Bring On the Night

by Jeri Smith-Ready

  Then I believed. Believed that there was a reason for everything, that some loving, divine hand had guided me to this moment. How else to explain this union of body, mind, and soul that made the best sex of my life seem as mundane as preparing my taxes?

  And then, I pictured myself drinking him, lips and tongue chasing every drop. Like Dexter cleaning his dog bowl. If they hadn’t held me back, I’d have been on my knees before Jeremy, hands everywhere, so crazed with bloodlust I’d have signed away my last possession to become his eternal slave.

  I hated it.

  (Not it, of course. I could never hate the blood.)

  I hated what it made me. Helpless. Needy. It wasn’t sexy or trippy or sacred. It was pathetic.

  I pulled away, but Jeremy didn’t step back. He opened his eyes and held out his arm to my lips.

  “Go on,” he said. “You hardly had any.”

  “I’m done. Thank you.” I tilted my chin to avoid his eyes. “Thank you very much.”

  “You sure?”

  “I need to lie down.” Under a rock. And die. “I’m really tired.”

  “If you’re tired,” Shane said, “you should drink more.”

  “I don’t want to.” I lowered my head further, letting my hair veil my burning face. “Please let me stop.”

  Jeremy held up his arm. “What am I supposed to do?”

  “Hang on.” Shane knelt in front of me. “Ciara, what’s wrong?”

  I tried to move my tongue to speak without re-tasting the blood in my mouth. “I just. Don’t. Want to.”

  “Okay. I’ll take you back to our room.”

  “I can walk on my own.”

  “You sure?” When I nodded, he said, “Guys, let her go.”

  They released me, and I stood slowly, looking away from everyone, especially Jeremy. One false move and I’d be tackled.

  In Shane’s room I crawled into bed and tugged the covers up to my nose. The radio was playing at a low volume, something Beethoveny. I stared at the brand name on the front of the display and mentally rearranged it to make words of at least four letters.

  SPAN

  SPIN

  COIN

  COINS (if adding an s wasn’t cheating)

  SCAN

  CANS

  NIPS

  SOAP

  And of course, SONIC, but that was definitely cheating. Zero points.

  I groaned as I realized that I’d never had thoughts like this before, anything that could remotely be considered obsessive. It was starting already.

  I rolled on my back so I couldn’t see the clock and pressed the heels of my hands into my eyes. I will not cry. The water dribbled out my nose instead.

  A soft knock came at the door, which then creaked open.

  “I’m fine,” I told Shane before he could ask. “Situation normal.”

  “Situation the polar opposite of normal.” He sat at the end of the bed, after feeling for my feet so he wouldn’t crush them. “I’ve never seen a vampire react like that to their first taste of a human.”

  “Clearly I suck at this.” I was too depressed to acknowledge the unintentional pun. “I have no fangs, no bloodlust.”

  “You had the bloodlust. I saw you shudder.”

  “Ugh.” I yanked the covers up over my head, creating a seal against the outside world like I did when was a kid, to make a fortress against monsters. But now the only monster was under the covers.

  “It’s not unusual to feel ambivalent,” Shane went on. “It’s a big change.”

  “I like change.” The blanket cave flattened my tone. “Change is fun.”

  “So what’s wrong?”

  “I hate myself.” Words I thought I’d never say.

  “Ciara…” He put a hand on my knee through the blanket. “You’re not hurting anyone. Jeremy was happy to do it.”

  “Of course he was. It gives him power.” I brushed back a lock of hair that was itching my cheek. “Now I get why some humans like to be bitten. They want to be needed.”

  He sighed with what sounded like relief. “Okay, this is making sense now. You hate to need anything.”

  “I’m scared.” I curled back into the fetal position. “What if I can’t get blood? I’ll die slow and painful.”

  “We’ll make sure you have blood.” He shifted to rest his hand on my hip. “This is why there are so few lone vampires. We take care of each other.”

  The situation was wrapping around my throat like a fist. I was living the con artist’s worst nightmare—trapped in a place I could never leave, with people I would always need.

