He jerks his head to look at me. “What stuff?”
“Old records of donors and progeny, receipts from concerts. Don’t worry, we’re keeping all the historical pieces in off-site storage.” Until we can sell them on eBay to finance next year’s holiday party. Or maybe that’s just my plan.
“What about his personal records? You said donors and progeny.”
“We have that, too, but we won’t give it away to anyone.” Except the Control, if necessary.
“As long as you didn’t throw it out. Jim is a legend among vampires and DJs.”
“So you’ve told me.” I give him a set of keys on a peace symbol chain. “The small one is for this door, and the other one is for the outside back entrance. As you already know, the upstairs front door unlocks from the inside, for vampire safety. Only the humans have keys.”
“Why?”
“Because vampires can be absentminded. David worries we’ll accidentally open the front door and burst into flames or set a fellow vamp on fire.”
“But you have a key and you’re not human.”
“I was when I started working here. David doesn’t have the heart to ask for my key.”
“Good. It’s not like you have to worry about fading anytime soon.” Adrian opens his door with the small key. “Holy moly.”
As he steps in, I hit the light switch inside. The lava lamp and the wave machine turn on, casting lurid glows over the layered Oriental rugs and the velvet curtains draped over the sprawling bed. The drapes seem to wave in the flowing light.
“It’s . . . it’s . . .” Adrian searches for the word.
“It’s something.” I set down his suitcases and stand at the threshold, with no desire to enter again.
He sits on the edge of the bed and caresses the lush coverlet. “This place is . . . not me in the least.”
I sigh with relief. Maybe if Adrian changes the decor, I’ll feel more at home here. Or less at home, whichever is better.
“You can get different sheets from our laundry room. For everything else, Sherwood has a million antique stores. There’s even an antique mall. Which is a mall with antiques, not a really old mall. Although there is also a really old mall.” Huh, I never thought about that before.
“Thanks, Ciara. Wherever Jim is, I hope he doesn’t find out I changed his room.”
Behind me, Monroe’s guitar goes silent. I guess I’m the one to break the news to Adrian about his idol.
“He won’t find out. He’s dead now.”
Adrian’s shoulders slump. “I figured it was a matter of time, stuck in that Control hellhole. When did it happen?”
“Two nights ago.”
“Did he attack one of his guards?”
“No, he—” I wipe both hands down my face, realizing I can’t avoid what happened, not even with one person. “He escaped from the nursing home and showed up at Deirdre’s house. She’s one of his progeny who lives here in town. Anyway, the last time we saw Jim, before he went into Control custody, was when he was attacking me.” I step forward. “Right in this room, as a matter of fact.”
Adrian’s mouth has slowly opened during my speech, but on the word “attacking” it dropped all the way slack.
“Attacked you how?”
“He almost ripped my throat out.” I look away from Adrian’s shell-shocked face. Among vampires, biting without permission is tantamount to rape. “When he showed up at Deirdre’s, Shane killed him. To protect all of us, but especially me.”
Adrian slowly shakes his head. “I can’t believe this.”
“Believe it.” Monroe enters, his footsteps silent on the layers of rugs. “I was the one staked him right here. And I’d do it all again, ’cept this time I’d pull ’em right back out again. Let him die with some dignity, ’steada wasting away in one of them Control places.”
“I stopped you. Long story,” I tell Adrian, deciding to spare him the account of Jim almost draining my teenage cousin dry. “Can we get you anything else? The kitchen’s pretty basic. Instructions for the microwave are taped on the front, in occasionally insulting language, depending on who made the latest sign.”
“No,” Adrian whispers, looking as pale and drained as when he entered the station lounge tonight. “I just need some time alone with my thoughts.”
On our way out, as I shut the door softly behind me, I share a glance with Monroe, wondering if he’s thinking the same thing I am:
Alone with our thoughts is the most dangerous place a vampire can be.
12
Question
Sunday night. Bite night.
