*****"Born On Saturday, Got Buried On Sunday"****
By: J.L. Michaelsonn
Disclaimer: Night World, its principles, and characters belong to L.J. Smith and her lawyers and company
and etc. . However, Santriel, Carrey, Birch, Moon, and Jasmine belong to me. The title is from The Living End.
DON'T SUE ME!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Santriel Redfern pressed her foot down on the gas pedal of her sleek BMW convertible.
She loved driving that car, her birthday present when she turned sixteen last year. On a bright, sunny
summer afternoon, she pushed the speed limit of the turnpike. It exhilirated her, the feeling of the wind
in her silken burgundy curls. The Living End blared from her CD player, varely audible above the rush
of wind in her vampiric ears. But she could make out the swingin' music of "Riot On Broadway."
Santriel had just gotten out of her juinor year of high school, acing all her courses with ease. But she
was bored in school. Nothing held her interest more than a few months. Whether it was the science club, the
Honor Society, Youth and Government, or smoking across the street from the school in front of a children's day
care, Santriel was involved. She was relieved that school was over, at least for the summer. Now, she pushed
her dark sunglasses over her dark eyes, eyes that would turn gold in the sunlight. Running a slender hand through
the unruly wine-colored hair, she nodded her head in time to "Dirty Man."
" 'Born on Saturday, got buried on Sunday,' " she sang merrily.
She was on her way to Portland, Maine for a grand Summer Solstice party at the Black Bamboo,
an Asian restaurant and lounge, owned by some hotshot vampire businesswoman. Whatever. It was a new
branch of the Black Iris, and Santriel was anxious to visit her friends from Worcester, Massachusetts, and
Manchester, New Hampshire, and all over New England. Some of them were actually her rare and distant
Redfern cousins. So many had disappeared. Some Night People said they ran away and joined Circle
Daybreak. Oh, well. It didn't affect Santriel.
The hot rays of sunlight bore down on her, dressed in a black silk tank top with spaghetti-thin
straps, and short gray skirt, with knee-high black leather boots. She wore silver hoop earrings and a
delicate silver chain with a claddaugh ring on it. Her pale hands gripped the steering wheel with long
fingers tipped with black nails. There was a black rose tatooed on her back, between the shoulder blades.
Santriel drove for another half an hour, then she exited off the turnpike and drove through the
downtown area. She passed the modern skyshcapers alongside more elegant, vintage buildings. Soon,
she found it. Just a doorway with a lovely paited sign of a grove of black bamboo sticks.
Inside, Santriel met a veritble cloud of sweet-smelling nag champa incese. She savored
the exotic aroma, and found a door that said, AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. Beneath that
was an iris, in black spraypaint. Santriel pushed the double doors open, and quickly removed her
sunglasses, seeing effortlessly in the growing darkness. Down three flights of stone steps and into
what seemed to be a monstrous cavern. Obviously, it had once been the basement of the
establishment, but now it had been transformed into what looked like an underground cafe.
There was a stage at one end, and a bunch of teenage guys were busily working.
Looks like band's getting ready to play, thought Santriel. At any first glance, some of
them that were warming up looked like your average punk/garage band, but if you looked closer,
you saw their smooth grace of movement, or the way their eyes glittered from within the black
eyeliner, or the shine of their hair, even after it had been dyed dazzling sapphire or flaming red.
She squinted, peering at the others that were scattered about. Three shapeshifters,
rather aquilline, were playing a round of billiards at the violet pool table. Two witches sat at the
bar, sipping fruity drinks. And a handful of vampires, their minds concealed expertly, already
lounged at the side tables. The band up there was vampiric, Santriel could tell. They were
ready. Santriel took a seat at the bar, not near the witches.
The lead singer said, "Hey everyone. We're Dark Aidenn, and we'll be providing
music tonight."
On cue, the stereo system, which had been playing New Found Glory, stopped.
The lead singer, Lucius Armand; he gave his name freely, yelled, "One, two, three, four!"
The band ripped into a cover of a Good Charlotte song. Santriel was fascinated.
Through all of her changes in interest, she'd falled head over heels in love with punk rock.
When she was a baby, her older brother Sabriel played the Sex Pistols and Billy Idol. When
she was ten years old, she first heard Green Day, and bought her first Blink 182 album.
Lately, she'd been into Australia's the Living End and Hepburn from England.
After playing "Let Me Go" from Good Charlotte, Santriel felt a touch on her
shoulder. She turned around to see Birch Redfern, her cousin. He grinned, and hugged her
when she stood up.
"Hey, coz," she greeted. Birch laughed, and sat down at the table with her. He was a
few inches taller than her, robust, and strong. He had broad shoulder, and large muscles on his
arms and chest. Birch had short blond hair, spiked and highlighted. His eyes were a rich hazel,
and he was always affectionate towards Santriel. They went to countless rock concerts together.
They plotted to see Everclear and American Hi-Fi in July.
"How's Aunt Skye lately?" he asked conversationally.
Santriel shrugged. "Still as crazy as ever."
"I see she got you a Beemer." He leaned against his elbow, propped up on the table.
"Yeah."
"Cool."
No sooner had they said that, a voice said, "You got a Beemer? I'm jealous."
Santriel saw her old friend Moon, who leaned over the other chair, smiling dreamily.
Moon was a very pretty lamian girl, petite, with pale blond hair and dark forest green eyes. She
wore a minidress made of orange cotton. She looked as if she were aflame.
"Hey, Santriel," she said warmly.
"Hi, Moon. Good Solstice." Moon was a great friend, she thought. She had been there
through the years alway having something new to talk about between the two friends. Their common
passion (at least for the time being) was music. Moon had just gotten headfirst into Tantric, while
Santriel was immersed in foreign punk.
The trio chatted for a while as the band onstage tore into Limp Bizkit, then Linkin Park.
At around eleven o'clock, Moon said, "Why don't we go hunt at the Beach?"
"Great idea," said Birch enthusiastically. "I'm getting rather hungry."
"Brave it out till we get to the beachcombers, " suggested Moon with a mischeivous smile.
She looked impishly seductive and childishly excited, as she got when anticipating something. Birch led the
way, and Santriel took up the rear. Together, they walked toward the back exit, that led them into a
dirty alley. Birch nodded at a very thin and straight-postured young woman, with a nametag that read,
"Jasmine Greenriver, Manager." She nooded back curtly, and her stiff eye passed over indifferent Moon,
and lingered on Santriel, who tried to ignore her.
She felt Jasmine's eyes on her as they moved to the parking lot. Birch and Moon got into the
backseat of Santriel's BMW. She started it, and drove out of the dirt parking lot.
At midnight, they had split up, promising to meet the next night. Contact was to go by cell phone.
Santriel parked her car in a hidden spot, and tucked the keys into the pocket of her gray skirt. She walked
silently toward the sands, anxious to see and hear the ocean. She took a dep breath of the wild rose
growing in bushes near the sharp dunegrass. On the white sand, Santriel paced, amelling the salty air and
listening to the serene sound of waves crash against wet land. She stood stock-still as the prescence behind
her hesitated. She urged silently, Come on, buddy. Give it a try.
