Flying to Ventura gives me about an hour to think. My stupid overactive heart is trying to make me feel bad about going home and leaving the psycho vampires to continue murdering people. My functioning brain is laughing at it. The idea of those vampires harvesting people off the street like ripe tomatoes with personal electronics and generalized anxiety horrifies me, but it isn’t my place to go in there and kick ass.
There’s also the slight problem of me not being able to do so.
No one’s really explained the power curve to me. I don’t know how long it’s going to take before the idea of fighting an elder goes from impossible to slight chance of survival. Might not be the same for everyone. Case in point: Furies—or Beasts. Their entire thing is physical strength. Furies are a bit stronger, but only in short, intense bursts. Beasts are always strong… and they look it. A Fury could be as scrawny as someone from my family yet still be able to chuck a car at someone. Most Beasts would make pro wrestlers feel average.
Good chance anyone in those two bloodlines would end up on reasonable footing squaring off in a fight against an elder a lot sooner than any other bloodline, especially Innocents. So, there is no point whatsoever to me contemplating direct action against the crazy ones any time soon. Cody and Ben will be long dead from old age before I’ve got the slightest chance of surviving a fight with ‘Mario or Luigi.’
Another problem, there is a Mario and a Luigi. Two elders. Plus whatever is in the house. Yeah, combat is not the answer here. Nor is talking. I’m making assumptions, but a kill-feeder vampire is going to react to me asking them nicely to stop murdering people about the same way the average Texan would react to a vegan asking them nicely to stop eating beef. Probably way worse. Trying to talk the ‘Klopeks’ down is about as reckless as visiting Chicago and putting ketchup on a hot dog in public.
Sophia did it during one of our road trip vacations. She’d been five at the time, and too small-slash-adorable for anyone to threaten with a knife, but I distinctly remember several people (including a nun) telling my parents they failed to raise us properly and ‘set their children on a path to destruction’ or something suitably melodramatic.
So yeah. I’m torn.
Leaving the situation alone feels bad and there’s nothing I can do about it. Cassandra’s most likely going to ignore it. As Jermaine said, dog poop in someone else’s yard. Only real question is where am I going to be standing when the lawnmower hits it. Some of them winced at the term ‘kill-feeding,’ but not all. How much effect does vampirism have on a person being insensitive to the idea of death? Does it happen in degrees? Do wolves ever feel the least bit guilty for eating rabbits?
But… vampires don’t have to kill to feed. A wolf who tried to eat without killing would be nasty as hell. It’s pretty damn sadistic to partially eat a rabbit and leave it alive. It’s not an option for wolves—or any carnivore—to eat and not kill their prey. Have I had this debate with myself before? Vampires are human fleas. More parasite than predator. We suck out a little bit of a person’s life energy and leave them to their lives, feeling a little tired and dazed, wondering how ten minutes disappeared. Basically, we’re a checkout line at Walmart.
Whatever. I have to get home. My only reasonable choice here is to let things play out as they’re going to play out. Not my place to make waves here. Whatever responsibility is on me for the boys being involved in this, I’m going to fix and then go home.
I’ll zip in the window, explain the reality of their situation, and cap it off with a mental command if need be. Need to do something subtle and not directly against their instincts, so it lasts longer. Hmm. Should I make them afraid the vampires are too powerful? Give them a near-irrational fear of going near the old funeral home? Ugh. Might backfire. A direct command not to go there will eventually wear off and they’ll realize what I did. Knowing them, they’d freak out and feel like I’d been tricking them all along and go back to thinking all vampires deserve to be destroyed.
The bedroom window is closed, so I divert to land on the sidewalk instead. The house next door’s having a party in the front yard. Bunch of college-age people all hanging out drinking beer and blasting Spanish reggae-rap.
No wonder the boys closed their window.
I walk up to the house, stopping at the point where the little path to the porch intersects the sidewalk. The people hanging out next door don’t see me in the dark. Huh, all the dreamcatchers and stuff are gone. Oops. Hang on. This place is beige, not blue—my color vision’s a little weak in night vision mode. This isn’t the boys’ house. Drat. I’d been so distracted by the argument in my head about what to do I landed in the wrong place. I pull out my phone and open the navigation app. Yeah, I’m three streets north of the Peters’ place. Guess I mostly remembered where to go. Not bad trying to navigate by memory for my first time in this area.
