Defining Death
Summary: After a strangely sensual encounter with an unusual woman, Greg begins to panic about the possibility of him being dead. Sara just tells him to stop bleeding on her interior. A macabre comedy.
Author's Note: Inspired by way too many "Greg's a Vampire!" stories I've seen. Other influences include Hotel California (well, clearly) and the "Restless" episode of Buffy. Minus the cheese man. I should have a cheese man in this…
Also, I put Hotel California on repeat on my playlist for this first section. I don't recommend it. It's an evil song. For the record, it's seven minutes long, so if it repeats eleven times, it's been seventy-seven minutes.
Thanks to LaughableBlackStorm for the beta. A possible spin-off of this (currently titled "Hotel California" guess why) is in the works between LaughableBlackStorm and myself, starring Greg, Sara, and a bemused Nick, so keep a look-out for it!
Finally, if you would like to see the video... www.youtube. com/watch?v(EQUAL SIGN)2f2akG4JiE (You know the drill. Remove the space between . com and replace (EQUAL SIGN) with an actual equal sign).
"Can we go to your place?"
"Babe, you can come to my place anytime."
Only, they didn't go back to his place.
She was sinfully sweet, her tongue tasting of licorice and lust as she wrapped her slithering fingers around his throat like a deadly constrictor. His hands snaked around her waist as he hiked up her shirt, trying to take some control in the matter, but she was a vicious predator. She was in charge and it was important to her that he knew that.
She spun him around and pushed him up against the stone wall, her dark eyes haunting as she smiled seductively at him. Her soft, ebony hair fell around her features, framing her face as the moonlight caught her teeth just right when her smile turned into a grin. He imagined that she was a vampire, and that she would devour him.
He never imagined that he was right.
Her hands rested on his bare chest, her fingers digging into his skin. He laughed lightly at first, finding it all exceptionally kinky, but his smile turned into a grimace of pain as her long, sharp nails were pushed further into his skin, ten tiny little incisions created, from which blood flowed freely down his chest. His hands flew up to grab her wrists and she looked up at him, distracted from the pretty blood that painted abstract masterpieces across his pale chest.
"I don't like this game anymore," he said seriously. "Let's get out of here."
Her smile broadened and her eyes looked mad as she lowered her lips to his chest, her fingers still deep inside his wounds. Her long, rough tongue lapped up the blood, thoroughly killing his arousal.
"OK, this isn't funny," he said, laughing nervously. "It, uh, hurts actually…"
She straightened up, her smile fading as she glared at him. "You don't want to play?"
"No," he stated clearly.
Her eyes narrowed as she grew angry. She hissed like a cat before she dragged her hands down his chest, making him yell loudly in pain as she tore into his flesh like a wild animal. He tossed his head back so hard he hit the wall and she retracted her claws, putting her hands on her hips as her fingers dripping crimson with his blood. She brought a finger to her lips and stuck it in her mouth, sucking on it as she looked at him with narrowed dark eyes.
"I'll remember you," she said with a pout, before turning on her heel and marching down the stairs, leaving him alone in the tower.
He was panting. His chest felt like it was on fire as he leaned against the wall and slid to the floor, his mind ringing in his ears. Why had he let her talk him into this? Oh yeah. He remembered. He had been desperate. And sex in a bell tower had sounded taboo. He liked taboos. But not enough to let his lover drink his blood. That was just too weird, even for him.
He looked down and noted that his chest was striped crimson. He should do something about that. Bleeding was generally not good. He should go to a hospital. That would be the intelligent thing to do. And he liked to consider himself intelligent. Because climbing bell towers in historical Spanish churches with strange girls with blood fetishes was something geniuses did all the time.
He sighed as he raked his hands through his hair and then stopped short when he realized that he had no idea where he was. She had made the suggestion of going to the church, and she had driven. His car was back at the club where he had first met her. Suddenly panicking, he leapt to his feet a little too fast and wavered on the spot as he became very lightheaded. For a moment he thought he would faint. He was glad when he didn't. When he had regained his orientation (more or less), he made a mad dash for the stairs, hoping to find his crazy lover before she took off. No such luck. By the time he reached the dusty parking lot of the deserted church, her car was nowhere in sight. Nor was anyone else's for that matter.
