Ramon nodded and disappeared into the crowd, returning moments later with a huge glass of dark, rich beer which he set before Christa.
“Great, thanks,” she said.
He nodded again, and returned to his place at the bar.
“Now,” Ms Bee said, “it’s my turn.”
Dylan slid into the seat beside Christa and watched as Ms Bee lifted a large, weighty object from the ruined body on the table. She placed the heart, reverently, on a plate and picked up the discarded butcher’s knife.
“You certainly have fine taste, Ms Bee,” he said. He could feel Christa looking at him over her beer glass.
“I’m known for it,” she said.
He could feel heat emanating from their host as she gazed at him, her breasts beginning to heave beneath the straining leather coat. Carefully, she slid the knife into the heart, cleaving it in two as though it was butter. She picked up one half and turned it in the light, delighting in the way it shone and undulated, and passed it across the table to Dylan. He weighed it in his hand before lifting the meat to his mouth. It was still warm, still full of rich sanguine fluid. When he bit into it, it crunched between his teeth and coated his mouth in a wash of coppery blood. He nodded at Ms Bee approvingly as she smiled and picked up her own half, attacking it with the relish of a starving dog.
***
They passed the rest of the night in a warm blur of good beer and plentiful blood. Dylan hadn’t expected to enjoy himself so much. After her fourth beer, Christa begged him to dance with her. She pulled him out into the crowd despite his protests and pushed herself against him, refusing to relent until he kissed her.
In the early hours of the morning, as a thin grey dawn broke over the roofs of Fairwood, Dylan found himself back in the tunnel, holding Christa against the grubby tiled wall as he thrust himself inside her. He blamed it on the rare euphoria of gorging on such a fresh human heart. He would never normally consent to lurid copulation amid such stinking filth. He was a gentleman, after all.
Six
With each state they passed through, Christa decided it was her favourite. It was the most beautiful, or majestic, or most clearly saturated with natural magicks. Then they crossed the next state line and her mind changed again. Missouri was a land of rolling grass so green that she was sure the earth must be laced with emeralds, crushed to hard glitter in the soil and sucked up by the greedy roots of plants and trees. She was glad Dylan wasn’t an incessant talker, content as she was to let the broad skies and yawning farmland slip past the window with only the radio for a soundtrack.
She had planned to explore these fabled United States alone. She’d wanted to immerse herself in an alien country: to talk with people, drink beer on the beach, have sex with beautiful passing men. The jinn she had travelled with had provided idle diversion on the plane journey from London, but she’d already tired of them long before they ever boarded. Jinn may be denizens of the night, but they were also crass and bloated with their own self-importance. It had been a blessed relief to finally leave them.
Now though, there was Dylan. She glanced at him as he drove, his eyes fixed on the road ahead, sunlight shimmering against the glossy black of his hair. She had certainly never expected to find a vampire in the desert, hiding amongst the jinn like a wolf couched in a sheep pen. She sighed and stretched in her seat. She hadn’t expected to find herself in the desert either, being drawn back to the very creatures she had set out to avoid. But it was comforting to be with others who were different.
Before the jinn and their grandiose talk of travelling through America, there had been just one special companion. Christa had called him her best friend, a mortal who understood her abilities because he had powers of his own. She had left Darrell behind when she fled from London, a fact she’d mourned every day since.
As she pictured his face, his warm brown eyes and easy smile, the familiar sting of his loss pricked and gnawed at her. She closed her eyes, attempting to forcefully eject the intense longing from her body. The emotion fluttered in her ribcage for barely a moment before flying away, borne aloft on the soft breeze riffling through her hair.
“I know this place,” Dylan said, startling Christa from her trance-like silence. His voice was dull, his eyes tired. He would need to feed soon. “I came here forty years ago.” He laughed to himself. “There’s a lake about seven miles away. Had a village on it once, on the South West corner.” He turned to face her, a mischievous smile on his lips. “The population had dwindled somewhat by the time we left.”
“How many of you were there?” Christa asked.
“It was a private party. Just me and my–” He stopped himself and looked away, still smiling.
Christa tried to search his mind, suddenly filled with curiosity. It was blank to her, swathed in shadows. She could see the shapes of memories: long ago, grainy imprints that stretched back like long corridors into time. But when she tried to walk down those corridors, all the doors were locked.
“It was just me and a friend,” Dylan finished.
“I can’t see inside your head anymore,” Christa said. She wasn’t angry. If anything, she was impressed. Nobody had been able to hide themselves from her before.
Dylan looked embarrassed. “I wondered when you would notice. It’s something I’ve been working on. A little mind over matter. It can be disconcerting, to have someone listening to all your private thoughts.”
“I’ve never really thought about it before,” Christa said.
“Well, it’s like someone reading your diary. There are things in there you don’t want anyone else to know.”
They lapsed into silence and Christa settled back to watch the sun set over the horizon, elongating the shadows of trees and roadside restaurants, washing the sky with dying gold. When twilight had passed and the fresh air of night had descended, she turned back to Dylan.
“Let’s go and see your lake.”
