I welcomed her chatter. “Not a journalist, Allie. I write books.”
“You're kidding.” She was flirting again, looking my body over while she talked.
Nothing new. I must look good in some crucial way that mattered, because women have always been aware of me and turned for a second glance.
“Not kidding.” Every bit of me felt jumpy and Allie was battering at my senses. But I couldn't quite resist the game. “What? You think I’m not smart enough to write books? Or not old enough?”
She flushed and shifted closer. “Are you a student?”
“I take classes, yes.” Half smile. “Do you?”
“No. Maybe someday. I don’t know. I mean, I just graduated high school last year. What kind of books do you write?”
The scent of female made me lean towards her. “Novels,” I said.
“Really?”
“Yes, really. Do you read much, Allie?” Her name rolled off my tongue like honey.
“Magazines, sometimes. When I get my hair done. I just had it cut.” She spun in a circle, posing for me. “Do you like it?”
I had to admit the spiky cut suited her. “Looks cute.”
“Thanks. I saw a photo online and copied it. Now my neck gets cold.” She giggled. “So what kind of stories do you write?”
“Part historical, part fantasy.” I could have this girl, if I wanted.
Her eyes perked with interest in my writing, but I knew it was pretense. That's okay. I was pretending, too. “Do you make the stories up?” she said.
“Well, yes. That’s what fiction writers do.”
“Could I read one?”
“You could, but you wouldn’t know it was mine. I use a nom de plume.”
Her forehead wrinkled. “What’s that?”
“A fake name. I don’t use my real name as the author.”
“Why not?” She bent close and looked at the screen again. I felt her leg brush mine.
She’s younger than she looks. This would be so easy, if I pursued it. “Some writers use a couple of secret names. Allie. Perhaps it’s part of maintaining privacy.”
She nodded. “What’s your writing name?”
I looked at the gentle curve of her mouth. “If I tell you, it won’t be secret anymore.”
“Yeah, but I won’t tell. Are you famous? Have I heard of you?”
“Not if you don’t read novels.” Sex. My gut rolled. With a little effort on my part, I bet Allie would be willing.
She shifted to one leg. “Tell me. Please?” My eyes dropped to those legs. Her uniform skirt was at mid-thigh. Looking good.
Oh man, what was I doing? This had to stop. “Nope, but thanks for the refill.”
She frowned for a second then gave me a nose squint and went inside. Both of me watched her go. Tempting, but I wouldn't act on that temptation. Those days were gone.
Without her to distract me, discomfort returned. The morning air continued to be filtered by the undercurrent of buzzing energy. Nothing I could particularly identify. Maybe it was a barometric thing, the pressure that makes kids squirm on rainy days. Yet, there was no rain and absolutely no sense of danger. I gulped hot coffee, seeking the burn that didn’t burn me at all.
Nothing scheduled until afternoon, so I lingered on the patio. An older couple sat near the sidewalk, their black dog close at their feet, eyes glued on me. I knew them casually, in a 'How’s it going?' kind of way. They apparently liked me just fine. Their dog definitely didn’t. I could win him over with a few moments of one to one communication, but why bother. His vigilance was refreshing, since it signaled a desire to protect his masters. I appreciated his loyalty, even when the low, canine rumbles were directed at me. I gave a low growl back. It felt satisfying and only the dog and I knew what was going on.
Childish of me. If I left, the nervous lab could relax. I tossed the empty cup and trotted down the steps to the sidewalk. As always, I enjoyed the stroll home. The sidewalks of Claremont Village meander under a veritable forest of green trees that dip and soar above the buildings and streets. I love trees, relish their majesty and beauty and was mildly annoyed when my phone rang.
“Yo, Brecken. Mark, here. What are you doing? Where did I catch you?”
“Just leaving the Village.”
“Got free time later today?”
Ah, yes, he told me he'd be calling. “What’s up?”
“Remember I told you about that tricky question for my philosophy class debate? It’s not until next week, but my team meets this evening and you’re good at stimulating thoughts. Maybe you could give me some pointers over lunch.”