He trekked over to the highway that passed the old church and extended off into the vacant horizon in both directions. He tried to remember which way Las Vegas was. He was still bleeding.
For some unknown reason, Hotel California began repeating itself over and over in his brain, driving him so crazy he almost began beating his head against the asphalt to get the hauntingly annoying song out of his mind. But it would have been useless. The old Eagles classic was one of the most persistently catchy songs he had ever known. Even if he had knocked himself unconscious, the song would still be playing in the background of his dreams.
And then, he had a brilliant idea. The first actually intelligent idea he'd had all night. He would call Nick. Nick! Of course, Nick! Because Nick was the only friend he knew who would drive seventy miles out of Las Vegas to pick him up. Texan hospitality or some bullshit like that. So he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, praying to the cell phone gods that he had signal out there.
He was in luck. One bar. Grinning, he dialed.
One ring. Two rings. Three rings. The monotonous sound became a beat. He added lyrics.
On a dark desert highway
Cool wind in my hair
Warm smell of colitas—
No. Wait. Not that song, not those lyrics.
The phone was still ringing. And then, he got a break.
"Hey, Nick Stokes—"
"Nick! Man, I—"
"Sorry I missed your call, I promise I'll hit you up as soon as I can." Beep.
His shoulders slumped. Jackass.
Who else would drive seventy miles out of Vegas for him? He went through his list of friends. Bill, the bartender from his favorite bar said if he needed anything to just call him… But he probably didn't mean call him when you're stuck in the middle of the desert. Crystal, his ex-girlfriend from a month ago, still had a pretty big thing for him, but if he made her come and pick him up all the way out there, she'd probably think he wanted to get back together. Which he definitely did not. He had caught the girl making a mold of his face when he was sleeping in order to make a mask for Halloween, so they could "go as each other!" She creeped him out a little. Ricky, a friend of Nick's he'd gone out drinking with a couple of times… But Ricky was a well-known lover of all things intoxicating and was probably drunk or high at that point in the evening, if not both.
Which brought him back to his work friends. Grissom was a definite no. He was too embarrassed to call his supervisor. And Catherine would just tease him all the way back to Vegas. Warrick… Would Warrick drive seventy miles out of Vegas for him? Nah, Warrick was working overtime. He was probably at a crime scene right at that moment.
So that left… Sara. He laughed quietly to himself. He had Sara wrapped around his little finger.
Grinning, he called her, not really caring if she would be willing to drive an hour out of the city for him. He'd beg and plead until she caved in. He knew she couldn't stand listening to him sound all helpless. She would be putty in his hands…
The phone rang once. Twice. Three times. He was beginning to worry. Five. Six.
"Sidle," came a breathless pant.
"Thank God!" he exclaimed, falling to his knees with relief. "For a second, I thought you were going to leave me stranded out here."
She did not sound happy to hear him. "What the hell do you want, Greg?"
Greg's eyes darted around the empty desert around him. It was a little creepy at night. "I'm stuck in the middle of the desert and I have no way of getting home…" He sobbed dramatically. "And it's dark and I'm scared."
Something creaked and he heard her move. He thought he heard someone else sigh. And then, Sara was on the phone again, still sounding irritated but willing to listen. "OK, Greg," she said. "Where are you?"
That was a very good question. "Hotel California?"
She yawned. "You're in California?"
"No," Greg said. "I'm at this old historical church. Spanish, it's like… four hundred years old or something, it's a landmark."
"La Iglesia de la Flor de Santa Maria?"
Greg blinked. "What?"
"That's seventy miles out of town, Greg."
"Yes!" Greg said excitedly. "Yes, that is where I am."
"Well then call a cab," she said. "I'm busy."
"Please Sara!" he begged. "Please please pleeeeeaaaase? I already called Nick, he's not answering. You're my last chance, or else I have to call my ex, and I think she's part praying mantis."
"Greg," she said, testily, "I have my own problems I'm dealing with right now." She seemed to cover the phone with her hand because her next words were muffled. She took her hand away too soon and Greg heard the tail end of the conversation. "…dealing with it, just come back!" She sighed. "I can't just up and leave here, Greg."