As if he heard her, the attacker lunged and wrapped his arms around her slender waist like a lover.
She went limp, downward, and grabbed his ankle and YANKED. He fell backward, then was up again, trying
to snatch her arm. She leisurely dodged his clumsy attack, then said softly, "My turn."
Faster than the human eye can see, Santriel moved behind him, and took ahold of his arms, and bit
into his throat. She quickly scanned for any wandering mortals. None. Her prey struggled deliciously, but she
subdued him easily, and drank until there was no more.
She whispered, "Thank you," to the corpse. It did not answer as she used her telekinetic powers
to send far out into the sea. "Good night."
The sun rose, and Santriel got back into her car and drove back to Portland. Her cell phone hadn't
rang yet. With her eyes protected by the designer shades, she pulled up to a parking meter and and entered
a few coins, then walked into a cafe called All Hours.
She sat down and ordered a frozen latte. It was a cozy, softly-illuminated place, with a large,
antique grandfather's clock against the left wall, which was painted a pale gold. On the wall opposite the ordering
counter, was a small platform. Enough for a solitary peformer, thought Santriel. She picked up her drink,
and took a delicate sip.
From a back door, there was a bit of movement. The door opened, and a young man came out, carrying
an acoustic guitar.
What struck Santriel first was a sort of presence in him, a feeling of dread and ecstacy and queasiness
that made her shake her head to clear it. Second, was that he was handsome. Any human girl would notice that.
He was dressed in baggy olive-green khakis and a white T-shirt, looking fresh and clean; he smelled faintly like
lavender. She scanned for his name: Carrey Davids.
His face was slightly narrow, with a nice jawline, a high forehead, and perfect cheekbones. He was
tanned, and had dark brown hair that curled back, behind his ears. A stray strand fell forward, giving a boyish touch.
A little deeper into his mind: he was a quaint, small-town boy from New Hampshire; an eighteen-year-
old human. . . a deep, poetic mind.
That was all she could pull out, without a direct blooid connection. Carrey sat down on a wooden
stool with his guitar and began to play an original folk song.
"You pulled me down to the sea
I'm lost and found, I can't be
Comprehended, are you offended?
It's something gone in my soul
Please stop, and pay the toll
Something's gone in my soul. . . .
I can't find anything that's mine
Where's the missing link?
Without it, I can't think
Are we running out of time?
You are, what's missing of mine. . . ."
He had a smooth, deep voice, rich and articulate, just like Jason Wade from Lifehouse.
The melody was full of plaintive longing. When he sang the chorus, he had been looking over the small
crowd, but his dark eyes lingered whistfully on Santriel. She gazed into his eyes and felt a twinge of fear,
like looking over the edge of a cliff. As if. . .she was abou to lose control of her world. Abruptly, she turned
her golden eyes down at the cup of cold latte. The song ended, and the people clapped. He began another.
Santriel wanted so badly to leave, to flee, but she was held there, she couldn't move. She was
hypnotized by his deft guitar playing, by his expressive eyes. . . .
After about a half an hour, he stopped. People put dollar bills and coins into his open guitar case.
He thanked them graciously. Santriel slowly rose from her seat and moved towards him. She
withdrew a hundred-dollar bill and dropped it carelessly into the case.
He gasped, "Miss! This is a hundred dollars."
"I know," she replied casually.
"I don't think you meant to pay me that much," he said decently.
Coolly, she said, "I did."
"Well, thank you," he said humbly. "How can I repay you?"
"You needn't--"
"Let me take you out to lunch," he offered with a tentative smile.
"I--okay, sure."
"All right." He smiled again, and added, "I'm Carrey Davids."
"I know," Santriel said before she could stop herself.
"You do?" he asked.
"I. . . saw your name on the poster out on the door."
"I see."
"I'm Santriel Redfern."
"Well, it looks like I'm finished here for the day," he murmured, looking at the cash piled in his guitar case.
He gather it up, and put it into his pocket, then lovingly set his guitar into the case, snapping the clasps shut.
They walked out together, her leading slightly, into the crisp seaside morning. The sun was burning off the clouds.
"Come on," she said, unlocking her car doors.
Quietly, he slipped into the carmel leather passenger seat. Santriel started the car, and pulled out of the
unusually calm streets.
"Where to, Carrey?" she said, an edge of cheerfulness to her voice. But her saying of his name was
surprisingly intimate. Inwardly, she winced.
"Um, I was thinking of tht new restaurant, the Black Bamboo--"
Quickly, Santriel yelped, "No, I don't think we should go there. I heard it's not a nice place."
Mildly, he replied, "Okay. Let's just stop here." He pointed to a small little bistro on the right.
They parked, and inside, it was as delightfully quaint as All Hours. Painted a light spring green, with
old-fashioned wooden tables, the pair took a booth to the side.
With menus, they sat momentarily in silence. Then Santriel met Carrey's eyes as he peeked
over the top of the plastic-covered menu. He sighed, and said, "I'm really hungry."
"Honestly, I'm not," Santriel admitted, thinking of her beachside attacker.
"Oh, well, if you want, we could leave--" Carrey began.
"No, you're hungry, eat."
"If you say so."
"I do."
Carrey ordered a very large brunch plate, complete with scrambled eggs, bacon, a cup of chicken soup,
and a large glass of water. Santriel watched him eat, and she knew that he hadn't eaten in a day. She smiled
when he looked up at her and said, with a mouthful of eggs, "What?"
She chuckled softly. He swallowed and grinned, a piece of egg still caught in his teeth. She shook her
head in amusement. He had such a charm, it was irresistable. Charisma that any entertainer knew was vital.
After he finished his brunch, the waitress brought the bill, casting an appreciative eye at Carrey.
Santriel felt a surge of jealousy, for no particular reason. Then she reached for the bill, a slip
of thin paper resting on the hunter-green tablecloth. So did Carrey, out of good manners. Santriel
thought, It's a guy thing, on the first date to pay for the meal. How silly. He should--
She never finished her train of thought. Because in the awkward moment of two hands reaching
to snag the scrap of paper, their fingers brushed each others' lightly.
The physical world ended briefly. Santriel saw and felt nothing but Carrey, and everything
else was nothing but a bright light. He seemed to glow like a biblical angel. Because almost all of
them were guys, she thought distantly. Carrey seemed to laugh at that.
She could feel his mind, his soul. Instantly, she was surrounded by surreal picture and information,
and all she could sense of the physical workd was Carey's hand holding hers. She could feel the callouses
on his fingertips from the guitar. His soul, his life. . . .
Carrey grew up as a lonely kid that got constantly picked on by his peers at school. His mother
was the only person that truly cared about him. His father was the town drunk. Bobby Davids had never been
respected all his life. It made him a bitter, angry man who had alcohol to count for his friends. Even his wife,
Michelle, had only married him out of sympathy. That made him even more bitter, and it grew tremendously
when Carrey Jacob Davids was born eighteen years ago. Early on, Carrey loved music, and he loved it
when his mother played the radio while she worked hard to keep their shabby home presentable.
But those years came to an end when Michelle died. And Carrey was left in the hands of his father.
