RACHEL TAFOYA
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The author makes no claims to, but instead acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the word marks mentioned in this work of fiction.
Copyright © 2014 by Rachel Tafoya
The Night House by Rachel Tafoya
All rights reserved. Published in the United States of America by Month9Books, LLC.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Published by Month9Books
Cover designed by Stephanie Mooney
Cover Copyright © 2014 Month9Books
To my parents who gave me an addiction to reading.
And Jonathan, possibly my biggest fan.
Praise for THE NIGHT HOUSE
“Night House is a stunning debut by a fierce and exciting new talent. Rachel Tafoya blends intense darkness and scares with real heart to telling a compelling story of personal redemption.”
– Jonathan Maberry, New York Times bestselling author of Rot & Ruin and V-Wars
“It's easy to imagine becoming ensnared by the sinister, complicated vampires of The Night House, and the glimpse Tafoya gives us into their seedy world of brothels and addictions is nothing short of intoxicating. Pun totally intended. Read it!”
– Kendare Blake, author of Anna Dressed in Blood and Antigoddess
RACHEL TAFOYA
Part One
Buzzed
Bianca
It’s been one day since I last had nauth.
A chill is starting to set into my bones. As some giant carelessly spills orange and red over the sky, I hurry back to the Night House. This tiny black pillowcase that I call a dress is tighter than it should be, and I’m in heels that force me to walk on my toes. I never took ballet, but I’m pretty sure I’ve been walking on pointe since I came to Philly.
When I reach the building, the sun is long gone. My boss, Finn, waits behind the black double doors. I can’t see him, but I can feel him—or maybe I’m just used to his grimace greeting me. My shoes click against the stone steps. I love that sound. Sometimes I spend my days just listening to everyone walk by. The click, thud and slap of shoes are the real soundtrack of the city.
But the Night House is quiet.
Finn opens the door for me with a scowl. He could be beautiful like the others, if he tried, but he is the laziest vampire I have ever met.
“Bianca St. Germain.” His voice is bored, as usual. “You’re late.”
“Figured you’d rather I take my time than break my ankle in these shoes.” I breeze past him. The chilly night air follows me in, pawing at my back like a neglected pet.
“I can fix ankles,” Finn is still facing the door like I haven’t moved. “Your pitiful lack of manners, however…”
I shrug him off. “It’s a couple of minutes, cut me some slack.”
“This isn’t high school, Bianca. You’re not a teenager when you’re in here.”
“Sorry, I’ll start investing in stocks or something. That’s what old people do, right?”
He huffs in my direction as I feel my way around the darkness. The whole place is pitch black until the thin hallway forks. To my left, pale blue lights beckon the customers. I go right, through the heavy curtain that leads to the girls’ rooms. Vampires with their night vision don’t need guidance, but I’m fairly certain every girl has tripped at least once down here.
The doors are nearly invisible except for the strips of space at the bottom where they don’t quite reach the floor. Those spaces cast light on my feet as I teeter past on these impossible heels. They’re new, and I’m still breaking them in, but I’ve never felt this tall before.
I hear scuffling and shifting behind those doors. The other girls hide in their rooms all day. They don’t understand why I still crave the sunlight, why I don’t make my room my little home and never leave until I’m called. That’s what Finn wants me to do, what the girls think I should do, but I would rather sleep on the cracked unyielding sidewalks of Philly than in the Night House. I would rather be homeless than call this place home.
When I find my room, I turn the knob and bump my hip into it. It opens with a groan. My door has been broken for at least three months. Finn keeps saying he’ll fix it, but he couldn’t care less and we both know it. Still, I keep bugging him. I can’t give up that easily.
My room is like two closets that had the walls knocked out between them. A bed is nestled in the corner. Most of my important stuff is underneath there, like sketchbooks, novels and accessories to hide my scars. One wall is dominated by a large mirror with huge lights, like an actress might have for her dressing room. Though I’m sure an actress would have working lights. I slump into the folding chair and rest my fish-netted legs on the dresser. Makeup and various beauty tools—eyeliner, lipstick, blush—lay scattered over it. This is the only time I can bear to look at myself. Right before I become another person.
I start with the lips. Blood red, the way they like it. Then I frame my eyes in black so that the green pops. I don’t need to do anything to appear pale. That one comes naturally. But I smooth my face with lotion and foundation, and then add rosy cheeks. When I unravel my scarf, I have to close my eyes. That way, when I open them, I can pretend it’s someone else’s neck covered with scars. Some crazy girl with her makeup on. The scars are nearly invisible, thanks to Finn and his healing blood, but I can still see clumps of white scar tissue, just a shade paler than my skin. I hate not being able to cover my scars with anything—makeup doesn’t taste good.
When I am done with makeup, I change out of my dress and tights and heels and put on an awful old corset. Each girl has at least one old-fashioned outfit because sometimes vampires prefer to live in the old days. We all have different specialties. My friend Alex is all about the 1950s. I got stuck in the 19th century.