  I tried to tell myself I hadn’t had such isolation and independence for years. I’d stuck around when things were tough—with the station, with school, with Shane. I no longer had a bag packed and ready to go with half a minute’s notice.

  My mind knew this. But my soul clung to those old reflexes. Get up! it screamed at me. Run! My body started to shake, fighting the urge to flee.

  Shane rubbed my back. “Can I get you anything?”

  I searched my dimming memory and imagination for one thing that would make me happy. But my brain felt wrapped in cotton, with a new layer added every hour.

  So I just shrugged.

  “Never mind,” he said. “I know exactly what you need.”

  The car keys jangled in his hand as he swept them off his dresser.

  Were I still alive, I’d think he was on a quest for Ben & Jerry’s Chubby Hubby ice cream. But that would never taste like anything again.

  The door closed behind him, and I let myself cry. I’d never seen any of the other vampires so much as sniffle, except when I died. They were all so tough.

  Maybe I wasn’t a real vampire. I’d gone all the way into the light—maybe I’d left part of myself there. I certainly felt half dead, half undead. Maybe I was incomplete. Maybe that’s why Monroe left. He could tell I was defective.

  The void inside me widened as I thought of my maker. It spread from my gut, out into my limbs and my head until I was nothing but one gaping, gnawing emptiness.

  Whatever I was, I hated it. Not out of bitterness over the life I’d lost. Because I hadn’t just lost my life. I’d lost myself.

  I was still crying when the door opened. A woof boomed off the walls, then one hundred twenty pounds of fur and flesh landed atop my body.

  I wiped my eyes as a huge black muzzle appeared under the covers, making frantic wuffling noises.

  Dexter stopped, nostrils quivering, sensing the monumental change in me. I held my breath. Would he still want me to be his mom?

  I threw back the blanket and stared up into my dog’s deep brown eyes. Cautiously he stretched his neck forward and licked my chin. Shane stood watching in the doorway.

  Dexter cocked his head. His eyebrows popped up, giving him a look of scandalous surprise.

  “Hey, boy, it’s me.”

  He whined, then turned away. My heart thudded to a halt.

  Then Dexter began to sniff me, head to toe. He lingered on my hands, wetting them with drool. I made no move to pet him.

  Finally he grunted, then, without ceremony, plopped next to me on the edge of the single bed, as if we’d always lived here. He gave a wide yawn, then set his head on his paws, kicking out his back legs in an unsubtle hint for me to move my feet.

  “See?” Shane crossed his arms and leaned against the doorway. “You’re not the only one who needs.”

  I curled my arm around Dexter and buried my face in the folds of furry skin at the back of his neck.

  “If you’re thirsty,” he added, “Jeremy donated some blood.”

  Leftovers. I nodded without looking at him. “Thanks.”

  From a cup it would be just another drink. No intimacy, no connection, no need. I’d spent most of my life fooling others, so why not fool myself? I could pretend the blood was Hawaiian Punch. I could pretend I was driving around the Sonoma Valley sampling the latest Cabernets.

  I could pretend I had a choice.

  21 />
  Pardon Me

  That night, Shane and Regina took me home to collect my belongings, in preparation for a long recovery. Jeremy’s blood had given me the strength to walk in a straight line, at least temporarily.

  Outside, the shadows had gained nuance and depth, as if yesterday the world had held only two and a half dimensions and was now appearing in true 3-D. I stared out the car window, eyes devouring the familiar new landscape with one burning new purpose: blood.

  The Smoking Pig had become a hunting ground. In the bar’s dark, empty interior, the exit lights leaked red over a forest of upside-down chairs perched atop tables. As we passed the wide front window, I searched the chairs’ shiny wooden legs for reflected movement.

  I fingered the car’s electric window switch, longing for a whiff of night air. The switch clicked, but the window didn’t budge.

  I looked at Shane, sitting beside me in the backseat. He shook his head and tightened his grip on my wrist.

  Regina glanced at me in the rearview mirror. “You’re lucky we let you come with us at all.”

