You hear the music from around the block. Granted, that's not exactly unusual – your job consists largely of delivering large stacks of pizzas to parties of unwashed college students – but usually it's some combination of electro or hip hop or pop, if not recognisable, at least vaguely familiar and presumably played on the radio at some point.
Operatic howling and chanting, though? Loud enough to be heard from the next intersection? That's new. You hope, rather vainly, that it isn't the house you're delivering to, but this is Silas and you're a realist, so when the light goes green you put the car in drive and just follow the sounds of the screaming.
When the noise reaches maximum pitch, and begins resonating with your bones in a way that seems to make the pizza smell visible (ugh, anchovies really are a particular rank shade of puce), you check the address on your paper slip and do your best at a parallel park. Your Dad had made sure you were a safe driver, but his idea of safe driving was really more about defensive driving, and being the person less-injured in an accident. Probably so you'd be able to fight off bears if they happened to smell blood.
And anyway, the visible pizza smell thing is kind've obscuring your vision, so maybe you mount the curb a little, but whatever, the car is fine and the lawn will recover.
That done, you have to figure out how exactly you're going to get nine pizzas out of the car and still walk up to the front door when the ground is feeling a little shaky. Not like the usual earth tremor shakes though, the ones Laf swears blind are caused by the local anglerfish god squirming about, more like the music – is it music? Really? – is screwing with your perception of reality. Mostly in terms of whether or not the ground is continuing to exist. But it's not like you can see over the pizza boxes to check, so you do an inward shrug (again: carrying nine pizzas) and steer hopefully towards the front door.
Maybe you'll be really lucky and they'll have a bell. Or like, a flashing light when someone pushes a button? Holy shit, how are they ever going to hear you knocking on the door?
You can only face one problem at a time, so you close your eyes and walk. And for once, optimism pays off. You manage to stagger your pile of pizzas directly to the door, which you discover by jamming the corner of the pile of boxes into the lintel. Well, whatever, you found the door and – oh! The door's open! Someone must have seen you get out of the car and lurch all over the lawn. Awesome.
"Um, hi. Um – pizza delivery?" you say into the back of the pile of boxes. You're assuming whoever opened the door is still there, even though you can't see anyone or anything. No reply, though. "Um, hi?"
This is the problem with being a short delivery girl. You can't really enunciate around a pile of boxes taller than you are. And you're like, ninety eight percent sure no one would be able to hear you even if there wasn't the sound of screaming goats resonating around you. "Hello?"
It's possible there's a sound in response. Maybe. It's just possible that at the very edge of audibility, someone had replied to you, but you have absolutely no way of making them out. "Hi?"
Okay, so there's definitely someone there, because after that you distinctly heard a huff of air behind your ear, and now someone's got your arm and is pulling you down the hallway. Um, okay then. You feel like probably you should object to this? Your dad would totally think you should object to this, you're totally being lead somewhere by a stranger who you can't even see. But on the other hand you don't feel like you have other options, you have to deliver this pizza and to be honest, it seems to be a pretty small hand. You could probably take them, if you weren't carrying so much stupid pizza.
After a minute, the hand lets go, and you walk into what you discover a minute later is a kitchen countertop. You discover this – awesome! – because you finally get to put the stupid pizza down. And yeah, this place is totally having a party if the alcohol and cups are anything to go by. Even behind the puce haze still emanating from the pizzas, you see plenty of red cups and oh god, the floor is super sticky. Yuck.
You look down. "OH holy shit I hope that's just soda," you blurt, and the music is still unbearably loud, but the other person seems to hear you.
"mmmbml mmmbl MMbl mm," she says, and you've finally actually looked up and oh god, it could be the music or it could be how horrendously attractive she is that's made her words sound entirely unintelligible. Because seriously. The girl standing in front of you is simultaneously wearing a lot of black lace and not a lot of clothing, and the dichotomy is really, really working for her long legs and dark hair. Holy shit.
"Holy shit," you say aloud, only this time it's because she also has what you're really hoping is cherry soda over her hands. You look down, and holy shit, you also quite definitely have some of it on your elbow she'd used to guide you into the house.
If you live through this, your Dad is totally going to kill you.
You back up a little. You would really like to bolt right now, attractive girl or no, but you're going to need this possible serial killer to sign your receipt if you don't want to end up paying for nine pizzas. "Um," you say, and you're hoping she can lipread because goddamnit you still cannot hear a damn thing over the howls of the music. "Can you possibly…" and you pull the check out of your pocket and wave it vaguely at her.