Tonight, I have an appointment with Jeremiah, and he’s very old and very proper but he’s not above throwing a tantrum if I’m not perfectly in period. Jeremiah is a regular here. For a while, he used to switch between the girls until I showed up. He’s something of a collector, and when he found out I had AB negative, he became my regular. Apparently AB neg means something, or that’s what Finn told me anyway. It’s tricky having the same guy come by all the time because you start to know each other. That doesn’t make it easier. I wish they were all strangers. Unfortunately, I know Jeremiah very well.
So I put on this musty old dress with frills and lace and after it’s on, I am a dusty layer cake. I hate Jeremiah, but he pays nicely so I always get a tip from him. That means a new sketchbook, or maybe I’ll treat myself to a cupcake.
Finn knocks on my door even though it’s open. “Jeremiah is here.”
I stifle a groan and meet his gaze.
He gives me a once over. “Fix your hair.”
“One hundred strokes, right?”
“He’s in the Fire Room.” Finn leaves before I can say anything else.
I pick up my paddle brush and make my hair as flouncy as I can, but it’s thick and heavy and sits the same way no matter what I do to it. It could take hours to make my hair salon styled. Besides, it’s fine the way it is. Maybe not 1800s fine, but Jeremiah will have to deal. It’s not my hair he comes for, anyway.
I step out of my room, and I feel like I walked out of Sense and Sensibility. I like Jane Austen. She writes happy endings.
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I hate Jeremiah.
The hallway takes me past all the doors which start to open, like night-blooming flowers. Alex flashes a smile. Her hair is full of curlers. Jessie tries to zip up her dress by herself even though we all know she can’t. Yvonne runs between her room and Jordan’s, trying to decide which shoes to wear. Both pairs are ugly.
I take the back way into the lounge, away from the front doors. One of Finn’s guys waits by the entrance. He is even less animated than Finn, which is hard to accomplish. He’s probably well paid with some name like Tank or Gunn. We both pretend this isn’t awkward, and he lets me through.
Yet another hallway lies ahead. Another thick set of curtains separates the lounge from the rooms, but I can see a bit of the blue lights on the other side. There, one of the luckier girls gets to pretend she isn’t vamp food in order to be the hostess, taking names. There, vampires sit idly on a long winding couch, tapping their feet, waiting their turn, while they ignore their thirst. There, Finn handles all the customers and tells them to be patient while the girls get ready. Then we can sneak into the rooms and appear like we’ve been there all along. We’ll ask sweetly, “What took you so long?” and they’ll blame Finn, but they’ll thank him later.
Inside the Fire Room, creatively named for being the only room with a fireplace, is where it starts. My hunger. It is different from the vamps’. It is a void, embedded deep in my veins, which can never be filled.
Nauth.
The word echoes in my head and sends chills down my spine.
I want it.
I want it now.
But I must be patient and distract myself by taking in the decorations in the Fire Room. It really seems like it was transported straight from some Victorian’s living room. From the stiff baroque curtains and the velvet couch, to the unused silverware sitting on the dark wooden table, I blend right in.
This is one big show for the vampires. The whole Night House feels like a movie set. I am an actress. Finn directs us. Still, I know it’s real. So I face the fire and let it warm my skin as I wait for everything to get too close.
James
I chase the edges of a dream as I slowly come out of sleep. It is always disappointing to wake up. Sleep is safe. I can’t get lost in someone else’s head if I’m asleep.
As the feeling returns to my body, I reach over to my nightstand. My fingers press into a chunk of clay. It forces my attention onto my own body. I lie for a couple of minutes, inhaling the scent of the clay, and mold it in my hand. For a minute, I am completely inside myself. I feel almost normal.
I take my time sitting up, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness. My afternoon nap became an evening it seems. Not that I mind. I don’t exactly have big plans. Summer break, woo-hoo. I should be excited to be a senior this year, but all I can think about is applying for college.
I press the clay into the table, leaving an imprint from my hand in its surface. Then I get out of bed, retrieve my zip-up and head for the door. The hall is empty. I don’t hear anything coming from Ally’s room—but that doesn’t mean anything. Just as I step fully out of my room, I hear a horrible scream, and then there are arms around my neck and Ally is on my back.
She hollers, “Bro attack!”
I barely remain standing and take hold of the railing for support. She secures her position by strangling me with her arms and legs, like some kind of python.
“You could’ve killed me,” I gasp.
She laughs. “What if we just went over the railing?”
“How long were you waiting to ambush me?” I hoist her into a more comfortable position.
“Dude, you gotta come see my new axe,” She deftly ignores my question. “While you were passed out, the ’rents took me to BlueBond.”
“You bought another guitar?”
“Not a guitar,” she says proudly. She steers me into her room. I hobble inside and then she leaps off my back, practically hopping over to her bed. Then, delicately, she holds up a blue acoustic. “Meet Count Basie.”
“What happened to the guitar?”
With a shrug, she sits on the floor. “Got boring. Needed to spice up my life.”