Waiting for David, I pace through my living room, but productively, to hide my nervousness, as if Shane wouldn’t guess.
Now seems as good a time as any to work on Dexter’s “Heel!” command. With his strength and predatory drive, it takes more than muscle to keep this monster in line. It takes discipline, praise, and blood-soaked liver treats.
Unlike human vampires, Dexter still enjoys eating solid food, if it has a trace of dog blood on it. Dogs have blood banks just like humans, and just like humans’ blood, their blood expires, or turns out not to be usable for transfusions. Which is fortunate, because the neighborhood schnauzers and poodles aren’t exactly lining up to be chomped by our undead Great Dane–black Labrador retriever mix.
Drinking a beer near the stove, Shane watches Dexter and me circle from the living room to the kitchen and back.
“He’s doing great now,” Shane says. “He listens to you.”
“When I have food.” I turn abruptly to the left, cutting off Dexter’s path. He nimbly keeps pace, not missing a beat. “Good boy.”
“You ever wonder if the Control could make him mortal again?”
“He’s undead like us. That’s a one-way street, right?”
“But he’s not naturally supernatural. He was vamped in a lab. So maybe the lab could un-vamp him.”
I come to a halt next to a framed painting of a field aglow with fireflies, one of our few pieces of art. “I’ve never thought about it.”
“Even when you were human, you never wished you could take him for a walk in the sunshine? Let him play with his own kind? Let him just be a dog?”
“If we let him be a dog, he’ll die.” I hold up the fingers of my left hand to signal Dexter to sit. He obeys. “The ones his size are old when they’re six. Besides, Dexter is who he is—not only in how he was born but how he was made.” I lower my hand and my boy lies down, still looking up expectantly.
It’s not part of the training session, but I sit and wrap my arms around his thick neck. He thwacks his tail against the floor, hard as a puppy, and rubs the side of his head against my hair, petting me without hands.
Shane comes over. “I guess it’s the same trade-off we all make. A longer life, but one lived in darkness and isolation.”
“Dexter’s not isolated. He has us. He has Lori and David and all the DJs. As long as dogs are part of a pack, they’re happy.” I look at Shane over Dexter’s broad black shoulders. “Trust me, I know this stuff.”
I’m no Dog Whisperer, but I used to volunteer with animal rescue. I’d socialize and train dogs at the shelter so they’d be more adoptable. Unfortunately, once I had a dog of my own, not to mention a full-time job and part-time college, I couldn’t fit in volunteer work. The vampires were a big enough charity case.
Shane sits beside me and scratches behind Dexter’s ears in the way that only he knows how to do. Dexter’s eyes roll up and he starts to kick his back leg, in the throes of doggie ecstasy.
I ponder Shane’s words about us living in darkness and isolation. “Would you be human again if you could?”
“I try not to think about it, especially now that you’ve turned, too. I don’t want to dwell on all the things that’ve been stolen from you. Sunlight. Food. Freedom.”
“What food do you miss most? For me it’s mac ’n’ cheese. Or doughnuts, I can’t decide.” Surprisingly, we’ve never had this conversation. Maybe
it’s Dexter’s presence between us, or maybe it’s the fact that David will be here in a few minutes, so we can’t talk too long or get too maudlin.
Shane thinks for several moments, sipping his beer (which thankfully, being a liquid, still tastes like beer to us). I envision his mind sorting all the possibilities alphabetically, then letting go of that list to rearrange them in order of preference. Whereas I’m fine with two top choices, being inherently dichotomous, he probably wants to declare one single food the victor, as if by setting his target more precisely, it becomes more attainable.
“Pancakes.”
“That’s a good one.” Unfortunately, I know from experience that even though pancake batter is technically liquid, it tastes like milk of magnesia. Coffee and beer only have taste because of the caffeine and alcohol used to make them.
“When I was a kid, Mom made pancakes every Sunday after Mass. Originally she made them before Mass, but then we kept falling asleep in church. She learned to use pancakes as a bribe to get us to behave there.”