In the church that day, Santriel saw a little dark-haired boy in a little black suit sitting still, tears in his eyes,
staring at the open casket, where a beautiful-but-clearly poor woman was laid out. She had light mahogany
hair, long and full, and her eyes were shut. Her face was utterly serene.
Cancer, some uptown family had whispered in hushed tones. Michelle Wellward-Davids had
a terrible, painful cancer, but couldn't afford medical care. She died at home in pure agony.
The little boy was frozen, listening to all this.
And poor little Carrey, his Aunt Chrissy had said in a low tone. Left all alone with that drunkard.
Why, I have a mind to call up social services--
Another lady had interrupted, Better not. Here he comes.
Santriel saw flashes of being kicked in the stomach and puched in the chest in middle school.
Carrey had began spending all his spare time at a local music club, seeing all the local bands and touring
bands who talked kindly to him, saying they knew his pain, they'd been through the same thing.
And one night, Carrey received his very own guitar from one of those musicians, at the age of fourteen.
He kept it in the club, because his father would smash it to pieces if he saw it. Soon Carrey began to pour his
emotions into songwriting, then, finally, worked up the guts to play onstage. The crowd loved him, his honesty,
and his innocence. That was after he turned seventeen.
But one night he had been sneaking into his window, when Bobby caught him. He yelled so
loudly the whole town probably heard him. Where've you been? It's too late for a boy like you to be out!
Carrey tried to explain calmly, but Bobby had yelled, I forbid you from going back there! You're in MY house,
boy!
Carrey had snatched up his backpack, with the few things he had, and went back pout the window.
He went to the club and apologized for leaving on a short notice, and picked up his guitar. The manager's
brother took him to Portland, where he lived with his older cousin, and played small gigs at coffee shops.
Exactly where Santriel had found him.
She realized she'd been probing into him, but he didn't mind. In fact, he was lost in her mind,
lingering on her kill last night.
(You're a killer,) he thought, and she heard his shock and sense of revalation.
(Yes.)
(You're a vampire.)
(Yes.)
(Kinda shameless, aren't you?)
She smiled. Carrey seemed to make light of situations.
She saw her life flash before her eyes. Her rich lamia parents, her big brother out in California,
making movies in his career as a filmmaker, her friend Moon, her cousin Birch. . .
But she *had* always been lonely, hadn't she? Her only solace was in rock. Rock 'n' roll,
till the end. Like Kurt Cobain. Or Elvis. Or Joey Ramone.
And now she remembered the Night World stories, of Night People and humans being together,
being. . . Soulmates.
(Soulmates, that's what we are.) It wasn't a question.
(I think so.)
(Santriel, I--)
A voice broke through their trance. "Have you paid?"
Santriel, with her fast vampire reflexes, tossed up a fifty dollar bill. They slid out of their booth seats
and walked to the counter. Santriel snatched up her change, and the waitress eyed Carrey again, but he walked
fast after Santriel.
"Hey," he said, getting into his seat. "Explain this, please."
"What? We're soulmates. Two people destined to be together, yada yada yada."
"I mean, about the Night World."
Santriel stiffened. He wasn't supposed to see that. If he said something--
Sharply, she said, "Forget it."
"What? Why?"
"Just--okay, listen." She spoke rapidly as she drove down the bust Portland streets. "Cuz you could get
in wicked deep trouble if somebody finds out you know this." She drew in a deep breath. "The Night World is
an organization of vampires like me, werewolves, witches, shapeshifters, and who knows what else. Well,
the bigshots who control the laws of the Night World said that WE can't fall in love or tell any of YOU about it.
We're everywhere around you. The Black Bamboo? I was just there last night. It's an NW meet."
"Whoa." In that one syllable, Carrey muttered all of his puzzled curiosity. He looked at her, his dark hair
tousled by the wind, his eyes sparkling. "I knew there was something different going on in the world, but--"
"You can't say anything about it. See that car next to us? Don't look. They're witches. And in that
shop? Vampires."
"What about us?" he asked gently, his face serious.
"Us? We're illegal, and I have no idea what we're going to do." She glanced at him, then back at the road.
"I'm just glad we're together." He spoke quietly, as Sum 41 belted out "Handle This." "I mean,
Santriel, when I first saw you, I felt something in you, but you were so mysterious, so enigmatic, and so,"
he frowned, "*distant.*"
"Well, when you find you're soulmate, you recognize them instantly," she explained. "Distant?
I didn't realize. You know, I just--"
He put his hand on hers, which was resting on the stick shift. The explosion of sensation wasn't
as strong this time, and Santriel was grateful, seeing that they were on the road.
Suddenly, a cell phone began to play Beethoven's "Fur Elise" in high, mechanical
beeps. Santriel jumped up in her seat, and grabbed it off the dashboard, where she'd set it after they entered
the car. "Hello?"
"Santriel?"
"Moon?"
"Santriel, I've been trying to call you all night and all morning!" Moon practically screamed. "What
have you been up to?"
"I. . .well, I met someone."
" 'Met someone' ? Ooh, spill, girl! Is he hot?"
"Well, you could say so." He's human, she wanted to say.
"Bring him to Black Bamboo tonight. I'm there. You?"
"I'm there," she said faintly.
That evening, the sun sank gratefully, and the night came in waves of twilight violet and blue-black,
sparkling with white crystalline stars. Santriel's heart beat to the rhythm of "Don't Shut The Gate," by the Living End.
She sat in the front room of Carrey's cousin's apartment. Carrey had written a note that he probably wasn't coming
back, but not to worry about him, and left a good amount of money. Now, he had packed his few things, and
was getting dressed.
"What should I wear?" he called to Santriel from his bedroom.
"Black," she called simply.
In about three minutes he emerged wearing well-fit black pants and a black button-down shirt with
short sleeves. He even wore sturdy black boots.
She stood up, still in her black tank top and gray skirt, and smiled. "You look nice."
"Thanks." He approached her, and they kissed.
After the kiss, she asked, "Ready?"
"Yeah."
They left.
At the Black Bamboo, Moon Bluefir was waiting anxiously. She KNEW something was going to
happen. (Where are you, Santriel?) she thought. But then she shrugged, and followed some vampire
hottie inside.
Santriel and Carrey arrived at about ten-thirty. She parked her BMW on the side, and said solemnly,
"Carrey, listen to me. You will stay upstairs in the restaurant, and I will fetch Moon. I hope she'll be ditzy enough
not to notice you're ve--human."
"Okay," Carrey agreed, then grabbed her arm gently as she moved toward the double doors marked
for authorized personnel only. He gave her a look that said, *Be careful.*
Silently she replied, (I'll be fine.)
He nodded reluctantly, and sat down at a table.
Santriel took a deep breath and pushed the doors open, then began the long descent to the
Black Iris branch of the establishment.
At the landing at the bottom of the stairs, She head Moon yell, "Hey, Santy!"
Santriel waved. "Hi, Moon."
She put on her cheery, brave face, and strode to Moon's table. Her friend sat at one of the small tables
with two other vampires, both male.
