Your shirt was a ruin so you may keep mine. It has been washed, as have your jeans. I will never understand the aversion teenagers have to laundry; you perplex and fascinate me in your strangeness.
The concierge has been handsomely tipped and all room costs are paid in full. There is orange juice and a selection of sports drinks in the refrigerator, which will help with your headache. I recommend you try to include as much red meat in your diet as possible for the next few days. I have been told blueberries are also a help with the cravings, and have personally found tea a reliable source of comfort and sustenance.
It was a pleasure to meet you.
Blake
There are five new messages on his phone, three from Michelle and two from Tommy, all asking where he is and if he’ll meet them after school at Michelle’s even though he’s not in class. The clock on his phone display says it’s one-oh-nine in the afternoon.
Jay drinks an orange juice and watches twenty minutes of the first Lord of the Rings on the pay-movies channel, just because it’s the most expensive thing on the list and his headache is making him feel cranky and petty. Blake’s shirt is soft and a little too big, and makes Jay look strange and dangerous, standing barefoot in a five-star hotel room and thinking about blood.
BETTE
More people turn up than Bette would’ve expected, if she’d actually thought about whether or not there were a lot of people at her school who wanted to be in a musical. Turns out there are, anyway.
There’s Jenna Chamberlain, that catty blonde senior who treats everyone like shit and will probably end up some vapid popstar actress scientologist millionaire with a sex tape on the Internet before her five-year class reunion.
There’s Michelle Winters, Tommy’s sorta-girlfriend, or whatever cool people call it when you regularly hook up. Michelle’s voice is nicer than Jenna’s, but she just stands there and sings and doesn’t make eye contact with anybody, so Bette ruefully assumes that Jenna’s got a better chance out of the two.
After Michelle, there are a few other kids from Tommy’s grade, guys and girls Bette vaguely recognizes but doesn’t know the names of.
A guy Bette thinks she might have Math with tries out and is surprisingly good, forceful and energetic and kind of crazy as he throws himself into singing. When he’s done, Rose calls ‘hey, Jamie, over here!’ and the guy, Jamie, goes over and sits next to her on the bench. Bette wonders how come she’s never met this Jamie guy if he and Rose are friends, but when she glares at them Rose gives her this hurt look like Bette’s the one being weird.
Rose’s audition is great. Her voice isn’t as pretty as Michelle or Jenna’s—probably because Michelle and Jenna don’t smoke, Bette thinks—but it’s more interesting, and nobody watching would ever suspect that Rose gets stage fright just from being around all her cousins and grandparents at Christmas.
Rose glances over to where Bette sits with the CD player as soon as the song ends. Bette gives her the thumbs up and Rose grins, grateful, slinking away from the center of attention and back to the bench.
“I’ll post the cast list outside the Drama staff room in a few days,” Mrs. Rush says after everyone’s had a turn. They’re all filing out of the gym when Bette sees Jenna lean in close to Rose’s ear and say “You sounded like an oinking little pig up here, Rose. I felt so embarrassed for you. Stupid fat bitches shouldn’t be seen or heard if they can help it.”
So Bette’s got no choice to pull on Jenna’s shiny blonde hair as hard as she can, and Jenna squeals in pain and sounds way more like a pig than Rose ever could, so Bette’s giggling as she darts away out of sight and waits for Rose to catch up with her.
At the end of recess two of Jenna’s stupid jock boyfriends grab Bette and shove her in a locker, and by the time she gets out she’s missed most of Chemistry. That pisses her off, and so does the detention she gets for being late to class, but Bette doesn’t want to give Jenna any reason to do anything worse and so she doesn’t tell anyone what happened.
After detention, she walks home across the highway overpass, watching the rush-hour traffic roar past down below. She thinks about climbing over to the other side of the railing, out where it isn’t safe and there’s nothing between her and death but the wind. But it’s warm and still sunny, even though it’s getting late, so Bette can’t make herself think about death seriously enough to bother climbing the rail.