  I sighed and turned back to the window. The thought of drinking from a willing donor like Jeremy still made me feel gross and subservient. But the thought of tracking, hunting, and bringing down my own prey made the tips of my fingers and tongue tingle.

  I pressed my nose to the cool glass. Sherwood might as well have been a ghost town—Sunday night plus a chicken pox scare meant there was nothing to see, move along now. But surely someone yummy would be walking a dog. Maybe my superstrength could force open the car door. Regina and Shane would catch up to me, but not before I had a taste.

  Oh, who was I kidding? I didn’t even have fangs.

  When I entered our apartment, my melancholy returned along with the last memories of my life as a human.

  I slipped into the bedroom alone, leaving the door open. I set my open suitcase on the bed, where the sheets were still rumpled from sex and sleep. I wondered if I’d ever again feel like doing the former and would ever stop wanting to do the latter. Even now I wanted to sink onto the bed and let the dark steal my consciousness.

  I wanted to be alone, something I would never truly be again.

  On my nightstand lay two of the books I’d been using for my Eastern European History term paper. I slipped them into my suitcase, determined to finish the assignment. Even if I never graduated, I needed to do it for Aaron.

  I turned away from the bed and went to the dresser. Shane entered the room as I was giving my underwear drawer a dull, unseeing stare.

  “Need some help?” His voice and posture were one of a calculated calm, the way one acts around someone on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

  I ran my hands through the silk nightgowns and lace teddies. My hypersensitive skin tingled at the feel, awakening memories of the material sliding between me and Shane. “Should I bring any of this?”

  “Only for private viewing, right?”

  “Of course. You think I’m going to turn all horndog on the other vampires?”

  “It’s part of the process.”

  “Clearly I’m not following the process.” I rested my forehead on the edge of the drawer. “I still feel so human, but only in the bad ways. And I only have the bad parts of being a vampire—the need for blood, the over-the-top angst.”

  “It happens slower for some than others. Be patient.” He kissed my temple. “And leave the hot stuff here, for my sanity’s sake.”

  “But what about us?”

  “When you’re ready, we can make love without the help of Victoria’s Secret.” His hand slipped under the back of my shirt.

  I jumped at his touch. “Your hands are hot.”

  “I grabbed a snack from our fridge, so my core temperature is probably higher than yours now.” He stroked the curve of my lower back. “You used to feel this way to me sometimes.”

  My heart grew heavy, as if injected with liquid lead. “Will you still want me now that I’m chilly?”

  He gave a thorough sigh, then tugged me gently to rest against his chest. “Do I need to sing that song again?”

  “Which song?”

  “The one I wrote for you. I said I’d be with you when you were old, so why wouldn’t I be with you when you’re cold?” He winced with his breath. “I swear I didn’t mean that to rhyme.”

  I felt the heat of his muscles pulse through his shirt. “So much has changed.”

  “But not us.” He held me at arm’s length and stared into my eyes. “Right?”

  “I betrayed you. I didn’t trust you to save my life.” The tears came again, blurring his face. “Can you forgive me?”

  He brushed his thumbs over my eyes, so hot I expected my tears to turn to steam.

  “If you need me to forgive you,” he whispered, “then I forgive you.”

  He kissed me, and the sick sensation in my gut broke apart. For a moment I felt worse, like I would spew all over Shane’s battered Chuck Taylors. Then it dissipated, floating away through my veins, diluting until I couldn’t feel it anymore.

  I slid my arms around Shane’s neck and kissed him back, shoving aside the fears of a forever future.

  We hurried down the sidewalk, Shane holding my suitcase and my left hand. Regina flanked me on the right. They swiveled their heads in a continuous scan for humans.

  Though the streets were empty, a thousand scents lingered in the humid, pollen-thick spring air. A woman with a talcum-coated baby, a man with a sharp aftershave that clashed with the natural sweetness of his skin. My neighbor’s shih tzu, having taken a dump on the sidewalk.

