by J S Hazzard
We sat in silence for another ten minutes before Ian was ready to switch places. I refused to open the doors, which made for an awkward scenario with Ian sliding along the bench and me half sliding, half climbing over him. Then I redirected the air vents back to the passenger seat and threw the truck in gear, determined to hurry.
Ian was very quiet, not even laughing when we passed the pig farm again—though the smell was much worse now. I decided he was either healing or resting, and I took my cue from his silence and focused on the road. I managed to ignore him for maybe an hour, which was a new record.
Then, after we’d passed the first of the Grand Island bridges—no stopping for rainbows this time—a small movement distracted me and I glanced over. And screamed.
Okay, it was more of a shocked gasp, but not because the sight wasn’t scream-worthy. Ian looked like himself again and his skin had healed as he’d promised it would. It was as smooth as it had ever been, with its unnaturally rosy hue the only clue he’d been injured. Unfortunately, his clothes were another story.
Not much remained of them.
The remnants of his blue jeans feathered down his legs in charred tatters and I saw wisps of them scattered over the seat where the air conditioning had blown them loose. One side of his t-shirt was worse than the other and his shoulder was bare, with the remaining shreds on that side drooping down to expose his ribcage. Clearly, his left side had received more sun.
Ian remained silent through my horrified appraisal and I realized he’d fallen asleep, which made sense. His illusion had failed after he’d given in to the daylight urge to sleep. The movement I’d seen was most likely the shimmer that had accompanied his shifting back to normal.
I tried to drive carefully to let him sleep. My knowledge of sun sickness was limited, but I had to think that after blood—which he’d already declined—rest was the best possible medicine. Then I hit an enormous crater in the road without waking him and realized he wouldn’t wake no matter how I drove. With Ian’s comfort no longer an issue, I floored the gas pedal and kept it there.
By the time we’d reached his home, he’d practically fallen off the seat. Only the seatbelt held him upright. Its chafing had worn through his remaining shoulder scraps causing his shirt to fall around his waist. I was grateful I hadn’t noticed earlier. It wouldn’t have helped my driving.
I hadn’t pulled the key from the ignition before Keanu was there, sliding Ian into his arms. Ian still had his sunglasses on but from what I could see he still slept. While Keanu anxiously looked him over, I hurtled down and hurried to shut the passenger door. Then Keanu slung Ian over his shoulder, leaving me to follow.
He carried Ian to the black room I’d seen onscreen, which I found macabre even with the lights on. Though I hadn’t been able to see, the room was fully furnished and quite luxurious, only everything was black. The only differences were the textures.
The black leather sofa was piled with black velvet pillows, the ebony four poster bed featured a black brocade comforter and gauzy black drapes, and the black wallpaper sported black-on-black stripes. Even the bathroom had black tile and fixtures—black iron faucet handles and black mirrored glass. Talk about somber.
Keanu laid Ian on the floor and I volunteered to clean him while Keanu went to fetch fresh clothes. It was silly but I couldn’t leave him covered with smeared ash and crumbling rags. I’d never seen Ian look anything less than immaculate and presumably that was the way he liked it.
His clothes were already falling off, so stripping him took no effort. Only his underwear appeared intact, possibly because it was made of a weird black rubber fabric I’d never seen before. I left them on because they were skin tight and looked impossible to remove, which was just as well. Not being the most experienced woman, I’d be lying if I said I’d be comfortable washing a naked vampire, especially after that damn dream last night.
Ordering myself not to gawk, I dumped the remains of his clothes on the tiled bathroom floor and pretended it was like being a doctor. Or a nurse. Or considering Ian’s utter lifelessness, possibly an embalmer.
I giggled as I emptied a pile of black marbles from a granite bowl (who keeps marbles in their bathroom?) and filled it with water. Whatever its purpose, the bowl made a fine wash basin and I was half done when Keanu returned.
“That took a surprisingly long time,” I said quietly, swiping a black washcloth down one of Ian’s legs. He had a surprising lack of leg hair, which made me wonder whether it had burned away, and if it had, how quickly would it grow back?