I gagged. I don’t do lunch. “Afternoon is better, Mark. How about 1:30 or so?”
“That’s good for me. I can come by your place. Or meet you somewhere.”
He's been to my home before. “Come on over.”
I slipped my phone into my pocket thinking how much I appreciated that Mark never lingered on the phone - unless you were a girl. He has a ton of friends, but none who run mornings, so that’s where I come in. Running is one of the ploys that help keep me sane. Nothing about me felt sane now, though.
I fussed around, threw some clothes in the wash, changed out the towels, passed the time. I was glad to have Mark stop by. My art history class didn’t start until 4:00, and I was totally capable of moping, buzzing with unanswered issues, if I didn’t keep myself occupied.
He arrived late. “Here, I brought some sodas.” He handed me a can and threw himself on the couch.
“Nice.” I popped it open, leaned against the wall and gurgled some of the syrupy sweetness.
“Okay,” Mark said. “I’ll get right to it. My prof is holding a class debate on whether human beings can fundamentally change. He divided us into two groups and my group has to argue for people not changing - like if a leopard could lose its spots, it's still a leopard. But I think people change all their lives.”
“Wait, your side argues that people don’t or can’t change their core selves?”
“Sucks, huh. The whole topic sucks.” He swilled half the soda and rose to stride around the small room. “The thing is, I know we can change. I mean, we grow up and get educated. We fall in love and back out. We marry til death do us part, and then get divorced. I know that even good people will steal things. So change, right?”
I raised my eyebrows. “Okay, Mark. Is there any one thing that would change every single person? In your opinion? And sit down, for Pete's sake.”
He took one of the chairs, leaned forward and gave an intense response, quite different from the joking guy he usually is. “An encounter with death would change anybody, I guess. Like in war.” His brow wrinkled and he looked at the floor.
I knew that his cousin, a soldier, was killed last year and I watched him thinking about victims of war. Then he looked up and I watched him watch me as I thought about the consequences of violence, fear and death. And I was thinking deeply about it, as I have frequently been the cause of all three. The silence stretched and I cleared my throat to make him snap out of it.
“Let's clarify your position, Mark. You're not sure if a good human is innately good or if that person could change into someone evil.” I thought that was plain enough, but he didn't seem to get it. “Conversely,” I added, “Can that evil being turn into a good person and no longer be a monster?”
“Yeah, that’s it, more or less. You’re saying it pretty strong, but that’s my basic problem. How can I argue for no change when we all hear about men hurting their own wives and kids? They used to love each other and something changed big time.”
“True, but you don’t have to believe something to argue it in a debate. Not all lawyers believe their clients are innocent, yet they offer a defense. For this debate you need to set personal beliefs aside and look at what you were assigned to defend.”
“Hard to do when you're reaching for it.”
“Perhaps.” I gagged down some more soda and took the can to the kitchen so I could quit prete
nding I liked it.
“So help me out, Brecken. I need some idea of where to begin.”
“Right. Tell me some things you think are never going to change in people.”
“Easy. All people look for someone to love or at least mate with. And all people tell lies. That never changes. I think everyone is jealous of something. Want more?”
“Mmm.”
He ticked off on his fingers. “Education changes, but IQ probably doesn't. I’m Catholic and we’re taught that everyone is born with a sinful nature and will always be tempted to give in. That doesn’t change even when they don’t give in. And then there’s the hierarchy of needs. Hunger, shelter and all the rest. You want more?”
“Nope, that’ll do.” I sometimes forget Mark can think. “Why don’t we counter one of those like the debate team would, except with questions instead of statements. For example, can a person learn not to be jealous? Or decide not to be?”
“Maybe. Not me, though.”
“What if you have all you want? What if you’re content?”
“Something would always come up. Like a new car that your neighbor bought and you can’t afford.”
“Couldn’t you want it without being jealous that he has it?”
“Ehh, possibly.”