Grumbling, I stuff the phone back in my pocket.
A sudden burst of firecrackers goes off from the direction of the house party. Cringing, I look up at the idiots—and everything goes black.
27
Nine Millimeter Migraine
Ooookay. This is weird.
I’m floating in an infinite black void, unable to see my body. Trying to wave my arms around doesn’t do anything, nor can I touch myself. No, not like that. I mean like a hand to the face. My existence appears to have been reduced to a pair of eyes in a jar of black paint.
What the hell happened? Is this astral projection?
“Aww, too damn young,” says a male voice from empty space a few feet in front of me. “What a damn shame. Sorry, kiddo. Gotta cut you out of those clothes.”
Aww, dammit. Not again.
My eyes snap open to the glare of bright fluorescent lights and a white drop ceiling. A man of indeterminate age (due to a teal hairnet and facemask) stands over me, lifting the bottom of my T-shirt so he can slide a huge pair of scissors under the fabric. In the span of a single second, I process my situation. I’m flat on my back upon a steel table. Still dressed except for my shoes. I’ve got a major headache like I’ve been hit in the head by a metal baseball bat or tried to explain to ‘Tiffani with an I’ at Starbucks she gave Sierra the wrong drink.
Before the dude can close the scissors and ruin my shirt, I grab his wrist, push it away from me, and sit up.
“Hey! Stop. I’m not dead.”
Dude lets out a long high C note like the Terminator kicked Pavarotti in the nuts—and collapses.
I look down at him, feeling a little guilty for scaring the guy so bad he fainted, but the instant my brain processes a living human five feet away from me, a huge rush of hunger takes over. Completely on autopilot, I dive off the table onto the guy and bite him on the neck to feed. I’ve gotta look like the vampire version of some feral street kid seeing food for the first time in days.
Throbbing in my head worsens. Oh, ick. There’s a small tunnel all the way through my brain. So weird feeling cold air inside my head.
Realizing I’m kind of manic, I concentrate on regaining my powers of reason and manage to stop myself before taking too much blood from the guy. It’s a bit like going all day without food, then being given half a small hamburger. However, I can find another two people to bite. Not gonna kill anyone.
Easy, Sarah. Get a grip.
Shit. How many days did I lose this time?
Can’t be too long. I’m not naked. Waking up barefoot is no big deal. I stand, but my body doesn’t really want to cooperate, drunkenly swooning over to one side. Flailing, I grab the edge of the slab I’d been lying on for balance, and cling. The heck? Did they inject me with something? The room is spinning and my legs feel like jelly. If I let go of the steel table, I’m going down.
A wheeled tray cart nearby holds a cardboard box containing my sneakers, socks, and everything out of my pockets: iPhone, two tissues, like thirty bucks, keys, two Lifesavers mints I’ve been carrying for six months, and my cheap bracelets. Glad I left my purse at home. No wallet or ID on me, so no
one here has any idea who I am.
I edge to my left, closer to the cart, and risk removing one hand from the table to grab my phone. Takes me two tries before my hand goes where I want it to. I fumble the iPhone out of the box onto the table in front of me, then swipe at the screen so the time and date appears. Whew. Still Sunday, March 11th. Alas, I did lose several hours. It’s 11:19 p.m. Grr! I almost pound a dent into the steel table out of frustration. Texts from Ashley asking where I am beg me to answer, but I have to get out of the morgue—or wherever I am—first.
It’s excruciatingly tedious to perform fine hand motions, but I manage to one-finger type a response to Ash.
‹Can’t talk. WSA. Will text ASAP.›
WSA is our secret code for ‘weird shit alert.’ Means vampy stuff happened I am afraid to send out there for the NSA to eavesdrop on. With difficulty, I pull myself up to sit on the slab and reclaim my socks and sneakers, then stuff everything back in my pockets. For a second it feels as if I’m going to fall headfirst into the empty cardboard box, but my sense of equilibrium comes back online.
Whoa, this is trippy.
Okay. I can do this. Walking is easy. Even a three-year-old can manage it.