"You can for me!" Greg said, impressing upon her his own sense of self-importance. He thought she found his arrogance adorable. In truth, she just found it aggravating.
"I'm not driving an hour out to get you and an hour back when you could just call a cab," she said stubbornly.
"You're a bad friend," Greg said with a pout. "Come on, Sara, I'm bleeding here!"
"Now you're just talking out of your ass," she said in her signature jaded Sara tones.
"No, I'm serious," he said. "I've been stabbed."
"Don't joke with me, Greg, I'm in a very bad mood right now," she said through gritted teeth.
"I've been stabbed ten times!" Greg protested. "In the chest! I'm bleeding! If you come out here, I'll show it to you and prove it!"
"If you were stabbed ten times you would be unconscious or dead," Sara returned.
"It wasn't that deep," said Greg. "They're claw marks."
"What, where you attacked by a wild animal or something?" she asked sarcastically.
"More or less," Greg replied. "Please, Sara? I'm desperate. I'll owe you for life!"
"Wait, don't go…" he heard her say, whining slightly. "It's Greg, he was an eagle scout, he can find his own way home!"
He heard someone mumble something to her and then a door slammed.
She sighed, sounding exhausted or exceptionally exasperated. Greg never could really tell without seeing her face. "Fine," she said bitterly. "I'll come and get you. Just… Hold on there for a minute."
And without even a goodbye, she hung up.
Hotel California played over and over again in Greg's head a grand total of eleven times over before he saw her headlights blink at him like stars on the horizon. He tried to get to his feet but found he was really dizzy now and the task was easier said than done. He looked down. His chest was really pale against the maroon dried blood. He reasoned that he did almost look good enough to eat. He couldn't really blame his vampiric lover. He was sexy, after all.
He frowned at something sticking out of one of his wounds and winced as he pulled it out. He squinted at it. It was a fingernail. Gross. Evidence, though. Something told Greg he shouldn't just get rid of it, his CSI instincts kicking in. So he pocketed it.
The car pulled up to the side of the road before Greg could even get to his feet. He heard the door slam and looked up to see Sara whirling around the side of the car. She was wearing makeup, something Greg rarely saw on her outside of a courtroom, and her hair was curled. However, she was wearing a simple black t-shirt and jeans. He wondered at this mismatch in styles.
"Jesus, Greg, you look dead!" she exclaimed.
"I told you I was bleeding," he mumbled as she grabbed his hand and helped him to his feet.
"Greg, you're freezing!" she added. "Get in the car."
He was too happy to oblige. She climbed into the driver's seat and turned the keys in the ignition. The radio crackled to life, right at the beginning of Hotel California. Greg growled in distaste and leaned his head against the seat.
"So what happened to you?" Sara asked, glancing at Greg as she started down the deserted highway.
"Don't ask," Greg returned, exhausted.
"Do I need to take you to a hospital?" Sara asked.
"Nah, I've stopped bleeding," Greg said, looking down at the dry blood caked over his wounds. "I'll be fine."
"So did you get in a fight with a coyote or what?" Sara asked, wide-eyed.
"Worse," Greg said seriously. "A vixen. A… a vampire!"
"I was wondering what those two wounds on your neck were," Sara said offhandedly.
His fingers flew to the side of his neck where he felt two prominent holes, also caked with blood. But he didn't remember any pain in his neck! He remembered they were kissing, and she had kissed down his jaw and his neck, and then it had felt so good…
He thought maybe she'd just left him with a bad hickey.
All of a sudden, it all made sense. The delirium, the strange way his wounds had healed so quickly, how he had looked down and found the blood on his chest appetizing, why he was cold to the touch, hell, it even explained why Hotel California was in his head! He didn't know exactly how it explained why Hotel California was in his head, but it probably did!
"Sara…" he said, slowly, dramatically. "Sara, maybe we should go to the hospital."
"Why?" she asked. "You feeling OK?"
"No…" he said slowly, his fingers flying to his wrists as he searched for a pulse, any pulse at all. Nothing. "No, Sara, I think I'm dead."
"Define 'dead'," said Sara, amused.
"I mean, I think she killed me. Drained me. Turned me."
She snorted. "Greg, I thought that vampire joke was… well, a joke."