She is, quite suddenly, in your space. Very much in your space, as evidenced by the fact that you can actually hear her when she says into your ear, "Relax, cutie. It's soda," and she points out an empty bottle on the bench. "I dropped it when I was mixing drinks."
"Um. Okay." You say tightly, still torn between hello, possible blood on the floor and very attractive woman whispering into your ear. "Could you just…" and you wave the paper again.
She leans in a little more, her nose almost touching your neck, then pulls back. She takes the receipt from you, red hands and all, and looks about for a pen. You hand her one from your front pocket, and she looks about for something to lean on, but it looks like the pizzas are taking up the only non-saturated bench space. She gestures, and after a moment, you get it – you turn around and she leans on your back and starts writing her name.
It seems to take a very long time. But maybe that's just because you can feel her breath moving your hair the whole time, even with the way her frankly obnoxious music is making your whole body pulse with its beat. You hope she isn't getting red soda (is it soda? Really?) all over your work tank top.
"Here, cutie," she says into your ear when she's done, and hands you the check over your shoulder. Her lace sleeve brushes your neck, and you try not to shiver as you turn around.
"Thanks," you say, and you try not to look at her very red hands. That's why you look over her shoulder for the first time.
Oh. So the goat screaming wasn't part of the music.
Shit, you really didn't mean to say that out loud.
She's back in your space again, and now you're halfway turned on and halfway fucking terrified because there is an honest-to-Jesus goat tied up in the backyard, surrounded by a group of people who appear to be collecting its blood into an icecream container.
"Relax, cupcake. It's just one goat, and they're not even going to kill it," she says, directly into your ear. "They just need fresh blood for the ritual."
Um, not exactly making you feel better, even if her warm breath is now caressing down the side of your neck. The smell of her hair is appearing in your vision as a kind of warm purple, and you should not be finding that comforting. "Uh, ritual?" you say lamely.
She pulls back a little, searching your face as though checking that you're for real. "Seriously? It's the solstice? And you're delivering meat pizzas to a vampire coven?" she says, as though you've completely missed something utterly obvious.
"Uhhh…" Vampire coven? Were you meant to know that? Was that why your boss smirked when he gave you this order to deliver?
More pertinently: Should you run? Is it too late for that?
"Calm down, I can hear your heart race from here," she says. "It's a once a year ritual where we drink fresh blood to make up for being stuck to blood bags for the rest of the year. There's not enough people in this town to support the vampire population if we were to feed on people. We're not going to eat you."
Her voice is husky in your ear. Being eaten should not sound this appealing.
"Um. I should go." You say slowly. Virtually vegetarian coven or not, your father did not raise you to hang around at parties with vampires.
She looks into your face again, and it's just possible you see a hint of disappointment before she smooths it away. "You don't want a drink or anything? It's hot out," she adds helpfully.
You stare at her pretty face, still very close to your own. So pretty. "I'm good." You say after a long minute. "I've got, um, other deliveries…"
She's definitely disappointed this time. "Yeah. Okay. It's a pretty crappy party anyway." She says, as though that's the reason why you don't want to hang around. Although frankly the music is enough to frighten anyone away, with or without the goat and – oh, yep, chanting figures in hoods in the backyard. That makes a lot of sense.
"I'll walk you out," she offers, and you nod. Anything to get out of here and back to your life of making better choices.
She follows you out, and maybe the music is a little less deafening, or maybe you've just killed off enough of your ear cells that it's less confronting. She goes to hand you your pen, then pauses, and wipes it carefully on her sleeve before handing it back.
"Thanks."
"It really is soda," she says, and you nod. If you say so, pretty lady.
You stumble back to the car. You might not be seeing smells as colours any more, but the ground is still shaky. You look up when you get into the car, and she's only just now going back inside. Curious, you seem to have made some kind of impression on a vampire. This was not what you expected when you rolled directly from a bed full of cookie crumbs into your work clothes this evening.
You start the car, and pull the receipt from your pocket to file with the others you've already collected this evening. You're about to pull away, when something on the paper catches your eye.
Firstly, the hundred dollar tip.
Secondly, the red 'soda stains' from her fingers have mysteriously disappeared.
And thirdly, a message written in red just now fading into view.
It's a phone number, and then -
"Maybe sometime you could stare at me with a less obnoxious soundtrack. Carmilla."