  Our car was parked across the street from St. Michael’s, the tiny old Catholic Church. Most Catholics in Sherwood went to the enormous St. Luke’s on the outside of town, where they could always find a seat and a parking space. St. Michael’s parishioners were mostly elderly ladies who still covered their heads when they entered. I’d heard that they even did a Mass in Latin once a week.

  As I stared at the front door with the smoky glass window, something in my gut screamed at me to Run! Not away from the church, like I’d expected. Toward it.

  I checked the street. No traffic.

  Shane dug the keys out of his pocket, then let go of my hand to force open the trunk, which always stuck.

  I ran.

  Regina and Shane released panicked shouts, but I couldn’t stop until I reached the front door, where Shane caught up to me. Regina stopped at the bottom of the porch’s brick stairs.

  “Are you mental?” she hissed. “You can’t go in there.”

  “I have to. I can’t explain it.”

  “No.” Shane seized my wrists before I could touch the doorknob. “Churches get consecrated after they’re built. The building could burn you.”

  “This place is over two hundred years old. It must have worn off by now.” My eyes pleaded with him. “I need to go in there.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. Just trust me, okay?” It was a lot to ask, considering I hadn’t shown him that same trust yesterday.

  Shane didn’t let go, but his grip loosened a fraction. Using a Control self-defense maneuver, I rotated my arms, twisting my wrists out of his hands.

  “Hey!”

  Before he could stop me again, I grabbed the iron doorknob. Shane and Regina shared a strangled gasp.

  The knob was cool to the touch. “See?” I opened the door.

  “Ciara, please.” Shane reached for me, but stopped, as if my body could conduct holiness like electricity. “Don’t do this.”

  I swung the door open wide enough that he could get through without touching the frame. “Are you coming or not?”

  He folded his arms, shoving his bare hands into the crooks of his elbows, and inched sideways through the doorway, sparing me a killer glare as he passed.

  “I’ll wait in the car,” Regina said.

  I followed Shane through the vestibule, which contained a coat rack and two confessional booths, and through a set of open doors into
the darkened sanctuary, which was no larger than the common room of the vampires’ apartment. The rough wooden pews looked like they could seat maybe two hundred people. The wall sconces were dimmed to a minimum, but my eyes adjusted easily.

  “I’m surprised it’s open,” I whispered to Shane. “They could get robbed.”

  “It’s Church policy. These places are refuges for those in need.”

  I felt a stab of guilt, then realized that I was, in fact, in need. But of what? What had drawn me here?

  I looked for a clue in my surroundings—the crucifix beyond the altar, the statue of Mary in a cubbyhole to its left, and a series of small wooden dioramas placed at intervals on the walls.

  I pointed to the closest of the dioramas, which showed Jesus’ crucified body lying in a woman’s arms.

  “What are those?” I asked Shane.

  “The Stations of the Cross. Don’t touch them.”

  “I won’t,” I said, though I very much wanted to. “They’re so sad.”

  “Yeah, well…” Shane shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his denim jacket. “Life is sad.”

  In the far corner of the sanctuary, to the right of the altar, the floor became an open space, maybe a staircase leading down to a lower level. Its darkness drew me forward. I took a few steps down the center aisle, then stopped when an astonishing sight caught my eyes.

  Looming over the sanctuary was a huge stained glass window. A wrathful angel with golden wings stood atop the throat of a writhing red dragon. His wooden spear pierced the monster through the heart.

  “St. Michael the Archangel defeating Satan,” Shane said.

  “What are the words on his sash?”

  “Quis ut deus. ‘Who is like God?’ It’s what the name Michael means. But I’ve heard it’s also supposed to be a rhetorical question that St. Michael is asking the dragon as he defeats him. ‘Who is like God?’ The answer is obviously ‘no one,’ except God himself.”

  “So it’s Latin for ‘Who’s your daddy?’”

  Shane smirked. “I guess.”

  A homework flashback hit me. “Dracula means ‘son of the dragon.’ Dracula’s dad was part of the Order of the Dragon, so he took the name for himself. Aaron told us that in modern Romanian, dracul just means ‘devil.’”