Moon looked great, seated in the center, in a skimpy bloodred velvet dress. One of the guys had his thick
arm around her shoulders.
"Hey, hey," she was saying, "Boys, meet my pal Santriel. Santy, this is Husky, and this is Moss."
Husky had silvery-blond hair, one blue eye and one brown, and Moss had brown hair and green eyes.
Both had an intimidating football-players' build.
Immediately Moon launched herself into chattering about how she met Moss, and how much she loved
him, and they even kissed right in front of Husky and Santriel. She looked away, at the strangely large crowd,
feeling awkward and uncomfortable.
Moon was talking to her. "Santy, where's that 'someone' you met this morning?"
"He's--" Santriel began.
She heard a shriek. "VERMIN!"
Her heart sank.
Carrey had frozen, where he stood on the steps.
Chaos broke out, and several people tried to charge on him. Carrey began to run back up the steps,
but some thugs grabbed him, and brought him back down. He struggled, but to no avail.
"Hold him!" a voice rang out.
It was Jasmine Greenriver, the manager. Her stiff gaze was ruthless and hungry. She whipped off her
apron, and stalked toward Carrey, who was like a moth in the thugs' grasp. He cried out in pain as Jaz's fangs
pierced his carotid artery.
Santriel had been working her way through the crowd, and now stood not three feet away. Carrey
was weakening, and she could feel it. If she didn't do somethig, he'd--
She snatched up a chair--wooden, how foolish--and snapped off a leg. With the sharp point, she
staked one of the thugs, who doubled over and fell. She kicked the other, and pushed Jasmine off, then
ran up the stairs, with a scream of, "Get the traitor!" ringing in her ears.
But she was fast. She made it up those hellish stone steps, and sprinted to her car. She started
the engine, and screeched out onto the road, and drove mindlessly at breakneck speed for a while, until
she realized she wasn't being chased.
On the road, she had shaken Carrey, and shouted, "Wake up, Carrey. Please, you have to live!"
He groggily came around, and slurred, "Santriel? I feel. . .really weak."
"You lost a lot of blood. Hold on. Just hold on, Carrey, I'll get you somewhere safe--er."
She pulled into a sleazy hotel, checked in under a false name, and payed heftily for no
disturbances.
In the clean-but-cheap room, she lay Carrey down on the bed. He moaned softly, and she saw
he was significantly paler than when she first saw him.
Making her decision, she said, "Carrey, here. Take this. . . It'll make you get better."
She made a deep scratch on her own throat, and touched his healing puncture wounds. "Drink."
She lifted his head, and guided his mouth to her neck. "That's it, now, Carrey, take a lot. Drink it all.
You need this, or you'll die."
He obeyed. She felt him sucking, deeply, greedily, and she felt faint. Her arms were wrapped
around his shoulder, one hand on his hair, falling back.
Santriel sat straight up, feeling bloodlust rise sharply, the familiar pain. At least it was a
sensation, and all she'd been through was dreams. Calculating with her sense of time, she deduced it was
two days later. It was night, arounf ten or so. She was sitting in her frumpled clothes in a hotel bed,
still made. Alone.
"Carrey?" she called. She was relieved when he replied, "Right here."
He was a vampire. His tan had faded, and his dark brown hair had a bright, shiny luster. His eyes
were truly brilliant, dark portals into his dark soul. Even his voice was more liquid and smooth that it had been,
with an occaisional break or so.
"Are you all right?" she asked.
"I think so." He came towards her, with a new predators' grace. "Santriel, I"m--"
"A vampire," she finished for him. "Like me. But I had to, Carrey, to save you."
"I know." He sounded sad. "Santriel, I--"
The door busted open. It was Husky and Moss, both looking full of rage.
"Kill her! Kill the traitor!" Everything erupted again, just as it had two night prior. But now,
Carrey had the strength to fight back. He took on Moss, and Husky jumped for Santriel. Carrey lashed out a
kick into Moss's stomach, and punched him in the face. But Moss rebounded too quickly. He pushed Carrey
to the floor and withdrew a wooden stake, holding it high above Carrey's chest.
But theen a terrible and wonderful sound took away Moss's attention span. Husky was howling in
agony, a sharp piece of the bed's headboard in his chest. Santriel stood back, watching him with cold, black
eyes. Moss yelled, and thrust the stake--
--right into Santriel's heart. She had moved quicker than the eye could see, and was right on top of
Carrey, blocking Moss's strike.
"No," he whispered, lifting her up, and placing her on the bed, taking the stake from Husky's
mummified body, and using vengeance and utter ferocity, killed Moss.
He went over to where Santriel was breathing shallowly, pain on her face, in her eyes. The
ugly wooden thing was still lodged in her, but carrey ignored it, grasping her hand in his.
"Santriel!" he cried, blood tears welling up. She struggled to breathe now, and cried out when she
saw that he feet and legs were drying up. Shrinking, browning, and hardening.
"Carrey," she sobbed. "I'm sorry--"
"It wasn't your fault," he said firmly, his voice ragged.
"No." She looked up into his eyes. "For leaving you alone. . ."
The tears fell. He felt her fingertips turning leathery, cleaving to bone, and the satiny smoothness
of her long black fingernails. With her free hand, she snapped the silver chain around her neck, and thrust the
ring into his hand. There was fear in her face, then love.
"Santriel, don't die; I love you."
She gasped, "I love you."
Then she died. And the drying up spread over her, leaving her as much an unwrapped mummy as
anything found in the Sahara. In the end, she was a browned thing of hard skin over bones, with a shock of
beautiful silken burgundy curls.
For at least an hour, Carrey sat at the side of the bed, not being able to bear the sight of the dried
bodies with him. He was all alone, again, and he cried bitterly. Then, he washed the blood tears from his face
and looked down at what he held in his hand:
A delicate silver chain, and a large claddaugh ring. She'd probably never worn it because it was
too big for her slender fingers. Without thinking, he slipped it on his ring finger, and determinedly strode out
the door, without one last look at the mummies. He wanted to remember her the way she'd been: the
sweet, amused, witty girl he'd met at a coffee shop.
He had the keys for her car, and now, as the sun rose, he unlocked the wicked black streamlined
BMW convertible, and sat down in the caramel leather drivers' seat. It was then that he noticed how the ring
caught the early sunlight. He was wearing it with the crown pointing toward him. (I should wear it
the other way, heart-facing. That meant you belonged to somebody. I do.) So he sat there, oblivious
to the outside world, trying to pull the ring off. He spent twenty minutes trying to remove that circle of silver,
but suddenly, he clicked. (This is what she'd want.)
He reached for the stick shift, but touched a scrap of paper with something scrawled on it.
In Santriel's fancy handwriting. It read, "Circle Daybreak," and an address in Las Vegas.
"Vegas?" he wondered aloud. Then Carrey started the car, and pulled out of the hotel parking lot.
The CD player was playing the music Carrey knew Santriel had loved. He cranked it up, and turned west.