I push off my seat—and crumple to the floor on top of the dude. Dammit.
Again, I reach up to grab the table and pull myself upright, trying to concentrate on balance. Bit by bit, I shift my weight until letting go of the table doesn’t send me teetering. Wow, is this headache so bad it’s affecting my coordination? Even moving my arms feels as if I’m playing a video game on a crappy internet connection. Everything happens a second or two after I try to do it and doesn’t necessarily go in the right direction. Trying to touch my finger to my nose results in me slapping myself in the mouth.
Having been drunk only once or twice, I’m not at all used to it. Last time overdoing it, I ended up headfirst in Tiffany Hoffman’s clothes hamper. Okay, nothing is impossible. I’ve beaten worse odds than trying to walk across a room. Also, what’s happened to me can’t be inebriation unless someone force-fed me alcohol-laced blood while unconscious.
Holding my arms out for balance, I begin the drunken sway for the door. Three steps veering right, four steps veering left, near collapse, two steps careening to the right—and I fall against a giant steel box. I’m still upright, which is good. Leaning against the wall… or no. I’m leaning against a fridge or something. It’s sorta reflective, but not quite a mirror. My attention shifts from trying to figure out what I’m looking at to focusing on the blurry smear of my reflection. Specifically, the red spot on my forehead.
Uh oh. Does not look good.
I pull my phone out again, fumble the camera open and flip it to selfie mode.
Right above my left eyebrow, a hole about the size of my index finger lets me peek into my brain. Physically. Not via telepathy. Wait, my brain. Wouldn’t be telepathy there, more like introspective meditation. Telepathy is seeing into other people’s brains.
Holy shitballs. I’ve been shot in the head. Great. I’ve always wanted to know what it felt like to be shot in the head… not.
The last thing I remember is being in the wrong place. Couple streets over and firecrackers. Revving engine. Oh, son of a bitch. Hi, My name is Sarah and I’m an innocent bystander killed during a drive-by shooting. Wow. Those actually happen, like in the real world?
And shit, this looks painful. Doesn’t at all hurt like it appears it would. Just a headache.
I move the phone closer, examining the bullet hole. It doesn’t look as big as I figured a bullet hole would be. I pat around the back of my head, expecting a horror show, but everything feels normal there. Either no exit wound or I’ve stitched myself back together. Healing a major wound would definitely explain my hunger.
Dammit. Well, brain damage might explain why I can barely walk. What the crap am I supposed to do here? How long am I going to stagger around like a drunken emu on high-heeled ice skates? Ugh. Whatever. Can’t stay here to be found. Someone seems me walking around with an obviously fatal injury, it’s going to cause a poop storm. I risk another step toward the door, lose control of myself, and go over sideways. Crashing onto the hard tiles on my side sets off an atomic bomb in my skull. Ever have a headache so damn horrible it triggered vomiting? Yeah. That’s me right now except I can’t throw up. I haven’t eaten ordinary food to throw up and my vampire side refuses to part with the insufficient meal.
When the convulsions stop, I push myself up to kneel.
The guy moans.
Oh, shit. I’m a dumbass. Hey, I’ve been shot in the head. I’m allowed a momentary derp. Gotta fix his memory or the PIBs are gonna be all over me. Hope the bullet didn’t hit the part of the brain responsible for vampire mental powers.
I drag myself across the floor to the guy, climb half onto him, and crawl around so his face isn’t upside down to me. Not sure if it matters for telepathy, but he looks too funny upside down for me to focus.
Concentrating on invading his thoughts lets me into his head as easily as normal. So weird. My physical coordination is in the toilet, but telepathy is totally fine. Whatever. No time to waste analyzing it now. This guy doesn’t know too much about me other than the police dropping me off as a Jane Doe. They showed my photo around the area of the shooting but no one could identify me. Good. Brown haired ‘girl next door’ types like me tend to blur into people’s memory pretty fast.
The cops think I’m fourteen or fifteen. This guy felt horrible for me. Aww. Yeah, I’m too squishy. I feel guilty for making him sad. At least I can fix this problem. A minute later, the guy doesn’t remember ever seeing me or any young girl come in ‘dead’. As far as he’s concerned, he’s hasn’t started his shift yet. The time he spent prepping me and lying unconscious on the floor, I backfill with a vague memory of standing around talking about random stuff with the cops.
