by Emily Reed
I just stared up at her. She crouched down, moving so fast that her hair floated around her for a moment while gravity caught up. Impossible.
"Did it get in your mouth?" she asked again, her voice low and earnest. I reached a hand out to touch her face, but she wrapped her own fingers around mine before I could reach her cheek. Megan's skin was cold. Deathly cold. A shiver traveled down my wrist, along my arm, over my shoulder, and straight to my heart, which thundered in response.
Megan leaned closer to me, her eyes scanning my lips. They narrowed. She sniffed then smiled, her shoulders relaxing. "You bit your lip," she said.
"We have to go," a man behind her said. Megan turned to him, but I just stared at her, looking at the elegant length of her neck, the veins almost violet under her pale skin.
"I know," Megan answered, her tone peevish. "Can you stand?" she asked me gently.
The man came around Megan and crouched down next to me. Megan put her hand on his shoulder. "She does not like to be touched, Dimitri."
"It won't be a problem," he assured her, reaching toward me.
I tore my attention off Megan to look at him. Dimitri's eyes were the pale blue of thick ice and the edges of a hot flame. His cheekbones sculpted from marble, lips red as a rose petal and turned up into a predatory smile. I recognized him… but from where?
My brain felt fuzzy—as if I was thinking through a veil.
"She will walk." Megan said it like a warning. Dimitri frowned, his lips turning almost pouty—except those lips could never be anything but cruel…could they? He relented, standing up. My eyes followed him…I’d seen him before.
He walked like a dancer—movements liquid, precise, controlled and strong. I bet he can dance the tango and leap like a ballerino.
Dimitri wore a tailored suit, charcoal gray with burgundy and black thread running through it. He straightened his tie—narrow and matte black—before crossing behind Megan over to where a zombie pinned Basil against my apartment building wall.
Grabbing the creature around its neck, Dimitri’s fingers tightened, pressing through the flesh. The head popped off, flying sideways and bouncing on the ground. The rest of the body crumpled at his feet. Dimitri shook his hand and bits of flesh flew off it.
Basil straightened his jacket and thanked Dimitri, who gave a small shake of his head as if to say it was nothing, then removed a handkerchief from his inside pocket and wiped at his hands.
The macabre horror clicked something in my brain. He was The Stranger—in the hospital, at the parade before the attack, and outside my apartment…he frightened the cat. He frightened me. And more…
“What is going on?” I asked.
“Don’t worry,” Megan said, and the veil over my mind seeming to thicken into a blanket, so that my memories of Dimitri became shadows at the corner of my mind.
My gaze landed on Issa's unconscious body. “We can't leave them," I said, my tongue thick—I sounded drunk.
Megan took the keys from me and unlocked the front door. I sat on the pavement and watched, Dimitri standing over me, his presence seeming to keep the chaos at bay. Not only did the zombies avoid us, but my thoughts themselves eased at his presence. I wouldn’t mind if he carried me. No, not at all.
"4G," Megan told Basil, holding the door wide. He didn't waste time. Grabbing Issa by the arm, he slung the taller man over his shoulder, and, taking the offered keys, disappeared inside. Megan closed it behind them and gestured toward a navy blue SUV idling at the curb. "We need to go."
"My violin." The case lay on the ground by the wall. It was scuffed up, smears of blood on its rough black exterior, but still intact. Megan picked it up in a blur of movement. She took my hand and pulled me to my feet. I needed to speak with Issa, didn’t I? Wasn’t there something I was doing? "He was going to tell me—"
Megan cut me off. "We have to go now." Sirens wailed in the distance and screaming still filled the air, but I felt no fear. Megan opened the back door and helped me in. A zombie fell against the opposite window, its palms pressed flat to the glass, viscous, blood-laced drool seeping from its mouth. Megan closed my door. The creature flew backward, and Megan was sitting next to me by the time it hit the building across the street.
"I need to blindfold you," she said.
"What?" I asked.
"Just trust me.”
"Trust you," I parroted.
"Yes," she nodded.
"Okay.” I always trusted Megan.