* "Like I was born on Saturday
Got buried on Sunday
Thought I'd never get caught
Feel like I just got married
And divorced in the one day
And it's not my fault
And it's not my fault
Now I've thrown it all away
And I have nowhere to go. . . ." *
By: J.L. Michaelsonn
Disclaimer: Night World, its principles, and characters belong to L.J. Smith and her lawyers and company
and etc. . However, Santriel, Carrey, Birch, Moon, and Jasmine belong to me. The title is from The Living End.
DON'T SUE ME!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Santriel Redfern pressed her foot down on the gas pedal of her sleek BMW convertible.
She loved driving that car, her birthday present when she turned sixteen last year. On a bright, sunny
summer afternoon, she pushed the speed limit of the turnpike. It exhilirated her, the feeling of the wind
in her silken burgundy curls. The Living End blared from her CD player, varely audible above the rush
of wind in her vampiric ears. But she could make out the swingin' music of "Riot On Broadway."
Santriel had just gotten out of her juinor year of high school, acing all her courses with ease. But she
was bored in school. Nothing held her interest more than a few months. Whether it was the science club, the
Honor Society, Youth and Government, or smoking across the street from the school in front of a children's day
care, Santriel was involved. She was relieved that school was over, at least for the summer. Now, she pushed
her dark sunglasses over her dark eyes, eyes that would turn gold in the sunlight. Running a slender hand through
the unruly wine-colored hair, she nodded her head in time to "Dirty Man."
" 'Born on Saturday, got buried on Sunday,' " she sang merrily.
She was on her way to Portland, Maine for a grand Summer Solstice party at the Black Bamboo,
an Asian restaurant and lounge, owned by some hotshot vampire businesswoman. Whatever. It was a new
branch of the Black Iris, and Santriel was anxious to visit her friends from Worcester, Massachusetts, and
Manchester, New Hampshire, and all over New England. Some of them were actually her rare and distant
Redfern cousins. So many had disappeared. Some Night People said they ran away and joined Circle
Daybreak. Oh, well. It didn't affect Santriel.
The hot rays of sunlight bore down on her, dressed in a black silk tank top with spaghetti-thin
straps, and short gray skirt, with knee-high black leather boots. She wore silver hoop earrings and a
delicate silver chain with a claddaugh ring on it. Her pale hands gripped the steering wheel with long
fingers tipped with black nails. There was a black rose tatooed on her back, between the shoulder blades.
Santriel drove for another half an hour, then she exited off the turnpike and drove through the
downtown area. She passed the modern skyshcapers alongside more elegant, vintage buildings. Soon,
she found it. Just a doorway with a lovely paited sign of a grove of black bamboo sticks.
Inside, Santriel met a veritble cloud of sweet-smelling nag champa incese. She savored
the exotic aroma, and found a door that said, AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. Beneath that
was an iris, in black spraypaint. Santriel pushed the double doors open, and quickly removed her
sunglasses, seeing effortlessly in the growing darkness. Down three flights of stone steps and into
what seemed to be a monstrous cavern. Obviously, it had once been the basement of the
establishment, but now it had been transformed into what looked like an underground cafe.
There was a stage at one end, and a bunch of teenage guys were busily working.
Looks like band's getting ready to play, thought Santriel. At any first glance, some of
them that were warming up looked like your average punk/garage band, but if you looked closer,
you saw their smooth grace of movement, or the way their eyes glittered from within the black
eyeliner, or the shine of their hair, even after it had been dyed dazzling sapphire or flaming red.
She squinted, peering at the others that were scattered about. Three shapeshifters,
rather aquilline, were playing a round of billiards at the violet pool table. Two witches sat at the
bar, sipping fruity drinks. And a handful of vampires, their minds concealed expertly, already
lounged at the side tables. The band up there was vampiric, Santriel could tell. They were
ready. Santriel took a seat at the bar, not near the witches.
The lead singer said, "Hey everyone. We're Dark Aidenn, and we'll be providing
music tonight."
On cue, the stereo system, which had been playing New Found Glory, stopped.
The lead singer, Lucius Armand; he gave his name freely, yelled, "One, two, three, four!"
The band ripped into a cover of a Good Charlotte song. Santriel was fascinated.
Through all of her changes in interest, she'd falled head over heels in love with punk rock.
When she was a baby, her older brother Sabriel played the Sex Pistols and Billy Idol. When
she was ten years old, she first heard Green Day, and bought her first Blink 182 album.
Lately, she'd been into Australia's the Living End and Hepburn from England.
After playing "Let Me Go" from Good Charlotte, Santriel felt a touch on her
shoulder. She turned around to see Birch Redfern, her cousin. He grinned, and hugged her
when she stood up.
"Hey, coz," she greeted. Birch laughed, and sat down at the table with her. He was a
few inches taller than her, robust, and strong. He had broad shoulder, and large muscles on his
arms and chest. Birch had short blond hair, spiked and highlighted. His eyes were a rich hazel,
and he was always affectionate towards Santriel. They went to countless rock concerts together.
They plotted to see Everclear and American Hi-Fi in July.
"How's Aunt Skye lately?" he asked conversationally.
Santriel shrugged. "Still as crazy as ever."
"I see she got you a Beemer." He leaned against his elbow, propped up on the table.
"Yeah."
"Cool."
No sooner had they said that, a voice said, "You got a Beemer? I'm jealous."
Santriel saw her old friend Moon, who leaned over the other chair, smiling dreamily.
Moon was a very pretty lamian girl, petite, with pale blond hair and dark forest green eyes. She
wore a minidress made of orange cotton. She looked as if she were aflame.
"Hey, Santriel," she said warmly.
"Hi, Moon. Good Solstice." Moon was a great friend, she thought. She had been there
through the years alway having something new to talk about between the two friends. Their common
passion (at least for the time being) was music. Moon had just gotten headfirst into Tantric, while
Santriel was immersed in foreign punk.
The trio chatted for a while as the band onstage tore into Limp Bizkit, then Linkin Park.
At around eleven o'clock, Moon said, "Why don't we go hunt at the Beach?"
"Great idea," said Birch enthusiastically. "I'm getting rather hungry."
"Brave it out till we get to the beachcombers, " suggested Moon with a mischeivous smile.
She looked impishly seductive and childishly excited, as she got when anticipating something. Birch led the
way, and Santriel took up the rear. Together, they walked toward the back exit, that led them into a
dirty alley. Birch nodded at a very thin and straight-postured young woman, with a nametag that read,
"Jasmine Greenriver, Manager." She nooded back curtly, and her stiff eye passed over indifferent Moon,
and lingered on Santriel, who tried to ignore her.
She felt Jasmine's eyes on her as they moved to the parking lot. Birch and Moon got into the
backseat of Santriel's BMW. She started it, and drove out of the dirt parking lot.
At midnight, they had split up, promising to meet the next night. Contact was to go by cell phone.
Santriel parked her car in a hidden spot, and tucked the keys into the pocket of her gray skirt. She walked
silently toward the sands, anxious to see and hear the ocean. She took a dep breath of the wild rose
growing in bushes near the sharp dunegrass. On the white sand, Santriel paced, amelling the salty air and
listening to the serene sound of waves crash against wet land. She stood stock-still as the prescence behind
her hesitated. She urged silently, Come on, buddy. Give it a try.