I shook my head and looked at him. “Mark, you don’t need my help.”
“I don't?” He crushed the can and set it on the table. “I think I do.”
“You don't. The truth is that people are variable. In some ways they change and in others they don’t. Your professor's debate is fine, but the purpose has to be the process itself, since there is no concrete right or wrong side here.”
“Okay.” He thought a moment. “Why not?”
“Because of free will. People can change if they want to change. If they don’t want to, they won’t. Or they can't.“
“Yeah, maybe.” He popped another soda and nodded at me. “How about you? Have you ever wanted to change yourself?”
“Who hasn’t?
Mark gulped noisily and wiped his mouth. “Have you ever tried to change and failed?”
“Hold up. I’m supposed to be asking the questions here.”
“Yeah, but have you? It’s just that you sound so sure. You probably already thought about all of this.”
Sometimes I opt for total truth in the midst of my lying life. I looked him straight on and told him a reality he would never understand. “I’ve been trying to change parts of myself since forever and have failed. I still keep trying.”
“Why try if you can’t do it?”
“Because I want those changes and if I don’t ultimately succeed, then I'm doomed.”
“Doomed? Crap. That’s a hefty word.”
I suspected he was itching to ask for details, so I turned the talk to him. “As a born and bred Catholic you must know what I mean.”
“Yeah. Okay, I get it. Hey, Brecken, I’ll hang with you, doomed guy or not.”
He was allowing me to slide, which I would have done anyway. Mark was clueless as to almost everything about my life and if I’d given him a taste of insight, it didn’t mean I’d help him understand it. Besides, the air was swirling again, though he obviously felt nothing. How could that be? Maybe I was wrong. Maybe he felt it and wasn't bothered.
I watched his face, saw his mind at work. “Think you can do the debate?”
“You didn't say much, but it actually helped. I know where to go now.”
“Okay. Sorry, but I’m kicking you out. Got to hit my own studies.”
“I got what I needed. Thanks for the nudge.” Another can crunch.
I shooed my arms at him. “Out, out.”
“I’m out. See you in the morning.”
Mmm - Ev. I wasn't ready to see him again so soon. “Hey,” I called after Mark. “I probably won't show for a day or two. Go ahead without me.”
I was glad he came and glad he left. I put his cans in the trash then threw myself on the bed and let the thrumming surge. It was like being turned on, like being in heat. A twangy sensation, desire for something and nothing to ease that desire.
Of course, one thing eases all other things. Only a few more hours until dark. I could wait. But I couldn't stand the thought of sitting through a class lecture, so skip it. I slowed my heart and tried hard to let peace overwhelm.
Failure.
Chapter 5
Dark is beautiful but it wasn't quite dark outside yet. My tongue played across the membrane covering my fangs. It seemed like the town itself was humming. I'd hunt tonight and right after drive up the mountain to Big Bear and my cabin for a day or two. Tramp through the snow. Go on the prowl. Find something big to drink every night and get rid of this damned twitch. But there was an hour left until sunset and lying around was a waste.
I flipped open the laptop, determined to use the semi-nausea in my gut. Channel it into pages of gritty vampire lore. I scanned through earlier chapters to rev up.
I’m about half way through my ninth book. Takes place in Amsterdam, a city I know from having lived there a while back. Quite a while back, but Amsterdam is old and doesn’t change much. Plus, its many canals are romantic and foreboding. The heavy stone buildings are riddled with passages and hidden spaces, such as Anne Frank’s room with the secret door hidden behind a swing out shelf. My vamp, Anke, lives in such a space. Tight, but she calls it cozy and secure. I created her, but I don’t like her. I know though, that my readers will.
My norm is to write quickly, seldom deleting. Spurred by the sick-making energy, I wrote eight pages. All garbage. Eight pages deleted, but beautiful darkness had arrived.