Keanu shrugged and sat cross-legged beside me on the black carpet, dropping Ian’s clean clothes between us. “I took a minute to reset security before grabbing the clothes. Pretty boy would’ve woken up if you’d needed him.”
Curious.
“How does that work?” I finished Ian’s other leg and returned to the bathroom for fresh rinsing water and a towel.
“Oh, he can hear us,” Keanu called over, causing me to fumble the wet bowl in my hands as I panicked over whether I’d said anything inappropriate.
Fortunately, I thought I’d kept any improper observations quiet and I congratulated myself on my professionalism as I carried the bowl back.
“Is he hearing us in his sleep or is he not asleep at all?” I asked, wiping Ian down one last time before drying him off.
“Either. Both. Ian needs little sleep and his hearing is so sensitive that on some level he’s always alert. However, in this case it’s likely he’s actively willing himself into a state of oscitancy to maximize his healing and minimize his discomfort. Otherwise he’d inevitably respond to the stimuli around him.”
I would have bitten my tongue off before admitting I didn’t know what ‘oscitancy’ meant, but looking at Ian’s utter limpness, I could make a guess.
Keanu helpfully hoisted Ian’s legs as I tugged a pair of black cashmere sleep pants over his knees. With Keanu’s help, they slid easily over the rubber underwear and I hastened to tie the drawstring. That done, I left Keanu to carry Ian to the sofa while I returned my cleaning paraphernalia to the bathroom.
Satisfied I’d done all I could, I left the gloomy black rooms and took a few minutes in Ian’s regular bathroom to tidy up.
Keanu glanced over his shoulder as I lugged my duffle into the living room. It was already quarter past noon. He swiveled in his chair as I dumped the bag on the floor.
“Would you like lunch before you leave? I made a lasagna after you left.” He grinned. “No eggs were involved.”
Okay, perhaps I didn’t need to leave right this second.
We ate in the living room so Keanu could watch the monitors, which were distracting. My eyes kept drifting to Ian as he slept, or didn’t sleep, whichever it was.
Fortunately, Keanu kept my mind occupied by asking about our delivery and I told him about our morning. We speculated about the contents of the crates and I even told him about the embarrassing ‘bacon’ incident.
“One thing is a definite,” I declared between bites of lasagna. “When it’s your turn, we’ll bring extra blood with us.”
Keanu frowned. “That might be a challenge, Rory, but I’m working on it.”
“Working on it? What’s to work on?” I forked up another mouthful, caught up in gastronomic bliss. I was about to ask Keanu for his recipe to give to Ms. B, when I noticed his expression. He was looking at me oddly and I remembered he’d lost his source of blood in Nicky’s absence. And of course, Luigi wasn’t around to make new arrangements.
“Are you okay? Are you thirsty? Have you fed recently enough?” I was half ready to offer my wrist for the second time today, though I instinctively knew Keanu would refuse because of Ian.
“Don’t worry, I’m fine. I went to Manhattan a few days ago for a quick fix and Ian’s blood can compensate for a lack of human blood almost indefinitely. It seemed both pessimistic and disrespectful to find a new donor already, to say nothing of the difficulty in finding one. Virginity aside, I could tell Nick
y was a great guy—all that energy and confidence.”
“You’ll want someone similar to Nicky then? If things… don’t work out?”
Keanu shook his head. “Almost everyone is delicious in their own way.”
I snorted water up my nose and it was Keanu’s turn to look embarrassed.
“Don’t feel bad.” I paused to blow my nose into my napkin, grateful I hadn’t been drinking juice. Or alcohol. “It’s no worse than my mistaking Ian for bacon.”
He grinned. “Thanks. I didn’t mean to be offensive. Anyway, it’s not like I prefer men. My last three donors before Nicky were female.”
That triggered an idea, but I kept my mouth shut and offered to load the dishwasher. I owed him after ditching the earlier cleanup, but didn’t protest when Keanu reminded me I was running later than expected already. Instead, I simply mentioned he ought to wash the granite bowl in the bathroom while he was at it. Despite having rinsed it, it probably still contained traces of burnt Ian flesh.