As if he heard her, the attacker lunged and wrapped his arms around her slender waist like a lover.
She went limp, downward, and grabbed his ankle and YANKED. He fell backward, then was up again, trying
to snatch her arm. She leisurely dodged his clumsy attack, then said softly, "My turn."
Faster than the human eye can see, Santriel moved behind him, and took ahold of his arms, and bit
into his throat. She quickly scanned for any wandering mortals. None. Her prey struggled deliciously, but she
subdued him easily, and drank until there was no more.
She whispered, "Thank you," to the corpse. It did not answer as she used her telekinetic powers
to send far out into the sea. "Good night."
The sun rose, and Santriel got back into her car and drove back to Portland. Her cell phone hadn't
rang yet. With her eyes protected by the designer shades, she pulled up to a parking meter and and entered
a few coins, then walked into a cafe called All Hours.
She sat down and ordered a frozen latte. It was a cozy, softly-illuminated place, with a large,
antique grandfather's clock against the left wall, which was painted a pale gold. On the wall opposite the ordering
counter, was a small platform. Enough for a solitary peformer, thought Santriel. She picked up her drink,
and took a delicate sip.
From a back door, there was a bit of movement. The door opened, and a young man came out, carrying
an acoustic guitar.
What struck Santriel first was a sort of presence in him, a feeling of dread and ecstacy and queasiness
that made her shake her head to clear it. Second, was that he was handsome. Any human girl would notice that.
He was dressed in baggy olive-green khakis and a white T-shirt, looking fresh and clean; he smelled faintly like
lavender. She scanned for his name: Carrey Davids.
His face was slightly narrow, with a nice jawline, a high forehead, and perfect cheekbones. He was
tanned, and had dark brown hair that curled back, behind his ears. A stray strand fell forward, giving a boyish touch.
A little deeper into his mind: he was a quaint, small-town boy from New Hampshire; an eighteen-year-
old human. . . a deep, poetic mind.
That was all she could pull out, without a direct blooid connection. Carrey sat down on a wooden
stool with his guitar and began to play an original folk song.
"You pulled me down to the sea
I'm lost and found, I can't be
Comprehended, are you offended?
It's something gone in my soul
Please stop, and pay the toll
Something's gone in my soul. . . .
I can't find anything that's mine
Where's the missing link?
Without it, I can't think
Are we running out of time?
You are, what's missing of mine. . . ."
He had a smooth, deep voice, rich and articulate, just like Jason Wade from Lifehouse.
The melody was full of plaintive longing. When he sang the chorus, he had been looking over the small
crowd, but his dark eyes lingered whistfully on Santriel. She gazed into his eyes and felt a twinge of fear,
like looking over the edge of a cliff. As if. . .she was abou to lose control of her world. Abruptly, she turned
her golden eyes down at the cup of cold latte. The song ended, and the people clapped. He began another.
Santriel wanted so badly to leave, to flee, but she was held there, she couldn't move. She was
hypnotized by his deft guitar playing, by his expressive eyes. . . .
After about a half an hour, he stopped. People put dollar bills and coins into his open guitar case.
He thanked them graciously. Santriel slowly rose from her seat and moved towards him. She
withdrew a hundred-dollar bill and dropped it carelessly into the case.
He gasped, "Miss! This is a hundred dollars."
"I know," she replied casually.
"I don't think you meant to pay me that much," he said decently.
Coolly, she said, "I did."
"Well, thank you," he said humbly. "How can I repay you?"
"You needn't--"
"Let me take you out to lunch," he offered with a tentative smile.
"I--okay, sure."
"All right." He smiled again, and added, "I'm Carrey Davids."
"I know," Santriel said before she could stop herself.
"You do?" he asked.
"I. . . saw your name on the poster out on the door."
"I see."
"I'm Santriel Redfern."
"Well, it looks like I'm finished here for the day," he murmured, looking at the cash piled in his guitar case.
He gather it up, and put it into his pocket, then lovingly set his guitar into the case, snapping the clasps shut.
They walked out together, her leading slightly, into the crisp seaside morning. The sun was burning off the clouds.
"Come on," she said, unlocking her car doors.
Quietly, he slipped into the carmel leather passenger seat. Santriel started the car, and pulled out of the
unusually calm streets.
"Where to, Carrey?" she said, an edge of cheerfulness to her voice. But her saying of his name was
surprisingly intimate. Inwardly, she winced.
"Um, I was thinking of tht new restaurant, the Black Bamboo--"
Quickly, Santriel yelped, "No, I don't think we should go there. I heard it's not a nice place."
Mildly, he replied, "Okay. Let's just stop here." He pointed to a small little bistro on the right.
They parked, and inside, it was as delightfully quaint as All Hours. Painted a light spring green, with
old-fashioned wooden tables, the pair took a booth to the side.
With menus, they sat momentarily in silence. Then Santriel met Carrey's eyes as he peeked
over the top of the plastic-covered menu. He sighed, and said, "I'm really hungry."
"Honestly, I'm not," Santriel admitted, thinking of her beachside attacker.
"Oh, well, if you want, we could leave--" Carrey began.
"No, you're hungry, eat."
"If you say so."
"I do."
Carrey ordered a very large brunch plate, complete with scrambled eggs, bacon, a cup of chicken soup,
and a large glass of water. Santriel watched him eat, and she knew that he hadn't eaten in a day. She smiled
when he looked up at her and said, with a mouthful of eggs, "What?"
She chuckled softly. He swallowed and grinned, a piece of egg still caught in his teeth. She shook her
head in amusement. He had such a charm, it was irresistable. Charisma that any entertainer knew was vital.
After he finished his brunch, the waitress brought the bill, casting an appreciative eye at Carrey.
Santriel felt a surge of jealousy, for no particular reason. Then she reached for the bill, a slip
of thin paper resting on the hunter-green tablecloth. So did Carrey, out of good manners. Santriel
thought, It's a guy thing, on the first date to pay for the meal. How silly. He should--
She never finished her train of thought. Because in the awkward moment of two hands reaching
to snag the scrap of paper, their fingers brushed each others' lightly.
The physical world ended briefly. Santriel saw and felt nothing but Carrey, and everything
else was nothing but a bright light. He seemed to glow like a biblical angel. Because almost all of
them were guys, she thought distantly. Carrey seemed to laugh at that.
She could feel his mind, his soul. Instantly, she was surrounded by surreal picture and information,
and all she could sense of the physical workd was Carey's hand holding hers. She could feel the callouses
on his fingertips from the guitar. His soul, his life. . . .
Carrey grew up as a lonely kid that got constantly picked on by his peers at school. His mother
was the only person that truly cared about him. His father was the town drunk. Bobby Davids had never been
respected all his life. It made him a bitter, angry man who had alcohol to count for his friends. Even his wife,
Michelle, had only married him out of sympathy. That made him even more bitter, and it grew tremendously
when Carrey Jacob Davids was born eighteen years ago. Early on, Carrey loved music, and he loved it
when his mother played the radio while she worked hard to keep their shabby home presentable.
But those years came to an end when Michelle died. And Carrey was left in the hands of his father.