She goes around to Rose and Tommy’s instead. Tommy’s out, and so Rose and Bette smoke a lot and drink a little bit of a bottle of vodka between the two of them, not bothering with glasses, and watch The Texas Chainsaw Massacre and Suspiria.
JAY
By the time Jay gets to Michelle’s, the bruises are nothing but a faint purple-blue smudge, and he’s feeling better. It still surprises and amazes him how resilient his body always is; he could probably walk away from anything if he stayed alive long enough to start recovering.
“Who is she?” Michelle asks as soon as the three of them are all in the kitchen. Michelle’s house is crazy huge because her parents are art dealers, and her kitchen’s full of brushed stainless steel appliances and black marble countertops. There’s always amazing food in the fridge, too, because they’ve got a housekeeper who went to culinary school. Today there’s a plate of fresh sushi waiting for Michelle and her friends, so she and Tommy and Jay stand around a countertop and snack happily as they talk.
“He,” Jay corrects. “Just a guy. You don’t know him.”
“Should’ve known.” Michelle rolls her eyes. “Tom here’s got custody of the heterosexuality at the moment, after all. You two are like that Greek myth about the three women who have one eye they pass back and forth between them. You’ve only got one straight between you.”
She stands up on her tiptoes and gives Tommy a lingering kiss, like she’s trying to make it clear that she’s quite pleased that he’s into girls lately. Jay doesn’t love it when they go through phases like this—even though he knows it isn’t the case, it always makes him feel like a third wheel.
“I’m at least ninety-four percent hetero, all the time,” Tommy informs her. “Your theory’s crap.”
“You’re ninety-four percent and Jay’s about six percent. So you see? You’ve got one full het to share between you.”
Jay eats another avocado seaweed roll. “Please tell me you’re flunking Math. There’s no justice in the world if you can get away with logic like that.”
Michelle shrugs. “There isn’t any justice in the world anyway.” She grins. “Might as well make that work in my favor.”
They hang out until evening. Jay’s not thrilled at the prospect of heading home to his still, silent little apartment in the box-like complex of student accommodation. He’s the only high schooler amongst a whole lot of college students, but somehow he ends up feeling like an immature kid all the time instead of the old-for-his-age feeling such a situation should, by all rights, inspire.
He heads for the mall instead, where most of the stores are still open for after-work shoppers. There’s nobody Jay knows hanging around the food court or the arcade, though, so he doesn’t really have a good excuse to stick around.
On his way to the exit, he passes the pet store, and at the pet store is Blake, watching the animals in the window display.
Jay didn’t think he’d ever see Blake again. Certainly not so soon, and absolutely not outside a suburban pet store dressed in expensive jeans and a dark red shirt.
Jay hesitates for a half-second, then gives up his pretense at indecision and goes over to stand beside Blake.
“I sincerely hope you’re not buying a puppy or kitten as a midnight snack, because trust me, that’s far tackier than any bargaining could ever hope to be.”
Blake’s smile is small, but it looks genuine. “I didn’t take you for an animal rights campaigner.”
“I’m surprised you bothered to make any assumptions about me at all, considering we’ve only met once.”
“Indeed, but you were serv
ing quail wrapped in bacon at the time, if I recall correctly. Hardly the fare of a staunch defender of God’s creatures.”
“That’s a fair point,” Jay concedes. “I do feel that there’s a difference between bacon and puppies, though. I’m going to think less of you if you eat a puppy.”
Another smile quirks Blake’s mouth for a moment before smoothing. “What a distressing threat. But you needn’t worry. I give you my word that it hadn’t even occurred to me to, as you so charmingly put it, eat a puppy.”
There’s enough amusement glimmering in Blake’s dark eyes to prompt a searching look from Jay. “…because you’re buying a kitten, right?”
Blake’s laugh is sharp and musical. “Quite.”
“You’re seriously buying a kitten, as a pet? I wouldn’t have thought most coffins had room for a litter tray.”
“I’d like to think you already know me well enough to know better than that.” Blake schools his face into a look of hurt and disappointment. “Honestly, a coffin? How gauche.”
