped inside. Ms. Bones still had another week or so to go before she got out of her wheelchair.