"You're right…" Greg said slowly, as if she had brought up some genius point. "You're right, hospitals are no good, they'll want to study me, they won't understand… I'm going to have to deal with this on my own…"
She cocked an eyebrow at him skeptically. "I think you've been out here in the cold for too long."
"Cold…" Greg said. "You said I was cold!"
"Which makes sense," Sara said. "Because it's cold outside!"
"You said I looked dead," Greg reminded her.
"Figure of speech," she replied. "You're clearly not dead."
"I feel dizzy and disoriented," Greg said.
"You lost, like, half a pint of blood!" Sara returned. "Of course you feel dizzy and disoriented!"
"My wounds," Greg said, gesturing at his chest. "They've stopped bleeding. They're healing on their own!"
"Well, wounds will do that, Greg," Sara said sardonically. "Blood clots, scars close… The body is a magical thing!"
But he was grinning now. "I'm a vampire," he said, sounding smug.
"Well, Dracula," Sara uttered sarcastically. "Would you kindly keep your blood off of my interior? I just had these seats cleaned."
Greg leaned back in his chair. He was feeling very good about himself. He started laughing.
Sara cocked an eyebrow at him. "What's so funny?" she asked.
"Nothing," he said with a shrug. "Except now that I'm a vampire, I get extra cool points."
Sara scoffed.
He turned to look at her. "You don't believe me, do you?" he asked.
She smiled. "That you're a vampire? Um, no. I don't."
He shrugged. "I guess it'll come as more of a surprise when I bite you while you sleep then. Can we turn off the radio? Hotel California is already stuck in my head."
She graciously obliged and the small Prius was plunged into silence. Greg stared out the window as it began to rain. He breathed on the glass and played tick-tack-toe with himself like a child. He wondered if his DNA was different now that he was a vampire. He should take a sample and have Wendy process it. She would flip out. He smiled at the look she would have on her face.
"I'm hungry," Sara said, after about ten minutes of silence. "How about you?"
"Mm," Greg intoned, noting his own rumbling stomach. He glanced over at Sara, the carotid vein in her neck throbbing prominently. He had never noticed it before.
"I know a great Italian place over on Crescent," Sara suggested. "It's open late."
"Don't you have any plans?" Greg asked, licking his lips as he watched her neck.
"You pretty much killed any chance of a social life I had tonight," Sara replied, sounding bitter.
He smiled. "I can make it up to you," he cooed, craftily.
She cocked an eyebrow. "No, you really can't," she said. "So, Italian's OK?"
"I bet I'm twice as good as he is," Greg said daringly.
She was surprised at his audacity and laughed awkwardly. "Greg!"
"What?" he asked. "I'll bet you money it's true. Want me to prove it?"
"No," she said firmly.
He laughed. "Someday, you'll say yes," he said. "And then you'll owe me money."
"You know, I think we will stop off at the hospital," said Sara. "You're acting strange."
"OK," Greg said. "But if they want to conduct science experiments on me because I'm undead, you're gonna have to drive the getaway car. I'm nobody's lab rat." He thought about the statement. "Not anymore at least."
"Aw, Greg," Sara cooed condescendingly, "you'll always be my favorite lab rat."
"Guinea pig," Greg corrected. "I meant guinea pig. And I'm not a lab rat anymore, you can't call me that. And I'm a vampire now."
"So does that make you a vampire rat?" Sara said. Her eyes lit up. "Or a bunny! Like Bunnicula! Aw, you'd make an adorable vampire bunny rabbit."
"Why am I fuzzy rodents?!" Greg demanded. "I'm the undead. I could kill you. Without conscience. And drink your blood. I'm not a rodent, of any kind."
"So kill me already," Sara dared.
"You're driving," Greg said. "You'd crash. And I still wouldn't have a ride home."
"Excuses, excuses," Sara said with a smile.
He smiled at her as she continued to drive. Her lips were pursed as if she were trying not to smile herself. He could always tell. As bitter as she may have been after being interrupted on what Greg assumed had been a very interesting date, she was enjoying herself with him, whether she admitted it or not. He leaned back in his chair and watched the stars as they drove down the stretch of highway. He felt so isolated, like he and Sara were the only ones left on the planet. He lived for moments like these. And he would make it last for as long as he could.