She smiled, relieved. Dimitri, sitting in the driver's seat, passed her a black hood. Megan pulled it over my head, engulfing me in darkness.
The sirens were closer now, loud over the sound of our engine as we started forward. The rat-tat-tat of gunfire made me jump. Megan wrapped her hand around mine, and the haze of my mind thickened.
I couldn't believe that she was really here. And the longer we drove, the less I believed it. The sirens faded, our speed increased, and soon I heard nothing except for the engine, my breathing, and the whine of our tires on the blacktop.
Without the sight of her and only experiencing Megan's smooth, cold, hard fingers interlaced with mine, I began to feel as though I was holding hands with a statue rather than a person. It was impossible that Megan could be a person. Her body should be weak and riddled with disease. She should be dead.
Instead, she exhibited speed and strength beyond the bounds of biology.
My world, which had always felt disjointed and confused but anchored by Megan, now seemed completely untethered.
People with fatal wounds, still fresh and lurid, were rising up and stumbling through the streets, looking for their own victim.
Megan was dying. Megan disappeared. Megan was here, with me.
I climbed into the kitchen cabinet of a two-room cabin my father built and was discovered by police in a completely different place.
Gravel crunched under the tires, and we rolled to a slow stop. The driver’s door opened and closed. "Darling," Megan said. Her voice saying my name sounded so right. "I will take the hood off once we get you inside."
My door opened. The air was cooler here, fresher. Megan's voice in front of me now. "Come on." She took my hand. A gentle touch held the back of my head down as I climbed out. Like I was a prisoner getting out of a cop car.
"I'll carry her; it's better," Dimitri said. His voice was smooth, the hint of an accent I couldn’t place. "I promise you she will not mind," he assured Megan. He was right.
"No," Megan said, her voice low and stern. She led me, holding my hand over gravel, then grass. A gentle breeze rustled leaves. The tinkling sound of a stream mixed with the vibration of crickets. "There are stairs coming up," Megan said. "Here they are. Raise your foot." I did as I was told, and we traveled up four steps. They did not creak or wheeze like wood. The smoothness of them made me think I was walking on stone. This sensation continued as we moved indoors.
The air warmed, and I could smell the lingering scent of smoke from a wood fire. Our footsteps echoed, so I guessed the room was large. "I'm taking off the hood now," Megan said quietly, her breath moving against the fabric. She lifted it, and I blinked for a moment while my eyes focused. That's when I realized hers had changed. While one eye was still the moss green I remembered, the other was frosty blue, just like Dimitri's. "You're okay, Darling," she said. "Everything is okay."
I felt my lips moving with hers, and my mind agreeing. She smiled and then stepped to my side, her arm sliding through mine. It was an achingly familiar gesture. The sweet intimacy of our sides touching was something I'd relished. But Megan's body felt harder now, not the soft flesh I'd once known. This person next to me wasn’t Megan…my friend was dead but not gone.
I'd been right that the room was large. A former bank, maybe. A crystal chandelier hung from the domed ceiling, several of its bulbs burned out and a thick layer of dust dulling its sparkle. There was a mezzanine, its banister carved white marble. Oriental carpets covered the floor, worn leather couches and chairs faced each other.
A grand fireplace, its white surface stained black, was the centerpiece of the seating area.
"You're back, Megan," a woman said as she entered the room through a door to the left of the fireplace. "And you've brought your friend." She clapped her hands together. "Wonderful."
The woman's hair, parted in the center, fell straight to her waist in a sheet of shimmering gold. Black pants clung to her thin hips and long legs. A loose red blouse made of satin seemed to float around her as she crossed the room toward us.
She had the same skin as Megan: smooth, flawless cream with dashes of pink on the lips and cheekbones. Her eyes were that same strange blue as Dimitri.
"Darling," Megan said. "I want you to meet my mother, Pearl Quick.”
What the what? Megan’s parents were long dead...
"I've wanted to meet you for so long." She smiled at me, her teeth straight and white. "Call me Pearl."