In the church that day, Santriel saw a little dark-haired boy in a little black suit sitting still, tears in his eyes,
staring at the open casket, where a beautiful-but-clearly poor woman was laid out. She had light mahogany
hair, long and full, and her eyes were shut. Her face was utterly serene.
Cancer, some uptown family had whispered in hushed tones. Michelle Wellward-Davids had
a terrible, painful cancer, but couldn't afford medical care. She died at home in pure agony.
The little boy was frozen, listening to all this.
And poor little Carrey, his Aunt Chrissy had said in a low tone. Left all alone with that drunkard.
Why, I have a mind to call up social services--
Another lady had interrupted, Better not. Here he comes.
Santriel saw flashes of being kicked in the stomach and puched in the chest in middle school.
Carrey had began spending all his spare time at a local music club, seeing all the local bands and touring
bands who talked kindly to him, saying they knew his pain, they'd been through the same thing.
And one night, Carrey received his very own guitar from one of those musicians, at the age of fourteen.
He kept it in the club, because his father would smash it to pieces if he saw it. Soon Carrey began to pour his
emotions into songwriting, then, finally, worked up the guts to play onstage. The crowd loved him, his honesty,
and his innocence. That was after he turned seventeen.
But one night he had been sneaking into his window, when Bobby caught him. He yelled so
loudly the whole town probably heard him. Where've you been? It's too late for a boy like you to be out!
Carrey tried to explain calmly, but Bobby had yelled, I forbid you from going back there! You're in MY house,
boy!
Carrey had snatched up his backpack, with the few things he had, and went back pout the window.
He went to the club and apologized for leaving on a short notice, and picked up his guitar. The manager's
brother took him to Portland, where he lived with his older cousin, and played small gigs at coffee shops.
Exactly where Santriel had found him.
She realized she'd been probing into him, but he didn't mind. In fact, he was lost in her mind,
lingering on her kill last night.
(You're a killer,) he thought, and she heard his shock and sense of revalation.
(Yes.)
(You're a vampire.)
(Yes.)
(Kinda shameless, aren't you?)
She smiled. Carrey seemed to make light of situations.
She saw her life flash before her eyes. Her rich lamia parents, her big brother out in California,
making movies in his career as a filmmaker, her friend Moon, her cousin Birch. . .
But she *had* always been lonely, hadn't she? Her only solace was in rock. Rock 'n' roll,
till the end. Like Kurt Cobain. Or Elvis. Or Joey Ramone.
And now she remembered the Night World stories, of Night People and humans being together,
being. . . Soulmates.
(Soulmates, that's what we are.) It wasn't a question.
(I think so.)
(Santriel, I--)
A voice broke through their trance. "Have you paid?"
Santriel, with her fast vampire reflexes, tossed up a fifty dollar bill. They slid out of their booth seats
and walked to the counter. Santriel snatched up her change, and the waitress eyed Carrey again, but he walked
fast after Santriel.
"Hey," he said, getting into his seat. "Explain this, please."
"What? We're soulmates. Two people destined to be together, yada yada yada."
"I mean, about the Night World."
Santriel stiffened. He wasn't supposed to see that. If he said something--
Sharply, she said, "Forget it."
"What? Why?"
"Just--okay, listen." She spoke rapidly as she drove down the bust Portland streets. "Cuz you could get
in wicked deep trouble if somebody finds out you know this." She drew in a deep breath. "The Night World is
an organization of vampires like me, werewolves, witches, shapeshifters, and who knows what else. Well,
the bigshots who control the laws of the Night World said that WE can't fall in love or tell any of YOU about it.
We're everywhere around you. The Black Bamboo? I was just there last night. It's an NW meet."
"Whoa." In that one syllable, Carrey muttered all of his puzzled curiosity. He looked at her, his dark hair
tousled by the wind, his eyes sparkling. "I knew there was something different going on in the world, but--"
"You can't say anything about it. See that car next to us? Don't look. They're witches. And in that
shop? Vampires."
"What about us?" he asked gently, his face serious.
"Us? We're illegal, and I have no idea what we're going to do." She glanced at him, then back at the road.
"I'm just glad we're together." He spoke quietly, as Sum 41 belted out "Handle This." "I mean,
Santriel, when I first saw you, I felt something in you, but you were so mysterious, so enigmatic, and so,"
he frowned, "*distant.*"
"Well, when you find you're soulmate, you recognize them instantly," she explained. "Distant?
I didn't realize. You know, I just--"
He put his hand on hers, which was resting on the stick shift. The explosion of sensation wasn't
as strong this time, and Santriel was grateful, seeing that they were on the road.
Suddenly, a cell phone began to play Beethoven's "Fur Elise" in high, mechanical
beeps. Santriel jumped up in her seat, and grabbed it off the dashboard, where she'd set it after they entered
the car. "Hello?"
"Santriel?"
"Moon?"
"Santriel, I've been trying to call you all night and all morning!" Moon practically screamed. "What
have you been up to?"
"I. . .well, I met someone."
" 'Met someone' ? Ooh, spill, girl! Is he hot?"
"Well, you could say so." He's human, she wanted to say.
"Bring him to Black Bamboo tonight. I'm there. You?"
"I'm there," she said faintly.
That evening, the sun sank gratefully, and the night came in waves of twilight violet and blue-black,
sparkling with white crystalline stars. Santriel's heart beat to the rhythm of "Don't Shut The Gate," by the Living End.
She sat in the front room of Carrey's cousin's apartment. Carrey had written a note that he probably wasn't coming
back, but not to worry about him, and left a good amount of money. Now, he had packed his few things, and
was getting dressed.
"What should I wear?" he called to Santriel from his bedroom.
"Black," she called simply.
In about three minutes he emerged wearing well-fit black pants and a black button-down shirt with
short sleeves. He even wore sturdy black boots.
She stood up, still in her black tank top and gray skirt, and smiled. "You look nice."
"Thanks." He approached her, and they kissed.
After the kiss, she asked, "Ready?"
"Yeah."
They left.
At the Black Bamboo, Moon Bluefir was waiting anxiously. She KNEW something was going to
happen. (Where are you, Santriel?) she thought. But then she shrugged, and followed some vampire
hottie inside.
Santriel and Carrey arrived at about ten-thirty. She parked her BMW on the side, and said solemnly,
"Carrey, listen to me. You will stay upstairs in the restaurant, and I will fetch Moon. I hope she'll be ditzy enough
not to notice you're ve--human."
"Okay," Carrey agreed, then grabbed her arm gently as she moved toward the double doors marked
for authorized personnel only. He gave her a look that said, *Be careful.*
Silently she replied, (I'll be fine.)
He nodded reluctantly, and sat down at a table.
Santriel took a deep breath and pushed the doors open, then began the long descent to the
Black Iris branch of the establishment.
At the landing at the bottom of the stairs, She head Moon yell, "Hey, Santy!"
Santriel waved. "Hi, Moon."
She put on her cheery, brave face, and strode to Moon's table. Her friend sat at one of the small tables
with two other vampires, both male.
Moon looked great, seated in the center, in a skimpy bloodred velvet dress. One of the guys had his thick
arm around her shoulders.