"We should track her down," he said at last.
"Track who down?" Sara asked.
"The vampire who bit me," Greg clarified. He took the fingernail from his pocket and showed it to Sara. "She left this behind."
"Excellent," Sara sighed, sarcastically. "No DNA."
"No..." Greg said, looking at his shoulder. He pulled off a strand of hair. "Aha!"
"Can't we just look up her name?" Sara asked. Greg turned towards the window, acting avoidant. "Please tell me you weren't about to sleep with a girl whose name you don't even remember," Sara moaned.
"No… she said her name was Amelia. But I don't know what her last name is. If she even has a last name. When you become a vampire, do you drop the last name? Dracula didn't have a last name. Angel, from Buffy, he didn't have a last name."
"Lestat had a last name," Sara said. "Well, sort of."
"Anne Rice, what does she know?" Greg rolled his eyes. "What do you think my new cool vampire name should be?"
"Greg," she said.
"No," he shook his head. "No, my name has to be cool. I can't be Greg the Vampire. How stupid is that?"
"Probably as stupid as you thinking you're a vampire in the first place," she returned. "Now cut it out, it's beginning to get old."
Get old, she says, Greg thought to himself. But I've never felt younger in my life.
"Oh sure, he'll be fine," the doctor said to Sara as Greg hopped off of the table with a knowingly arrogant smirk on his face that really made Sara grind her teeth. "Those scars look worse than they are. They only bled as much as they did because whatever scratched him dragged its claws along the surface of his skin. They probably stopped bleeding in a matter of minutes."
"And his blood pressure?" Sara asked, eying Greg intently.
"One-twenty over eighty," the doctor replied. "Normal." She stuck her tongue out at Greg who simply rolled his eyes. The doctor looked from one to the other. "Am I missing something here…?"
The two of them spoke at once over each other, Greg answering in the affirmative and Sara in the negative. But the doctor didn't really seem to care.
"Anyways, I cleaned the wounds with antiseptic, in case he had some nasty bugs lying about in there. He's free to go."
The doctor left and Greg smirked smugly as he hopped off the table and put his shirt back on. Sara was frowning with her arms folded.
"And what are you so happy about?" she asked.
"I'm a vampire," he said.
She rolled her eyes. "Right," she said. "That's why your teeth are normal, your blood pressure is normal, and you can go outside in the daylight."
"You don't know I can go out in the daylight," Greg pointed out. "Not yet at any rate."
"Maybe not, but I know the other things," Sara said. "Come on, Dracula, let's go."
Greg scurried after her as she made a quick exit. He caught up to her while she headed for the door.
"Come on, Sara, admit it, it's rather exciting!" he said with a grin. "He didn't really feel my heartbeat."
"He didn't?" Sara asked flatly, not sounding interested in the slightest.
"Nope," Greg replied. "No, see, he was nervous, that he found a patient without a heartbeat, and figured his machines were broken, so he made it up."
"Right," Sara murmured, rolling her eyes. "He didn't look concerned when he was filling me in. And I'm fairly good at spotting liars."
"Aw, but he's a good one, probably lies to patients all the time," Greg said offhandedly. "Did you mention Italian? I bet it has hot waitresses. Who will be dying to let me drink her blood."
"OK, seriously, Greg, drop it," Sara said, with forced laughter as they approached her car.
"Drop what?" Greg asked innocently with a suggestive raise of the eyebrows. Instead of going to the passenger's side door, he had followed Sara and leaned against the car as she fumbled with her keys.
"This vampire thing, it's really getting on my nerves," she said. She had used the wrong key and shook out the key ring before trying another.
Greg moved closer behind her, silently, his hands hovering over her hips but not touching them. He inhaled her hair, the soft scent of coconut shampoo before brushing it away from her neck and whispering, "You smell good."
He felt the sting in his cheek before he even realized that she'd turned around. Behind his closed eyelids, fireworks exploded, and the blow had caused him to bite his tongue, which felt as if a bee had launched a kamikaze mission against it.
He opened his jaw in a nice, round motion before opening his eyes, blinking away the spots as he saw a seething Sara Sidle.
"What the hell is your problem, Greg?!"