I threw some stuff in my car and drove up into the hills. Not a long distance really, but my senses cleared and my normal self surfaced. My God, it wasn't some strange quirk of weather. The strange energy emanated from Claremont itself. All the more reason to head for the cabin, I decided. Afterwards, of course.
I parked deep off to the side in San Dimas Canyon and hiked in farther. The moon was a glowing orb rising above the hills and stars seemed like flickering invitations to join the stealthy creatures of the wild. The aroma of mesquite and wild flowers drifted through the crisp air. A hawk watched me from its perch then lost itself in the heights of the sky. Small rustles and the smell of rodents told me the hawk would find dinner easily and soon. My stomach rolled pleasantly at the thought. The terrain around me rolled, too, and branches swayed in the breeze.
I moved quietly through the thick brush then sequestered myself to wait as animals cautiously eased out of their holes and dens. Some would sense me and sneak away; most wouldn't realize I was there until they got close. There was a lot of small life in this wilderness, but I was looking for something a bit rougher. He appeared on a slight rise directly in front of me.
I crouched in the shrubbery, watching the healthy, young coyote lift his nose to sniff the night air. He turned his head slightly, perhaps scenting a rabbit or a ground squirrel foraging for food. What he didn’t scent was me. I was no danger to his vibrant life, but I would be the one who took him down. And soon.
It was only three days since I last drank and while hunger was always there, suddenly my entire being quivered with excessive desire for that coyote’s hot blood. On any hunt, it was about fifty-fifty whether my human self or my vamp did the taking, since both of me enjoyed it. Tonight I relaxed my human and brought out the vampire hunter, with a single caveat. Take, drink, do not gorge. I have my standards and self imposed rules. One of me needs constant reminding.
As always, I had stripped off my shirt and left it in the car. Skin washes easily. Torn and muddied clothes - or bloodied clothes - were a nuisance, but jeans were designed for grappling in the underbrush and mud. The breeze brushed my face and chilled bare shoulders and chest. I enjoy chill and reached down to undo the top button for that extra bit of freedom.
The coyote dropped its lean body and began to slink through the grasses, heading off to my left. I slumped lower and moved after him
, a hungry hunter trailing a hungry hunter. We will both feed tonight.
There was no zinging distraction, no uncomfortable twitch. Except in my mind. But the animal ahead filled my mind, too. He’d been fast, and the ground squirrel was dangling from his jaws as he angled his ears and checked the night around him.
All was stillness - and since he’d caught his meager dinner, I let him enjoy it. The sound of crunching bones and low snuffs made me smile. Nature doing what nature does. But the feasting wouldn’t last long. While he was deep into it and only half attentive, I fell on him, straddling his back and clutching his fur against the natural, reflexive jump. The scent of his meal and the musk from his body filled my head.
On the whole, coyotes aren’t all that big, but this one was at full growth. His back legs heaved and together we plunged into the open. I tumbled him to his side and he scrambled in the dirt, his mouth wide and ripping at the air, trying to get to me. Deep growls and sharp yips rolled from his throat. Or was it mine?
He was strong like only the wild and frantic can be. And he understood attack. He understood fighting. The coyote twisted, trying to fling me from his back, but my arms were crossed over his chest, gripping his front legs - and I threw myself to the dirt, pulling him on top of me. My legs wrapped high around his belly and locked.
I held on as we flipped and grit ground in my flesh. Sharp stones and twigs and sharp other things gouged my back and shoulders and I smelled my own blood seep and smear. My thighs clamped harder around his ribs and I rode him through the panic, the tumbles, the writhing to escape. And the killing rage that sought my flesh. He twisted his head and growled funky breath into my face. It all smelled familiar and I thrilled as he scraped me across the hard clumps of grass and dirt.
Coyotes usually hunt in packs and his growls and yips had already called out to his family group. These animals always gathered to a freshly killed hare and scattered at the first note of threat but, surprisingly, his group was closing in, which coyotes seldom did. No matter. This wouldn’t take long. He twisted again, bashing his bloody muzzle against me, snapping and tearing a deep gouge into my shoulder.
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