Okay. Done. Normally, I’d put him in a chair or something, but I don’t trust myself to do much more than crawl at the moment. Trying to lift this guy is going to end with his skull smashed open on the floor. Totally feel like I’m a legit zombie. Can barely stand. Can’t walk in a straight line, and I’m falling over every ten steps. The headache is so bad it’s giving me a blind spot, too. Ugh. This is totally miserable. I’d once been snapped in half, my spine shattered. Literally had my ass on top of my head for a few minutes. While that hurt much more than this in terms of screaming pain, my present circumstances are so miserably unpleasant, I’d rather be broken in half again.
I manage to drag myself past a pair of flapping doors into a clinical hallway saturated in creepy institutional white. It’s hard to say where I am due to everything being blurry—either a hospital, medical examiner’s office, or some such place. A door to my right opens, revealing a pudgy dude in a dark security uniform.
“Holy shit!” yells the guy. “Goddamned zom—”
Whack. Derp hammer time. Can’t ’member this, dun dun dun.
He stares into space, drooling.
My attempt to walk closer sends me falling into him, knocking the guy against the wall and sending us both to the floor. Whatever. I can work with the floor.
Nom.
Ooh, donuts.
So dangerous to feed on blood flavored like donuts when I’m near starved. My sanity’s much more secure at least, so I don’t have any problem stopping before doing serious damage to him. He, too, gets a little ‘forget seeing me’ memory surgery. Since I still lack the physical coordination to safely move him, he’s going to think he stepped on a wet spot and slipped.
The next few minutes are kinda blurry. Next thing I know, I’m crawling along a row of filing cabinets. The room has no windows. Mmm. Floor under a desk. Comfy. I flop on my face, staring across grey linoleum. Ow. Ow. Ow.
“Hey, Siri?” I mutter, my voice a little distorted due to my cheek being mushed on the floor.
My phone beeps.
“Text Ashley. Tell her I’m gonna be late. WSA.”
Pain is gon
e.
I realize I’m conscious again, still face-down on the floor. Mental clarity is back. Yeah, having a literal hole in my head made it somewhat hard to think. I’m in the mood for a snack but not proper hungry. Ugh. Is landing on the wrong street and being shot in the head a message from the Universe telling me not to leave the area yet or does my luck simply blow?
Groaning, I roll over onto my back, happy to see my coordination is normal. No more lag. No headache. Phone out. I use the camera to check the spot like a popular girl hoping a pimple is gone. Awesome! No hole in my forehead. Cool. Seems I woke up way before my body wanted to wake up due to the guy about to strip me. I’m sure my vampire nature couldn’t care less about clothing. Most likely, ‘tampering with my body’ set off the survival instinct. Or maybe a live person coming close enough to smell woke me up so I could eat… and after dealing with the disturbance, some deep, dark part of my psyche took over and moved me to a safe place to continue sleeping.
Shit. I probably lost a day.
Grumbling, I sit up.
I’m more than shocked to see a guy in the room next to me, casually sitting on the floor, his back against the side of a black filing cabinet. He’s Hispanic, around my age, wearing a Lakers jersey and cargo shorts.
“Hey. What’s up?” he asks.
“Me.” I swipe at my phone. Monday, March 12th, 4:53 p.m. “Aww, crap.”
“Yeah. Aw crap is right, yo.”
I glance over at him. The edges of his body appear hazy and indistinct. Oh, no. Ghost. “Sorry…”
“Ain’t your fault. Scrawny little punk ass Miguel.”
“Sorry you died, I mean. I’m Sarah.”
“Javier.”
“We got caught in a drive-by shooting, didn’t we?” Grr. I should’ve been able to duck in time. If I hadn’t been staring at my phone… Yeah, my luck. Most girls walk into stop signs or trip into mall fountains due to smartphone fixation. Me? Bullet to the head. Seriously? Sometimes I really feel like a character in one of Dad’s movies. What can go weirdly wrong in a funny yet dark way next?
Vampire Innocent (Book 10): A Vampire’s Guide To Adulting Page 26