All his newfound confidence melted away and his eyes doubled in size. "I'm sorry, I was just—"
"Just what?!" Sara snapped. "Just going to bite my neck with your flat canines and see if you liked the taste of my blood? Did that girl drug you? Are you high?"
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath before he swallowed. "No—I mean—Look, I—"
"You can't even form a sentence," Sara said in disgust. "You're—not—a vampire, Greg."
His lip trembled. "I... I know that."
She seemed taken aback by his timid response and her eyebrows knit together in confusion. "You do," she stated. "Then... why are you acting like an idiot?"
He shrugged with one shoulder. "I dunno, I guess... that's just... how I am."
She rolled her eyes. "No, Greg, you are not an idiot."
"If that's how you see me, then that's what I am," Greg mumbled. "I'm no better or worse than how you see me."
She seemed lost for words. "I never said—That's not—You shouldn't base—There are so many things wrong with that statement I can't even begin to respond to it!"
He didn't know why it was wrong. It was true. He needed to get out of there, she was making him nauseous. He shoved his hands in his pockets and made to move past her. "I got to go—"
"Greg..." she whispered, catching his shoulder. "You're not an idiot. I just..."
Something clicked in Greg's head. "Who were you with tonight?"
She blinked, startled at the shift in topic. "Greg, we're talking about you—"
"You talked about me to him like he knew me," Greg recalled. "You told him, 'It's Greg.' Like he would know who that is."
"Greg, not now..." Sara began, shaking her head.
"No," he said. "Now is good. Who were you with?"
She opened and closed her mouth like a goldfish. "Why are you so obsessed with being a vampire?"
"Who were you with?" he repeated.
"If I tell you, will you tell me why you're acting so weird?" Sara asked, her eyebrows raised in a silent dare.
He hesitated. "Yes," he told her.
She swallowed before nodding. "Grissom," she said quickly.
His heart lurched. "Oh," he said simply. "To be honest, I was hoping for... someone else."
She folded her arms. "So what's with the vampire thing?"
"Uh..." He moved past her again, towards the front of the car. He put his hand on the hood and looked down. "I don't really know."
He heard her footsteps, coming up behind him. "Yes you do," she whispered. It wasn't accusatory. It was encouraging, soft and safe, like a wool blanket.
He heaved a long sigh and shook his head. "It's stupid..." he muttered.
"Please don't be avoidant now, Greg," she said. "Not when you were so bold five minutes ago."
"Yeah, and look how that turned out," Greg muttered bitterly.
He heard her exhale a short, frustrated sigh before she hit the top of the car. "You want to be a vampire, fine, you can be a vampire."
"I don't want to be a vampire," he said, laughing at his own absurdity.
"Then what is it, Greg?" she asked, losing her patience. "Why did you keep up the act even after I told you to stop?"
"Because I liked the idea of being someone else," he finally snapped, spinning around to face her. She seemed confused, so he elaborated. "Something else. Anything else, anything to get your attention. It made me feel special, it made me feel invincible, and I liked that. I felt bolder, and I thought, I could do things, and get away with it, and I thought maybe..." He rolled his eyes, realizing the childishness of such an idea and feeling suddenly sheepish again. "Maybe... you would finally be impressed. By me. But as usual, you're not. So... I'm gonna go catch a cab now. I probably should have done that in the first place. I'll leave you alone now. Call Grissom. Tell him you picked me up and everything was fine. And I was... being ridiculous, as usual."
He walked past her again, and this time she didn't stop him as he headed for the road. He didn't even look at her face, too afraid to read the responses written there. He fished out his phone from his pocket and dialed a cab number he had saved in his phone. After he told the cab where he was and where he needed to go, he hung up and looked behind him again. Sara and her car were gone, and a part of him was disappointed, though he wasn't sure why.
When he went home, he went to sleep, and when he went to sleep, he dreamed. She crept into his room like dusk, with coconut hair and whispered apologies in his ear. She crawled in under the covers and snuggled up next to his back, wrapping her arms possessively around his torso as her cold lips kissed the back of his neck.