“Feather beds all the way, then?”
“On the contrary. Innerspring mattresses are one of the small pleasures of modern luxury. Ah, yes, hello.” These last words are directed at the pet store assistant approaching them, bland customer-service smile firmly in place on her face.
“Can I help you guys with anything?”
“I’d like to buy that tabby, please.” Blake points to the tiny, gray-striped cat in the corner of the case, who is currently attacking a toy mouse with playful, vicious determination.
“Great! I’ll bring the forms out. Do you want to take her now?”
Blake nods. “Yes. I’ll buy a carrier as well, and all the usual accouterments.”
“Yeah, she’s a lively one. Best to get a carrier,” the shop girl agrees. Jay can practically see her melting under the heat of Blake’s charm. He wonders if she’ll wake up tomorrow with a dark hickey and fuzzy memories of the night before, and is surprised at himself for the flicker of jealousy the idea stirs in him. By the time he’s come back to himself, the girl’s gone to the back of the store to fetch the forms, and Blake is watching the romping kittens.
“So why the cat? Honestly.”
Blake doesn’t look away from the litter as he answers. “A gift to a dear friend. He’s always had an abundance of horses and dogs and songbirds, and I suspect he misses their company. Companions in need of conversation can tire the best of us.”
Jay wants to say that he doubts that Blake ever gets sick of the sound of his own voice, but thinks better of it. “So why a kitten, not a puppy, if this friend is used to dogs?”
“A personal preference. Timothy’s home and my home are one in the same, and I’ve always been fond of animals who require the minimum of attention and can entertain themselves.”
“So you’re a cat person. Cat vampire, whatever. I’m learning all kinds of new stuff about you today,” Jay says, only half-teasing.
“They can’t live without meat, you know. Dogs are far closer to humans in that respect—they can thrive on almost any diet if need be, vegetarian and omnivore alike. A cat, however, relies on its predatory nature to sustain it. Without its hunt and kill, it will waste away and die.”
Jay blinks, then blinks again. “Did I smoke a bunch of crack I can’t remember doing, or did you seriously just try to make a metaphor for vampirism out of a tiny fuzzy kitten that’s currently asleep in its food bowl? Because I think you might want to do a bit more work on that one.”
“They’re sleek and elegant bringers of death,” Blake insists.
“Do vampires chase balls of string? Enjoy cans of tuna as a special treat? Leap out from under chairs to attack unsuspecting ankles?” asks Jay, doing his best to keep a straight face but losing the battle. “It’s okay, dude. I promise I won’t think you any less intimidating just because you’re buying the tiniest, least intimidating pet I’ve ever seen in my life.”
Blake sighs. “Nobody ever talked to me like this in Europe, you know.”
“Yeah, but I bet I have cooler hair than some Romanian peasant or whatever.”
Now it’s Blake’s turn to bite back a smirk. “I only spent time in Germany and then Italy, in fact. In the last century, anyway. But they did indeed use much less hair gel, and whatever other… concoctions are required to create such a remarkably trendy style.”
“Like I said. Cooler.”
“Come back with me.” Blake’s jovial tone remains, but the offer is obviously meant sincerely. “You can help the cat get settled.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to offer me some candy while you’re at it? I don’t make a habit of being lured into vampire dens by the promise of kittens.”
“Almost everyone will be out, this early in the evening.”
“Because,” Jay specifies, “They’re biting people and drinking their blood.”
“Yes,” Blake agrees, sounding like he’s torn between being annoyed and entertained. “Because they’re doing that. Timothy and Alexander will be there, but probably nobody else. I suspect you’ll like them both.”
“Hm.” Jay makes a face, as if he’s having a really hard time weighing up the pros and cons. There’s no reason to let Blake know that Jay’s brain has apparently decided to have a crush on a vampire. “All right. But I’m buying some juice and cookies on the way—I woke up with a deadly hangover today.”
~
The townhouse is one of the old, huge, stately brownstones that have been there since forever, refined serenity blending into the architecture around it with a sort of care-worn dignity.