While Keanu flashed off to fetch the bowl, I neatly stacked our dishes—no fancy china today, only thick white porcelain. As I slung my duffle back over my shoulder Keanu returned with the black bowl, the remains of Ian’s outfit piled inside it.
He looked distinctly annoyed as he set the bowl beside the lasagna dishes and glowered as he snatched my duffle from my shoulder and tossed it over his own.
I looked at the bowl with more interest. “Let me guess, I accidentally used an imperial Chinese artifact as a wash basin?” After lunch with the Presidential china it wouldn’t have surprised me. Whatever the bowl was, at least I hadn’t damaged it.
“No,” Keanu grumbled. “The bowl is nothing special. I’m pissed at Ian.”
“Ian?” I glanced at the monitors, but he hadn’t moved. “What’d he do?”
“I’ll tell you what he did.” Keanu flapped the scorched rag in my face. “He deliberately let my Tasmanian Devil t-shirt get torched!”
I smothered a laugh. That was why Ian had worn it. He’d known whatever he wore would be ruined. I found this hilarious, but Keanu was seriously miffed.
“That shirt was vintage! It was a limited edition print from the 2300 Centennial celebration, celebrating the return of some of the studio’s previously discontinued animated characters! It’s irreplaceable!”
I refrained from snickering the entire way to the truck, only to crack up the instant Keanu descended beneath the trapdoor.
The door slammed back open and his head popped out, his voice carrying through the truck’s windows. “Don’t think I didn’t hear that Rory. I’m telling you, it was vintage! It was practically an antique!” He slammed the door shut with a loud clang.
I was still laughing as I pulled away and headed for home.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
FOR the first time in my admittedly brief driving career, I ventured from my path and drove to Luigi and Nicky’s place to pick something up. I parked out of sight, not wanting to explain my use of Nicky’s truck and hoping to avoid conversation altogether if I could manage it.
Luck must have been somewhat on my side, because as soon as I parked the sky unleashed a torrential downpour—the kind that doesn’t last but drenches you instantly. It said a lot about the new window tint that I hadn’t noticed the lack of sunshine. Pity it hadn’t happened when Ian could’ve benefitted from it.
My tank and khakis were soaked in seconds but I saw it as an opportunity. I heard the squeals of excited children competing with the voices of irritated parents and knew the courtyard was experiencing a mass exodus. Even better, the rain was a perfect excuse to cover my distinctive hair with the hood of my cargo jacket. Semi-disguised, I raced to join the bottleneck of soggy people.
It was excellent timing. Everyone in the crowd was either hunched over in a futile attempt to stay dry or attempting to wrangle their children out of the rain. No one noticed me as I was swept inside with everyone else.
The cube Nicky shared with Gigi was tucked off in a corner. My luck held and none of his neighbors were among the drenched courtyard refugees. Despite the lack of witnesses, I felt undeniably uncomfortable as I approached their front door.
I’m not sure whether I was worried about being spotted or if it was the idea of being in Nicky’s place for the first time since he went missing—or even the simple act of entering someone’s house without permission. Whatever it was, my hands were trembling as I flipped through Nicky’s endless keys.
Amazingly, luck was on my side there too. Since his doorknob resembled ours, I took a guess his house key would look similar too. It took only seven tries to find a key that turned in the lock and I slipped inside as I heard voices approaching from around the corner of the hall. When the door latched behind me, I took a deep breath of relief.
And promptly gagged.
Covering my nose and mouth with my wet shirt as I searched for the source of the stench, I struck gold with an unidentifiable puddle of liquefied fruit in the kitchen, some greenish-black lumps that had once been baked goods on the counter and two flower vases filled with stagnant water in the living room. (Slightly unexpected in a bachelor pad, that last one.)
Taking shallow breaths, I peeled off my sodden clothes and shoved them in the dryer. I hadn’t planned on cleaning—in my underwear no less—but I couldn’t leave the mess. If the stink spread, someone would complain and demerits would be issued.
Everyone knew the Carriero men traveled frequently and I was counting on that to make Nicky’s absence less noticeable—particularly combined with the ‘Nicky sightings’ from each delivery. However, even the most oblivious neighbor would notice if demerit slips began piling against the front door.