I join her on the floor. “It’s very bold.”
She strokes the neck of it. “He’s gorgeous. Do you wanna test him out with me?”
I mull over the idea. I just woke up, so my head is fairly clear—but I don’t know if I feel like it right now.
“Come on.” She sings the words, then slings the bass around her neck. “I’m ready when you are.”
“Alright, fine.” With a stretch of my arms, I sprawl out on her floor, eyes closed. I take a deep breath in and spread my arms out, away from my body.
“You’re like a little lowercase T,” Ally says with a giggle.
“Concentrating.”
“Sorry,” she whispers.
With a few more deep breaths, my muscles begin to relax. I attempt to open my mind up. “Ready.”
Ally begins playing. She is a bit of a musical prodigy—never had trouble picking up an instrument. It’s the mastering she has trouble with. The girl is so restless, she can’t stick with anything for more than a couple months.
The notes are shaky at first, but she quickly figures it out. This is our ritual. She plays one of her many instruments, and I play along with her. Not physically. Mentally. As she plucks the strings and creates chords, I feel the pressure in my own fingers, the reverberation of the acoustic bass in my chest, and the muscles in my arms flexing.
I have this thing. For as long as I can remember, it’s been a part of me. Pure empathy, that’s how Ally describes it. I can feel anything and everything in the people around me. I feel their muscles working, their happiness, their sadness. A stomachache, a bug bite, a school crush. Any raw feeling, I can feel it too.
It can get pretty tiresome, so I have a lot of ways to try to deal with it. This is one of them. Ally allows me to feel her playing music. It’s good, both because I can try to pinpoint the muscles precisely, and also because playing music makes Ally calmer. The calmer I am, the more control I have.
Ally’s hands are moving too quickly, and the movements are blurring inside my head.
“Take it easy, Jimi Hendrix.”
“Sorry, bro.” She slows down.
I lift my arms up and try to match her position. Then I let my body take over, and I begin plucking imaginary strings, moving my hand across invisible frets.
“Yeah,” she says. “Look at you go. You’re a regular guitar hero.”
She begins picking up the pace. Ally likes to push me. Sometimes, I can handle it. The notes start getting complicated and at first, I can keep up. I feel weirdly proud of myself. Then I start to feel Ally’s pride for me, like a weight placed onto my forehead. The wall that I carefully built between her brain and mine begins to dissolve. I can’t help it—I start to feel the giant ball of yarn that is her constant emotional state. I feel the soreness in her legs from walking through town and how hungry she is, and the calluses on her fingers and a spike of guilt that I can’t identify. Her excitement over the exercise and the bass is overwhelming.
“Stop.”
It goes quiet. She sets the bass down, crawling a little closer. “You need something? You want your clay?”
“I’ve got this,” I tell her, though I’m not sure that’s true. I want it to be true. I want to be able to control this ability. I don’t want to feel like I have to invade everyone’s personal space. I hate it. I really do. It gives me nothing but pain.
I focus on my breathing. I count in my head, in time with my breaths. I feel my lungs fill up with air, my chest rising and falling. Ally begins to fade from my grasp. Soon, she is nothing but a dull ache in my head.
“You good?” she asks after a minute.
“I think so.”
“Bro, your hands were moving faster than I’ve ever seen.” She smiles, like it’s a good thing. “You could make a living o
ut of being someone’s ghost guitarist. Like if they’re too shy to play in front of crowds, you could just stand up there and pretend to play for them.”
I manage a laugh. “Yeah, and they’d love me for that.”
“People are weird, man,” she says. “Maybe there’s some Boo Radley super star guitarist who can’t get gigs because he’s a recluse and never bathes, but like, he secretly wants to be famous.”
I pull myself up off the floor. Sometimes I think my biological parents had this ability, too, and that’s why they gave me up. But I don’t like to think about my biological parents because then I have to think about the fact that they gave me up.
It doesn’t matter. I have a family now. My adoptive parents used to be foster parents for kids waiting for relatives to be identified. Ally stayed with them, and they grew to love her. When none of Ally’s relatives came for her, the Fieldses adopted her. And when I was twelve and fostering with them, Ally convinced the Fieldses to adopt me too. I owe her a lot because of that. This is the best family I’ve ever been with. It’s why I changed my last name to Fields. My adoptive parents, Amanda and Neil, still don’t know about my empathy. They think I’m agoraphobic with OCD. They’re not exactly wrong.
“Hey, you know what’s happening tonight?”
“Something I don’t want to go to?” I ask.
She sticks her tongue out. “It’s Shell’s birthday party.”
Shell, with her round face, soft dark hair, and a healing hamstring that I can’t help but feel when she comes back from lacrosse practice.
“How many people are going?”
Ally shrugs. “I don’t know. Probably not that many. You know Shell, she’s a bit shy. Perfect for you, really. Straight edge, but not stuck-up. Cute. Honor student like you.”
I shove Ally’s knee. The contact sends a wave of Ally through me.
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