He lied there like a dead fish, hoping she would go away, hoping she would fall out of his nightmare as stealthily as she had fallen into it. But with every kiss, his body chilled, until he felt as if she had sucked every last shred of warmth from him. It wasn't an uncomfortable feeling, merely an odd one, as if he was at the bottom of a pool, staring up through the turquoise water to the glimmering sun high above the circus, shadowy white tendrils slithering across his pale skin.
He rolled onto his back and she moved to accommodate him. She smirked at him as he turned his head to face her, her ruby lips glinting in the moonlight, her dark eyes devouring him.
Her fingers traced the scars upon her chest and she softly kissed him, drawing even more warmth from him. She mounted him and kissed up to his shoulder bone and then his neck, and then, the strangest sensation...
It was as if he had broken the surface of that swimming pool and he was gulping in his first breath of air in years. His eyes shot open and his jaw dropped, his hand finally flying the back of the vixen's head, entangling itself in her hair, he closed his fingers and trembled, his eyes closed again, the most intense and exhilarating orgasm he had ever had in his life, and yet they weren't even having sex, at least, he didn't remember having sex, and she was fully clothed—black t-shirt and jeans—and he was paralyzed as every morsel of his soul traveled upwards through his bloodstream and evacuated his body through her lips.
She pulled away from him and he collapsed as the world returned to him and then, he wanted her.
Ravenous, he flipped her onto her back and she giggled before he kissed her neck and drank her in, the metallic tang clinging to his taste buds as he swallowed her whole.
"Sara..." he breathed, and she cackled, like a witch, a very non-Sara laugh and when he pulled away from her neck, he saw someone else's face.
And then, his phone was ringing.
Ringing, ringing, ringing, always ringing.
He climbed up out of the sharp dark rabbit hole and into the hazy, lazy world of daybreak. He saw his cell phone vibrating on the end table and answered it before rolling onto his back again and staring at the ceiling.
"Sanders," he yawned, scratching his chest.
She sounded petrified. "Greg, are you OK?"
He was bitter. "So you wait..." he looked at his alarm clock. "Six hours before calling to see if I got home OK?"
Her voice quivered, and the smallness of it made him regret his harsh tones. "No, I... First of all, it hasn't been six hours, it's thirty."
He sat up in bed and frowned. "Really?"
She continued as if he hadn't spoken. "And second of all, after you left, I went to the lab. I started with that fingernail you gave me. It was brittle and chalky, as if it had been decaying. So then I got nervous. The hair sample you gave me was no good, there was no follicular tag, but the doctor you saw took some cultures, because at the time he didn't know if he should prescribe antibiotics or not. Remember? Well, turns out he found some saliva. DNA. So I checked it. I got a hit."
"What is she, some serial killer?" Greg asked, wondering why else she would be in the system and why Sara was so nervous.
"No," Sara whispered. "Her name is Amelia Wells. She's been dead since 1987. Two stab wounds to the neck. Ice pick."
Greg sat up so fast, his head spun. "Where are you?" he asked.
"About two minutes away from your place," she replied. "I thought you might want some company." And then, her tone changed. "But don't you dare start acting haughty again, Dracula!"
He smiled. It was good to hear a sound of her old stubborn self again. "Sure, yeah, OK," he said, relaxing again. After all, there was no real danger anymore. He hung up the phone and moved to open his blackout curtains. The light was white-hot as it invaded his corneas and he hissed and pulled them shut. That's what I get for working the nightshift, he thought to himself.
He moved out into the kitchen, stretching out his shoulders as he yawned and put on a pot of coffee. The smell was unusually strong that morning, and he wondered if he'd put too much of it into the filter. But he shrugged it off and tossed another dish into the sink. A few seconds later, there was a knock at the door. Greg made to answer it, before he realized he was still just in his boxers.
"Just a second!" he called, and dashed to his room to pull on a pair of jeans. He paused as he noticed that a wind was blowing his blackout curtains, though he didn't remember opening his window the night before.
He did not dwell on this, as Sara was pounding on his door again, so he moved to answer it and greeted her with a smile. She was pale, and her eyes lingered on his chest. She gasped and reached out. He flinched when her fingers made contact with her skin.
"It's not so bad, really..." he muttered, feeling a little embarrassed.
"Clearly," she breathed, then looked up at him. "They're nearly completely gone."