Jay remembers how many locks were on the vampire houses he knew, a lifetime ago, and so he’s unsurprised to see Blake enter a long and complex code of numbers into a steel keypad beside the handle on the front door. The lock releases with an electronic beep and Blake opens the door, gesturing to indicate that Jay may step inside first.
The entry space has a towering ceiling, stretching up and open two stories above the ground level around the coiled central staircase and hanging chandeliers. The flooring underneath Jay’s feet is a marquetry pattern of vines and roses, shades of brown and red-brown, rich against the paler brown of the wood of the rest of the floor.
Blake steps beside him, glancing around. “Nobody home, just as I predicted. Most of the group maintain quarters on this level. We’re heading up.” He nods to the staircase and begins to climb, the handle of the cat carrier still held lightly from one palm. Jay follows, steadying himself against the distinctive ivy-vine handrails that curl and twist along with the steps.
As they pass the second level of the house and continue up, Jay glances at the mostly-darkened rooms. He can hear the gentle hum of a computer server somewhere out of sight.
“Here we are. Pinnacle of the temple,” Blake says as they reach the top of the stairs, which opens out onto a landing bordered by built-in shelving from floor to ceiling, hundreds and hundreds of books interrupted intermittently by dark wood doors.
“Alexander, Timothy and I share the rooms up here. We’re the owners,” Blake explains. “Here, come on.”
He opens one of the doors, leading Jay into a large and well-lit drawing room. There are more bookshelves in here, too, along one of the walls, and the others are papered in ivory and taupe striped silk. A window seat looks out over the neighborhood, which looks so dark compared to the warm glow of the recessed lighting inside the room. The floor around the window seat is strewn with colorful pillows in every shade and print Jay can imagine. There are two armchairs upholstered in green brocade, and a glossy black and gilt day bed piled with still more books and a richly-textured, plum-colored throw rug.
In the centre of the polished wood floor a vampire is sitting in front of a large square of black velvet, the cloth laid out with cogs and springs and clockwork. The vampire is wearing a black pinstripe suit and a pale blue shirt, his blue tie unknotted and lying unbound through his unfastened collar. His feet are bare and his hair is a little longer than Blak
e’s, darker and straight, and his features and complexion are Chinese. The expression on his features is coldly haughty and, like Blake, like almost every other vampire Jay has ever known or heard of, he is strikingly lovely to look at.
“Alexander, this is Jason. Jason, this is Alexander. He’s often distracted by shiny objects,” Blake explains.
Alexander nods, then looks down at the cogs arranged before him again. “I came across an old musical box. It’s not working —”
“Well, yes, it’s in very small pieces on the floor; few musical boxes do in such a state.”
“—but I think I can fix it if I try,” Alexander concludes, blithely ignoring Blake’s interruption. Jay decides that yes, Blake was right—he likes Alexander already.
Off to one side of the carefully spread cloth is a haphazard heap of papers, frail letters opened many times and the water-pale colors of old photographs. The topmost paper, a carefully clipped and gently yellowing newspaper article, has a smeared red-brown thumb print across its paragraphs. There’s a damp hand-towel beside the little heap, spotted with a few streaks and splotches of the same gory shade.
It’s easy enough for Jay to reconstruct how the scene would have played out: Alexander, returning with his prize and sitting down with it on the floor. His hand reaching into the little black-lacquered case to pull out the contents and toss them aside. The noticed thumb print left behind, and the necessity of the hand towel to clean off any other blood traces on his hands. It wouldn’t do to get the cogs dirty, after all.
Jay looks away. The keeper of these memories is almost without a doubt dead now, perhaps not even cold yet, and without them alive to give the mementos meaning and context, the things are nothing but that, things. Might as well throw them aside like garbage.
Jay decided a long time ago that he wasn’t going to bother with feeling sad about dead people, or trying to respect or honor the things they cared about. The dead don’t care one way or another, after all.
The Wolf House: The Complete Series Page 4