***
By the time they had negotiated the network of roads leading to Anderton Lake, full dark had fallen and Christa was unable to make out any details. She only knew that the expanse of water must be large, the road winding around the shore long and narrow. Eventually, the intermittent lights of the wooden vacation properties they passed became brighter and more densely packed together, fanning out into a town.
“Do you know where we’re going?” Christa said.
“We’re already here. This is Hannard, privy to some of the more surreal moments of my misspent youth.”
“Surreal?”
Dylan laughed. “My friend and I were going through an experimental stage, branching out on our own for the first time. Away from our kin. Small town Americans were far more gullible back then. Easy to manipulate.” He turned to Christa, eyes shining in the half-dark. “We cultivated our own little fan club for a time, preying on their fears. He paused, smiling. “And their dreams.”
“Who was your friend?”
Dylan pretended not to have heard her and Christa frowned, frustrated that she could no longer pluck the information from his mind. It was a strange experience, this sensation of being denied entry. She had always spent her days idly peering into any passing soul, amusing herself with their petty worries and sordid secrets. Now Dylan was her only company and her own mind screamed in the silence he cultivated. She concentrated harder, attempting to pry the barrier loose. She caught a brief glimpse of golden hair and unnaturally white, brilliant teeth. Dylan shifted in his seat, shook his head and the vague image evaporated.
“Stop doing that,” he said. “It feels like you’re sliding fingers into my head.”
“Sorry.”
Christa relaxed her reaching mind and sighed, contenting herself with watching Dylan as he slowed the RV to a crawl and looked about him. He seemed excited to see Hannard again.
“It’s barely changed,” he said as they passed a crumbling theatre. A large sign nailed to the door announced that the sad building was for sale.
Christa felt restl
ess, agitated. Dylan’s secret past was beginning to consume her. She tried to remind herself that Dylan was simply another companion. A temporary partner to amuse herself with until she became bored once more. So why did her mind keep drifting to the inconsistent image of Dylan’s blonde friend? Why did her stomach twist every time she tried to push it away?
At the end of the street, the large reception of a red brick hotel threw soft light out into the darkness. “Let’s stay somewhere nice tonight,” Christa said, struck by sudden inspiration.
Dylan followed the direction of her gaze and grinned widely. “I think you’re learning.”
He swung the RV from the road and trundled up the narrow street beside the hotel, grinding to a halt in the unkempt parking lot beyond.
***
The hotel room was large and gaudy. Christa’s feet sunk into thick, red carpet and when she bounded up onto the four-poster bed, she noticed the landscape paintings hanging from the walls were all edged in gilt. She could see Hannard’s Main Street from the window. The neatly painted storefronts seemed to jar with the large cracks dissecting the pavement. She sat on the edge of the bed while Dylan busied himself in the bathroom, sending her will out into the night, delighting when a dozen different voices floated back to her. The townspeople seemed to be happy, optimistic. They chattered about the coming summer, about fishing on the lake and the imminent arrival of tourists. Christa smiled when a snatched conversation in the hotel lobby drifted up to her.
“Well I can’t help it, he gave me the creeps,” the porter was saying to the receptionist. “They didn’t tip, either. He just stared at me. Hell, did you see his eyes? What do you think? Contacts? Can’t be real.”
Christa left the porter and returned her attention to the town. There was something else out there. A faint tang on the air that prickled her curiosity.
“Give her back! You don’t know what you’re doing. You’ll have shit to pay for this. What are you good for, anyway? What the hell are you good for?”
The alien voice startled Christa when it punched its way into her head. The anguish behind it was so brutal it chased away the low humming of the townspeople. She sat up straighter on the bed, her heart hammering in her chest, and reached for the man again, for the stranger screaming somewhere in the night. He was gone.
“I’m so hungry,” Dylan announced, materialising from the bathroom.
“You do know you sound like a petulant child, right?” Christa said. She began to laugh, already forgetting about the intrusive voice. She stopped herself when Dylan glared at her.
“I don’t see what’s so funny,” he said. “If I kill the bellhop or the receptionist downstairs, even another guest, it will bring police to our door. They’d want to question everyone in the hotel. I should have eaten before we checked in. Now it’s too late. This time of night, I’d have to break into a house and risk disturbing an entire family.”
Christa sighed and rose to her knees on the bed, placing herself at Dylan’s eye level. “You’re worrying too much again. If anybody came, I’d simply send them away. Eat who you want.”
She reached for him and Dylan complied, wrapping his long arms around her and resting his head on her shoulder.
“I can’t help worrying,” he said, closing his eyes. “I’ve had to look after myself for so long, it’s hard to leave old habits behind.”
Christa stroked his hair. “Shall we call for room service? Get you a midnight snack?” She giggled, then paused as a new thought presented itself. “Why don’t you take some blood from me?” She nuzzled against his jaw and felt him stiffen against her.
Dylan drew back. “What the hell do you mean?”
“You know what I mean.” Now that Christa had voiced the idea, it seemed like the most tantalising taboo. “I want to see what it feels like.” She pushed herself back onto the bed and undid the top three buttons of her shirt.
Dylan looked perplexed. His eyes darkened and his brow furrowed. “I might take too much. I might not be able to stop.”