“Brilliant tactic.”
“Then I got diabetes, so I couldn’t always have them. Mom would make me eggs instead. And I could never have syrup.”
“That sucks.”
He nods. “So definitely pancakes.”
“With syrup.”
“With syrup.”
The doorbell rings. Shane goes still for an instant, then looks at me. For a moment his eyes are tinged with sadness and anxiety. Then he smiles and says, “Speaking of breakfast . . .”
• • •
Dexter beats us to the door, forgetting the training session in his excitement. He knows how his favorite people knock, I guess, so he barks only at strangers, who tend to leave quickly upon hearing that sound. Jehovah’s Witnesses are not a problem.
We open the door for David, who smells freshly showered. Unscented soap, of course, like all FOVs (Friends of Vampires).
“Hey.” He lifts a six-pack of our favorite microbrew. “Is it weird that I brought beer?”
“It’d be weird if you didn’t.” Shane steps aside and lets him enter, giving him a warm shoulder pat.
“Good. It’s been a long time, so I’m a little rusty on protocol.”
David has always been the donor-of-last-resort for the DJs, opening a vein in an emergency, if a regular donor moved away or was sick.
“Thanks for coming,” I say, as if he’s here to sell us an insurance policy. “You want a drink?”
“Yeah.” He grabs one of the beers and offers the six-pack to Shane, his hand shaking a little. I don’t know whether to be relieved or concerned that he might be as nervous as we are. At least one of us should be sanguine about this. (Heh, sanguine.)
“We have some energy drink, too,” I tell him. “Hydrate you.”
“Wonderful. I’ll double-fist.”
I try to chuckle, even though what David said wasn’t really funny. I’m starting to wish I’d insisted on a perfect stranger for my first bite, or one of Shane’s donors. Someone laid-back like Rick, the bassist in Shane’s nineties cover band, Vital Fluid. He’d probably jump at the chance.
But David’s here now, when I need him.
“I heard the Control scheduled your tribunal for Friday night,” he says to Shane. “That was fast.”
“Might as well get it over with. If I have to be punished for staking Jim, I don’t care.” Shane looks at me. “It was worth it to know she’s safe.”
“Safe from having my head ripped off,” I say with a nervous chuckle, “but not safe from fading.”
“Right.” David takes off his jacket. “Speaking of which, where do you want to do this?”
Shane gestures to the couch. “We could try here, but the living room’s pretty dark. The guest bedroom has a good lamp on the headboard, so she can see what she’s doing.”
David shifts his jaw. “Actually, I meant, where, uh, on my body, did you want to do this?”
I am now official proof that vampires can blush.
“Oh.” Shane rubs his nose self-consciously. “Arm? Easy to see the veins, and that way you can sit up if you want.”
Right. Biting a human above the heart can give them an air embolism that could kill them instantly. Good way to ruin a meal.
Oops, I just made myself laugh, inappropriately. I turn it into a cough, which isn’t believable, since vampires don’t cough except to cover up inappropriate laughter.
“I’ll go scrub up in the bathroom and meet you there.” David takes a large swallow of beer, which I hope will help him stop fidgeting.
When he disappears, I look at everything in the living room except Shane.
“You sure you’re okay with this?” he asks me.
“Are you? This is even weirder than I thought it’d be.”
“It’s for a good cause. The only cause I care about.” He comes over and runs a soothing hand down my arm. “I know you’ve drunk from humans before, but there’s nothing like biting. It’ll give you strength like you wouldn’t believe.”
“That’s like saying a protein shake gives you better nutrition by drinking it through a straw.”
“Blood isn’t a protein shake, and you know it.” He grasps my shoulders gently. “I’m sorry. I’ve been trying to shield you all these months, make it seem like being a vampire isn’t a big deal, that it’s just like being human with a different diet and schedule, but it’s not. It’s magic.” Shane runs his thumb over my lips. “And part of that magic is sinking your fangs into someone’s skin, making life flow out of them and into you.”