She clasped my hand in both of hers. The coldness of her skin raised goose bumps across my forearms. She looked young, not much older than Megan, if not the same age. Impossible. This was all impossible.
"Please, let's sit down." Pearl waved one of her arms toward the couch. The elegant gesture stole my breath—the invitation felt impossible to refuse.
"Grab us some drinks?" she asked Dimitri, then looked over at Megan. "You must be thirsty, dear."
"No," Megan said, following us over to the couches.
"Dimitri, bring Darling some water and"—she narrowed her eyes, searching my face— "some brandy. I know you’ve had quite a shock. And bring something for Megan and me; we must keep our strength up during these difficult times."
"No," Megan said again. Her mother's face darkened as she turned to her. Megan seemed to shy away from the other women's stare. "Sorry," Megan said.
Dimitri left the room, his hard-soled shoes loud in the tall space.
Pearl sat on one of the couches and pulled me down next to her. Megan took a seat in a high-backed leather chair facing us. Pearl opened a small lacquered box on the coffee table and took out a filterless cigarette.
She lit it and settled herself against the cushions, sticking out her tongue and plucking a piece of tobacco off it. Pearl smiled, gesturing with the cigarette. "A habit left over from my human days."
"Human days?" My brain tried to understand, but it just kept clicking over, nothing becoming clearer, that damn haze smothering me.
"Yes, Darling. We are not human. And neither are those things that attacked you."
I looked over at Megan. She sat on the edge of her seat, elbows on her knees, hands clasped. She nodded.
"You're not alive?" I asked.
Megan frowned, her brows furrowing. "Not in the way that you are."
"But she is not entirely like me either," Pearl said.
The door opened and Dimitri returned, holding a silver tray. He lowered it in front of Pearl, and she handed two crystal glasses to me, one filled with water, the other brandy. I took them but did not move to drink. I wasn’t thirsty…I felt almost nothing. "Drink," Pearl said. "The water first, like it's medicine, and then you can sip the brandy."
I did as she directed, gulping down the water. A little dribbled off my chin as I finished. Pearl took it back and placed it on the tray.
Megan and Pearl's glasses were filled with red, thick liquid. "It's blood," Pearl answered my unasked question. She took a sip, and when she lowered the glass, her top lip was stained. The tip of her tongue came out and licked it clean. "We live off blood."
"You're vampires?" I asked. I felt no fear.
She shrugged. "We are the basis of that myth."
"And those things we saw?" I asked.
"Zombies," Megan answered.
"Have some brandy," Pearl said, and I took a small sip. "Megan, drink."
I looked over at Megan. Dark circles had appeared under her eyes as she stared into the cut crystal glass in her hand. She shook her head, lips tightening into a firm line of defiance. She looked almost human again, like the young determined woman I knew…and loved.
"Drink," Pearl commanded, her voice hard. Megan's hand shook as it approached her lips. "Now," Pearl hissed. Megan's lips curled back and her incisors grew, reaching toward the blood that approached. The hunger in her eyes didn’t look human at all. A spark of emotion penetrated the veil, and Pearl’s head whipped to me, her eyes soothing the feelings away.
“Megan is still new." Pearl smiled at me, all friendly new acquaintance. "She cannot control her fangs."
Megan gave in, the glass clasped to her lips, tipping up in a blur of motion, and then it was on the coffee table, empty. Megan swiped at her mouth and sat back, staring at her mother, resentment oozing off of her.
"Sip your brandy, Darling," Pearl said to me, her voice light. Sweet and sharp, it burned all the way down. "Now." Pearl placed her hand on my thigh. "I'm going to explain some things to you. I will continue to use my influence so that you remain calm, but this will be hard."
"Your influence?"
Pearl nodded. “You feel it already.” Ah, the gauzy sensation. They were doing this to me. “Part of our transformation is more control over our own emotions. With time we also learn to control others."
I nodded, calm, and at ease.
"Good.” Pearl smiled. She was so lovely. “You have my daughter's blood, and that is why I've brought you here."