“I thought you were a ruthless killer. You didn’t show the same mercy to the girl in that restaurant. Or the hitchhiker we picked up.”
“I wasn’t travelling with those people. Plus, you’re not like them. You know that.”
His concern thrilled Christa. She smiled and pushed her hair out of her eyes. “That’s right, I’m not like other people. I can stop you if you go too far.”
She felt him relax then, felt the barely suppressed hunger rise within him like a swelling tide. Without warning he lunged at her, lips pulled back to reveal glistening sharp teeth, eyes moist with need. Christa tensed as he pushed her back onto the mattress, unprepared for the brute strength she had unleashed. It felt as though a truck had ploughed into her. Within seconds his teeth were at her throat and when he pierced her skin, she tried not to cry out from the cold, glacial shock of it. He began to draw her blood up into his mouth, his lips working against the pulsing vein in her neck, and Christa shivered. She was transfixed by the sensation, by the knowledge that he needed her in such a primal way.
He drank for a full five minutes, quivering over her, thrusting his hands into her hair, before Christa began to feel faint. Gently, she pushed her mind out and into Dylan’s, ordering him to cease. In the midst of feeding his mind was laid open to her, bare and glittering as a freshly tilled field. He retracted his teeth on command and sat up, shaking with exhilaration and the rush of fresh blood. Christa tried to peer inside him once again, tried to grasp the image of his mysterious blonde companion, but his defences were already raised, the wall in his mind re-erected in the time it took him to slide away from her.
“Are you okay?” he asked, not fully coherent.
Christa nodded and smiled. She thought it would hurt, but the skin at her throat merely fluttered with a dull red ache. It spread along her collar bone and down into her stomach with the same golden heat of the bourbon she had drunk in the desert.
Dylan crept towards her on his hands and knees, careful not to rest his full weight on her body, and began to lap at the last rivulets of blood running down her neck. He wiped his mouth with a tissue when he was done, kept in an ornate box at the side of the bed, and bent to kiss her. The kiss felt gentler than usual. It was a thank you, a token of deep appreciation for the liquid life she had given him. Christa reached up to embrace him, drawing him towards her.
That night when they made love, it felt different. Christa felt closer to Dylan, as though her own blood spoke to her as it raced through his veins and brushed his skin with colour.
Seven
They slept long into the next day and when they woke in the late afternoon, neither of them felt ready to stir from the bed. They lay bathed in the warm light of the setting sun, limbs entwined, eyes half-closed. It was only Christa’s own growling stomach that forced them to eventually rise and dress. They walked up Hannard’s Main Street hand in hand, searching for signs of life.
“Pretty quiet,” Dylan said. “I suppose they’re not big on entertainment here.”
“No, it’s not tourist season yet,” Christa said. “People coming to fish the lake won’t arrive for at least a month.”
Dylan raised his eyebrows, but didn’t ask how she knew about the local fishing season. She had obviously been mind-walking again. A poster taped to the boarded-up door of an empty shop caught his eye. It was a large picture of an imposing man, stood facing the camera with his arms crossed over his chest. His light blonde hair was thinning, but despite his baldness a few whisps of hair had been teased into a long ratty ponytail that snaked over his left shoulder and lay on his chest.
“How about this place?” Dylan said, indicating the poster.
Christa read the words above the man’s head out loud: “Lucy’s Dance and Grill. Come for the prime rib, leave with a tattoo.” She laughed. “We have to go there, right?”
***
Lucy’s Dance and Grill was a mile out of town, teetering on the edge of Anderton Lake.
&nb
sp; “I can hear jinn,” Christa announced as Dylan parked the RV outside.
“What a surprise,” he said. “They breed like bloody cockroaches round here.”
The smell of fried meat infused the air, drifting down on the sultry breeze floating in from the lake.
“So this is where all the people are,” Dylan said, putting his arm around Christa’s waist as they walked inside the large wooden building. “I was beginning to wonder.”
He could detect the salty tang of humanity, pressed together in humid quarters, but the bar appeared to be empty. They stopped inside the door, both confused. A man behind the bar turned when they entered, a scowl on his face.
“We’re not open tonight,” he said. “Taking inventory, sorry folks.”
“Are you sure?” Dylan said. “We could smell the food from outside.”
“‘Course I’m sure,” the man said, his voice becoming gruff. “I own the damn place, I should know.”
This then, must be Lucy, Dylan thought. If it was possible, the hair on top of his pale head seemed even thinner than his picture had suggested, yet the long ponytail was still in place, reaching down his back like a length of blonde cord. Dylan looked to Christa and saw that she was concentrating on something. Her eyes glittered and her lips were pursed.
“Troy sent us,” she told Lucy. “He said it would be alright.”
Still the man behind the bar seemed reluctant to trust them. “How do you know Troy?”
Christa concentrated again. “I’m a cousin. On Ma Peterson’s side.”
“You got a funny accent for a Peterson.”
“I’ve been away for a while.”
Lucy finally seemed satisfied. He nodded solemnly and stepped out from behind the bar. “You’d best be coming with me.”
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