He looked down at his chest and all that was left of the scars were faded white lines. He shrugged and smiled. "Huh," he said. "Would you look at that?" He stepped backwards and she followed him inside. "Coffee?" he offered.
She blinked and then nodded, folding her arms. She was visibly uncomfortable as she watched him move to the kitchen and poor her a mug. "You're cold..." she told him.
"Yeah, apparently I slept with my window open," Greg said casually. "Cream and sugar?"
"Cream," she replied, swallowing. She followed him into the kitchen. "The scars on your neck, they've faded too."
"Well it has been a day, you said," said Greg. "And they weren't that deep, were they?"
"Doctor said they weren't..." She licked her lips as Greg fetched the cream for her coffee. "Yesterday was Saturday, so when you didn't call, I wasn't worried... And I was working all day anyway, processing your evidence, so... But why did you think it was yesterday when I called you this morning?"
He didn't have an answer for that as he handed her the coffee. "I was tired," he replied. "I guess I slept through it."
She put a hand to his forehead and he frowned before taking a sip of his own warm beverage. The taste was bland, which mildly surprised him, as he thought he'd selected his favorite Blue Hawaiian blend, and the smell had been almost overpowering.
"How do you feel?"
"Same old, same old."
"No different?"
He shook his head. "Why?"
"You don't..." But then, she rolled her eyes and laughed at herself. She hit him hard on the arm.
"Ow!" he exclaimed, rubbing the place she had hit. "What was that for?"
"You! Getting me all... worried about this vampire thing! It's ridiculous! There are no such things as vampires."
"What about that dead girl you said I was with?" Greg asked.
"Probably just a glitch in the system," Sara said, shaking her head. "Wendy was tired, I'd pulled her in to work it... Something must have gotten contaminated somewhere. And DNA was a new thing in the late eighties anyway, there's a whole number of things that could have gone wrong. At least it's not a real case, right?"
"Right," Greg agreed.
They stood there, rather awkwardly in the kitchen for a moment, each clinging to their mug as if it were a lifeline. But she continued to stare at him, clearly still ill at ease, and he was not comfortable under her scrutiny.
He let out a sigh. "So, how about we move to the living room?" he suggested with a smile. He moved past her, that sweet scent of coconut wafting across his path and it made him shiver. She followed him out of the kitchen.
"Greg, I wanted to apologize for how I acted the other night," she said quietly.
He shrugged. "Yeah, well, you were kinda right, weren't you? I was being a bit juvenile."
"No, you were being yourself—And there's nothing wrong with you being yourself!" she added quickly as Greg's face fell. She smiled, and a tinge of red colored her otherwise pale features. "I like you being yourself. You make me laugh. You're... a good friend. And I wasn't a very good friend, at least not the other night. I should have driven you home. I should have understood. I should have... given you the attention you deserve just for being yourself. You shouldn't have felt the need to pretend to be something special just to get me to notice you." She took a step closer, the coffee cup held in both hands. "I like you, Greg. May even go as far to say love. In a baby brother sort of way." He rolled his eyes and she laughed. "I don't mean that as an insult. I don't have any family, really. The so-called brothers and sisters I had growing up were fleeting and fickle, changing from home to home." One hand dropped away from her mug to take his in hers. "So I'm glad to... finally have someone I can call my brother. And mean it. For what it's worth."
She took a sip from her coffee and sighed. "God, now I know why you love this blend so much. It's perfect."
He frowned at her, then stared into his own drink. He recognized that he could taste the coffee fine enough, but the flavor wasn't as satisfying as it had once been. He looked up and his eyes locked on her external jugular vein, and how it moved with every breath she took. In and out, up and down, throbbing so loudly he could almost hear it in his ears—
"Greg?"
She sounded scared, and it jolted him out of his trance to look up at her eyes. They weren't staring at him, but at something behind him. "What is it?" he asked her.
She pointed over his shoulder, and he turned to see the object of her dread. It was the mirror that stood next to the door of his apartment, which he used to check his appearance before he left for the day. A simple, silver surface, for all intents and purposes, and yet it was not the mirror itself that had struck Sara speechless.
It was the fact that the only person reflected in it was the petrified Sara Sidle.
THE END...