Fervently wishing for a pair of rubber gloves (or a shovel), I dug in. Thirty repugnant minutes later I had two sacks ready for the square’s composting barrels and the dishwasher was running. With the odor mostly contained, I flipped on the ventilation fans and ran up to Nicky’s room to resume my original mission.
Unfortunately, the upstairs was equally repulsive and I grudgingly threw the mildewed towels into the washing machine. I also punted a pile of sheets downstairs in preparation for a second load. At this rate I’d be lucky to make my dinner with Amy, but I’d never find what I needed with everything buried in laundry.
Two hours and two loads of laundry later, I’d made a huge dent in the mess but hadn’t found what I was looking for. I’d kicked everything washable downstairs and had ransacked every cupboard and drawer without success. It was time to admit defeat.
Finally, while folding the last of the laundry, I had an annoying flash of insight. Not only did I know the location of what I wanted, it was at my house. I left the laundry on the sofa for next time—still plenty to do before Luigi returned—and ran around turning off lights and fans before getting dressed and locking up.
I also snagged a couple DVDs and a bottle of red wine on my way out the door. Not only would they come in handy for my plans later tonight, but I hoped the alcohol would kill any bacteria I’d accidentally inhaled.
The earlier deluge had left the courtyard squelchy and steamy, and it pleased me to find it still largely empty. I was even more pleased to hear Nicky’s gatekeeper making dinner in the kitchen as I tiptoed out. I stopped at the compost barrels and dumpsters before heading back to the truck, but no one was around to notice.
Back home, I resumed my scavenger hunt with more success. The item I’d sought was in the scruffy leather backpack Nicky had always carried—the one I’d stashed in my mother’s closet because I couldn’t bear to see it.
With little time to spare, I changed into a pink tank top and brown capris. Then I threw on my brown sandals and three carved wooden bangles that had been a gift from Mr. Nickleby and raced out the door.
As Amy answered her door, I was surprised to find my mother’s friend, Beverly, behind her. It made me feel optimistic about my proposal for the latter half of the evening. My afternoon of labor had depleted Keanu’s lasagna, and I ate enoug
h of Ms. B’s braised lamb shank and rosemary polenta to get more than one strange look.
As Amy and Ms. B. cleared the table, I motioned Beverly aside. “Is there any way I can bribe you into staying here? I scored a bottle of wine and thought Amy could use an evening of girl time.”
Beverly shook her head and whispered, “No bribe necessary. Ms. B. and I are halfway through a novel and I’d planned on asking if she wanted me to stay. She’s making me some new trousers and she’ll keep sewing for as long as my voice lasts.”
Anxious to begin our evening entertainments, Bev and I pitched in and the cleaning was done in no time. (Unlike Keanu, Ms. B. subscribed to the clean-as-you-go philosophy of cooking.) Then I told Amy I had a surprise back at my place.
I didn’t give hints but Amy appeared game for anything—an attitude I hoped she maintained throughout the night.
Back at my cube I brought out the bottle of wine and Amy clapped her hands. I uncorked the bottle and took out two glasses, but stopped Amy as she moved to pour.
“It won’t hurt to let it breathe a few minutes and there’s something I want to discuss while we’re sober.”
A crease appeared on her forehead. “Is it about your hearing? Did Robert do something?”
I almost laughed at her suspicious tone. Apparently I wasn’t the only one anticipating the worst around here. “Nothing is wrong. I have a proposition for you.”
One eyebrow sprang up.
“Not that type of proposition.” I laughed. “It’s the opportunity kind of proposition, but you have to keep a secret. A big one.”
She jumped up from her seat and tackled me with a hug that sent a crochet hook winging clear across the room. “Holy shit, Nicky proposed!” My attempted denial was drowned in a chorus of congratulations punctuated by cheek kisses. It wasn’t until she began dancing around the room that I broke through to her.
“No weddings here. Honest.”
Her forehead crinkled in concentration as she sat on the sofa and I recognized her thoughtful expression. “When you said opportunity, I thought wedding dress,” she said slowly. She bit her lip. “Anything to do with clothes?”