"You left her," I said. "You abandoned her when she was just a child. Do you know what happened to her?" A million times I'd thought about Megan's parents—druggies who never gave a shit, is how Megan put it. I'd spent so much of my life hating them, wondering what kind of monsters could leave someone as special as Megan. The weight of Pearl’s influence allowed me to feel dispassionate about a topic that had always felt like a wound.
Pearl raised an eyebrow. "Her father and I were turned when she was very young. We could not take her with us."
"That's bullshit," I said without anger; it felt like a fact, simple and true. "You were on drugs. She was in and out of the system until you finally disappeared. Do you know what happened to her? To us? Did you know when it was happening?"
Pearl frowned. "Darling, this is not the time for that discussion. The world as you know it is coming to an end."
"That already happened," I said, "when Megan disappeared."
Pearl shook her head, a small line of frustration forming between her brows. "No, Darling, I mean that all of humanity is in danger. We believe that the scales have tipped and your species has finally done it. We brought you here today to save you."
"Save me how?"
"To turn you."
"Turn me?"
Megan spoke then. "Darling, you need to become like us or you'll die…or worse."
"Worse?"
Pearl nodded. "You'll either be turned by us, a zombie or—"
"Or become a blood bag," a man's deep rumble finished Pearl’s sentence. I twisted to see a devastatingly handsome man crossing the room toward us. He must have come down the stairs.
His jet black hair was slicked back from his face, exposing a strong nose, chiseled jaw, and those same light, penetrating blue eyes. "Not that you would mind." He smiled that same predatory smile Dimitri did.
Megan stood in a flash.
He laughed, the sound bouncing off the walls. "Don't worry," he said. "I'm not going to drink from her. But someone should explain the other option."
Megan growled. "No one is going to touch her."
The man smiled at me. "Megan, don't you want to introduce me to your friend?"
“This is my father, Brad." He extended his hand, standing above me, his eyes glittering. I took it. Brad's skin, like his wife and daughter’s, was smooth and cold. Not alive.
Megan sat down next to me, and her father moved away. "You have a decision to make," Megan said, her voice low and tight.
"How can I make a decision if I'm being influenced?"
Megan looked over at her mother. "Give her a little room, Mom." Pearl lifted her hand from
my thigh and panic rose. "Not that much," she said. The blanket of comfort wrapped around my shoulders again. Megan smiled at me. "Simply put, the zombies are rising. It is prophesied that they will take over the world. We need to protect humans."
"Prophesied by who?"
Brad sat down in the leather chair across from us and laced his fingers together, elbows resting on the chair's arms. "It is written in our religious texts."
"That's it?" I asked. He raised his eyebrows. I shrugged. "There are so many religions and beliefs, how can you know that yours is right?"
"Faith," he answered.
"Is it your faith that drives you to protect humans, or is it because we are your food?"
Pearl huffed out a laugh. “I like her. She’s funny when she isn’t scared.”
"Food is a simplification," Megan said, ignoring her mother. "The fact is, Darling, zombies are spreading—we can't stop it."
Megan's father picked up Pearl's glass of blood. Taking a sip, his lips twisted. "I don't know how you drink it like that.”
Megan took my hand in hers. "Listen to me, Darling. You have to become one of us, or you'll be forced into camps."
"Camps?"
Pearl answered. "We've been preparing. You may not believe in our prophecy, but it is coming true. In order to survive, we've built compounds all around the world to keep humans safe."
"The cost of entry," Megan's father said with a smile, "is a small blood donation."
I nodded understanding. "You need us to survive, so you'll keep us alive. At least enough to keep you going." It didn’t bother me. Just a fact. As cold and real as their skin.
Her father smiled. "She gets it."
"So, you see, Darling," Megan said, "you need to become one of us so that you don't have to..."
"Become a blood bag," her father said again with a smile. "But, what Megan is leaving out, is that it feels really good." He rolled the words "really" and "good" around with his tongue, turning them dirty.
"No," Megan said. "Not her."
"You know how pleasurable it is," Pearl admonished. "She should be given the option."
"No," Megan said again.