I think of my cousins. “The vampires who live with Travellers don’t bite people. They’re healthy enough.”
“But they’re tame. They wouldn’t win a fight with a normal vampire.”
“I’m not fighting vampires.”
“No, you’re fighting something much bigger. You’re fighting time, and for that you need all the strength in the world.” Shane leans over and kisses my cheek, right in front of my ear. “Let me give you that strength.”
I slide my arms around his back. I want to stay in this life, just like we are, as long as I can.
Even if it means believing in magic.
13
Lust for Life
When we enter the guest room, David is waiting for us, propped with pillows against the headboard, wearing a black sleeveless undershirt. A stack of dark brown towels sits where the second pillow would be. The bedspread and carpet are also dark brown—not to make the room look masculine, though it does have that effect. It’s to hide the bloodstains.
A spare, haunting tune comes from the MP3 docking station on the nightstand. “Found this new English band, The xx,” David says. “Hope it’s okay, Shane. I thought something minimalist would be soothing.”
“It’s fine.” Shane sweeps off his own T-shirt, mussing his hair. He always does it before biting, to keep the blood off his clothes. As usual, my pulse speeds up at the sight of his bare chest. A weird thought flits through my brain: I’d like to see Shane and David with their shirts off, together. Maybe that’s not such a weird thought.
I look down at my cami, wondering whether to keep it on. The low cut of the neckline means it’ll stay clean, and if not, that’s what a sink full of cold water is for.
“That shirt’ll be fine,” Shane says as he climbs onto the bed to David’s right side. “Come here.” He angles the reading light on the headboard toward David, who shades his eyes against the glare.
As I approach the bed, I can hear David’s heartbeat. I crawl to kneel on his left side, wishing I could do this without thinking of the pain I’m causing.
“He’s right-handed,” Shane says, “so we’ll use the left arm.”
I nod politely and try not to lick my lips. Despite my hunger, my fangs aren’t popping. In fact, it feels like they’re shriveling back up into my skull.
Shane sits behind me and extends David’s arm over a folded towel, flat at his side, so that his forearm is below his heart. Then he guides
me to scoot down to put my face inches from the limb.
Shane’s finger traces the vein that arcs over the edge of David’s forearm, front to back. “This is the radial vein. It can be bitten in a lot of places, but his least painful spot is halfway down, where it crosses from the front to the back of the arm. Now, without biting—I repeat, without biting—run your tongue along the length of it so you can feel the heat. You won’t always be biting under a bright light.”
I do as he says, sliding my tongue along the vein. Shane’s right: I can feel the heat in the vessel even through the skin.
“Got it?” he asks. I lift my head and nod at him, not looking at David. “You sure?” I nod again. “You ready?” I shake my head. “Why not?”
I open my mouth and point inside. “Nothing but blunt instruments in there. Performance anxiety?”
“Maybe if we—” David looks from me to Shane. “Can you give us a couple minutes?”
Shane goes very still, then seems to measure the distance between me and David. “Okay,” he says, barely parting his lips. He slides off the bed. “Call me when you’re ready, and don’t start without me.”
When he’s gone, I can’t take my eyes off the door, and I find myself wanting to run after him.
Instead I shift over to sit next to David. The headboard wobbles as I lean back against it. “So.”
“So . . . I can’t say I ever foresaw this event.”
“Why would you? You’re not clairvoyant. Not that I believe in clairvoyants.”
“I know. I’m just making awkward conversation.”
“Oh, good. I was afraid we would skip that. It’s not like with you and Shane, when you could talk about football or music to ease the tension.”
“You like football and music.”
“Yeah, but when I’m crazy nervous like this, I can’t think of any teams or bands but the Dallas Cowboys and Mötley Crüe.”
“Hm. There must be a supermodel who’s slept with both.”
I laugh, much too donkeylike. “Yeah. Am I your first first?”
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