"Hey, hey," she was saying, "Boys, meet my pal Santriel. Santy, this is Husky, and this is Moss."
Husky had silvery-blond hair, one blue eye and one brown, and Moss had brown hair and green eyes.
Both had an intimidating football-players' build.
Immediately Moon launched herself into chattering about how she met Moss, and how much she loved
him, and they even kissed right in front of Husky and Santriel. She looked away, at the strangely large crowd,
feeling awkward and uncomfortable.
Moon was talking to her. "Santy, where's that 'someone' you met this morning?"
"He's--" Santriel began.
She heard a shriek. "VERMIN!"
Her heart sank.
Carrey had frozen, where he stood on the steps.
Chaos broke out, and several people tried to charge on him. Carrey began to run back up the steps,
but some thugs grabbed him, and brought him back down. He struggled, but to no avail.
"Hold him!" a voice rang out.
It was Jasmine Greenriver, the manager. Her stiff gaze was ruthless and hungry. She whipped off her
apron, and stalked toward Carrey, who was like a moth in the thugs' grasp. He cried out in pain as Jaz's fangs
pierced his carotid artery.
Santriel had been working her way through the crowd, and now stood not three feet away. Carrey
was weakening, and she could feel it. If she didn't do somethig, he'd--
She snatched up a chair--wooden, how foolish--and snapped off a leg. With the sharp point, she
staked one of the thugs, who doubled over and fell. She kicked the other, and pushed Jasmine off, then
ran up the stairs, with a scream of, "Get the traitor!" ringing in her ears.
But she was fast. She made it up those hellish stone steps, and sprinted to her car. She started
the engine, and screeched out onto the road, and drove mindlessly at breakneck speed for a while, until
she realized she wasn't being chased.
On the road, she had shaken Carrey, and shouted, "Wake up, Carrey. Please, you have to live!"
He groggily came around, and slurred, "Santriel? I feel. . .really weak."
"You lost a lot of blood. Hold on. Just hold on, Carrey, I'll get you somewhere safe--er."
She pulled into a sleazy hotel, checked in under a false name, and payed heftily for no
disturbances.
In the clean-but-cheap room, she lay Carrey down on the bed. He moaned softly, and she saw
he was significantly paler than when she first saw him.
Making her decision, she said, "Carrey, here. Take this. . . It'll make you get better."
She made a deep scratch on her own throat, and touched his healing puncture wounds. "Drink."
She lifted his head, and guided his mouth to her neck. "That's it, now, Carrey, take a lot. Drink it all.
You need this, or you'll die."
He obeyed. She felt him sucking, deeply, greedily, and she felt faint. Her arms were wrapped
around his shoulder, one hand on his hair, falling back.
Santriel sat straight up, feeling bloodlust rise sharply, the familiar pain. At least it was a
sensation, and all she'd been through was dreams. Calculating with her sense of time, she deduced it was
two days later. It was night, arounf ten or so. She was sitting in her frumpled clothes in a hotel bed,
still made. Alone.
"Carrey?" she called. She was relieved when he replied, "Right here."
He was a vampire. His tan had faded, and his dark brown hair had a bright, shiny luster. His eyes
were truly brilliant, dark portals into his dark soul. Even his voice was more liquid and smooth that it had been,
with an occaisional break or so.
"Are you all right?" she asked.
"I think so." He came towards her, with a new predators' grace. "Santriel, I"m--"
"A vampire," she finished for him. "Like me. But I had to, Carrey, to save you."
"I know." He sounded sad. "Santriel, I--"
The door busted open. It was Husky and Moss, both looking full of rage.
"Kill her! Kill the traitor!" Everything erupted again, just as it had two night prior. But now,
Carrey had the strength to fight back. He took on Moss, and Husky jumped for Santriel. Carrey lashed out a
kick into Moss's stomach, and punched him in the face. But Moss rebounded too quickly. He pushed Carrey
to the floor and withdrew a wooden stake, holding it high above Carrey's chest.
But theen a terrible and wonderful sound took away Moss's attention span. Husky was howling in
agony, a sharp piece of the bed's headboard in his chest. Santriel stood back, watching him with cold, black
eyes. Moss yelled, and thrust the stake--
--right into Santriel's heart. She had moved quicker than the eye could see, and was right on top of
Carrey, blocking Moss's strike.
"No," he whispered, lifting her up, and placing her on the bed, taking the stake from Husky's
mummified body, and using vengeance and utter ferocity, killed Moss.
He went over to where Santriel was breathing shallowly, pain on her face, in her eyes. The
ugly wooden thing was still lodged in her, but carrey ignored it, grasping her hand in his.
"Santriel!" he cried, blood tears welling up. She struggled to breathe now, and cried out when she
saw that he feet and legs were drying up. Shrinking, browning, and hardening.
"Carrey," she sobbed. "I'm sorry--"
"It wasn't your fault," he said firmly, his voice ragged.
"No." She looked up into his eyes. "For leaving you alone. . ."
The tears fell. He felt her fingertips turning leathery, cleaving to bone, and the satiny smoothness
of her long black fingernails. With her free hand, she snapped the silver chain around her neck, and thrust the
ring into his hand. There was fear in her face, then love.
"Santriel, don't die; I love you."
She gasped, "I love you."
Then she died. And the drying up spread over her, leaving her as much an unwrapped mummy as
anything found in the Sahara. In the end, she was a browned thing of hard skin over bones, with a shock of
beautiful silken burgundy curls.
For at least an hour, Carrey sat at the side of the bed, not being able to bear the sight of the dried
bodies with him. He was all alone, again, and he cried bitterly. Then, he washed the blood tears from his face
and looked down at what he held in his hand:
A delicate silver chain, and a large claddaugh ring. She'd probably never worn it because it was
too big for her slender fingers. Without thinking, he slipped it on his ring finger, and determinedly strode out
the door, without one last look at the mummies. He wanted to remember her the way she'd been: the
sweet, amused, witty girl he'd met at a coffee shop.
He had the keys for her car, and now, as the sun rose, he unlocked the wicked black streamlined
BMW convertible, and sat down in the caramel leather drivers' seat. It was then that he noticed how the ring
caught the early sunlight. He was wearing it with the crown pointing toward him. (I should wear it
the other way, heart-facing. That meant you belonged to somebody. I do.) So he sat there, oblivious
to the outside world, trying to pull the ring off. He spent twenty minutes trying to remove that circle of silver,
but suddenly, he clicked. (This is what she'd want.)
He reached for the stick shift, but touched a scrap of paper with something scrawled on it.
In Santriel's fancy handwriting. It read, "Circle Daybreak," and an address in Las Vegas.
"Vegas?" he wondered aloud. Then Carrey started the car, and pulled out of the hotel parking lot.
The CD player was playing the music Carrey knew Santriel had loved. He cranked it up, and turned west.
* "Like I was born on Saturday
Got buried on Sunday
Thought I'd never get caught
Feel like I just got married
And divorced in the one day
And it's not my fault
And it's not my fault
Now I've thrown it all away
And I have nowhere to go. . . ." *