Sometimes a person you think you know turns out to be a stranger. Thanks to SunnyFla, AquamarineJo, WhiteHare, and crazyidea-inc, who's always worth waiting for.
I saw a vampire die tonight. He was ripping a girl's throat out when it happened.
He'd once smiled at me and shook my hand. Another vampire ran him through with a stake, and he dissolved into ash and dust.
Another vampire (whom I admit I don't much like) was beaten by more of his own kind, thrown to the ground, and kicked in the ribs over and over. I remember the wet thunk and crunch of boot on bone. He seemed to smile at me as he licked his split and bleeding lip.
Before tonight, this was someone else's story, but now I'm part of it. This is my story too.
The underground is nearly empty. Whenever the carriage doors open, a clammy draft blows in. Mitchell's jacket is draped over my shoulders to ward off the chill. It's heavy and damp from the London mist, and smells of stale smoke and the burnt-sugar perfume of loose tobacco. Cold air filters into the space between the leather and my back.
I wish he'd talk to me but he's off in his own world. My hand reaches for his and he absently takes hold of it but never looks up from the floor. He has that pained expression again; I reckon he's remembering something he'd rather not. Gathering himself, he exhales shallowly and turns to face me, with a gentle, wide-eyed look that normally makes me melt, and clasps my hand in both of his. They're cold, like ice cream.
"You've had a bit of a scare, haven't you? Are you all right?"
"I don't know." I'm not going to melt. I'm too chilled.
"Here, this might help." He holds out a small silver flask of the fiery whiskey he and his mates like so much. Normally I'd be uninterested, but tonight I take several swallows before giving it back. It tastes like smoky solvent and burns my throat going down.
A shiver begins somewhere beneath my ribs, but ebbs away as the liquor does its job. Mitchell awkwardly kisses the top of my head. Soon our only motion is from the rhythmic swaying of the train. The shock is wearing off. My brain works again.
"I didn't realize I was so frightened."
"Yeah. It creeps up on you, doesn't it?" There's a funny look on his face, like he's just tasted something he didn't expect.
"Why? Am I stupid?"
"Of course not. That's a survival instinct. It's helped you."
"Has it?" I'm still queasy. I can't forget the strange hollow squelch of the stake going into Allen's back, and the sight of his skull disintegrating, the blackened skin shredding and blowing away. "Oh! Jesus, Mitchell. Your friend just died. Are you all right?"
"Yeah, fine. It happens. You get used to it."
I'm still not all right, not at all, but I am confused. Albert had tried to do that to Mitchell, who was going to let him. Beside me, he is reassuringly solid.
"Really? You're not even a little bit angry?"
"Why should I be?"
"Erm, because he was a mate of yours, and he was just killed right in front of you?"
He shrugs. "There's nothing to be done for it. Now he's gone. End of story."
"Doesn't bother you in the slightest, then?"
He shifts in his seat, adjusting the flask in his back pocket. When he's done, he stretches his legs and leans back as if he's ready for a nap. His gaze is fixed on the adverts above the carriage windows.
"Not much. There's no way to know how long you'll be a vampire - you could die today, or you could live for a thousand more years. Imagine doing a vampire's job for a few centuries. It's a bit of a relief when you see an end to it."
What looks like a horror might be a mercy. I still have so much to learn. I want to ask him: What happens to your brain after you die? Or your heart?
It's good here with Josie. I have a job, and friends-almost a real life. But as long as I stay, I'll have hunger pangs: a hollow ache beneath the ribs; abrupt stabbing pains in the wrists, the neck, the ankles; a sore throat that no amount of tea can fix.
I collect surplus energy when I find it, like smoke in the air. You find it anywhere the atmosphere is charged with excitement: sporting events, busy streets, angry mobs. At the end of a hard day, I can absorb tension from her like a sponge. She has no idea how much I need it. It flows in both directions: whenever she puts her mouth on me, she gets a taste of vampire, like salt in water. Can't be helped.
We've stopped at Grant and Robbie's place to congratulate them after the show. They are listening to crackly old blues records and smoking grass. Stephanie, who popped home before we got on the train, has been here awhile, and sits by Robbie cradling a glass of something clear with a slice of lime floating in it.
I'm trying to subtly hint that we should go, but Mitchell's ignoring me. We'd only agreed to come by for a minute or two, but he's full of questions for Grant: how well do they know the Warlocks, when is the next show, where has he played before, who else has he played music with. Please, no more. It's nearly two in the morning. I'm beyond exhausted.
Also, this room is where Mitchell killed Stephanie. Vampires don't seem bothered by such things, but I find it disturbing. I reckon Stephanie does too.
There's a knock at the door. It opens before anyone can answer, and Nick Cutler steps inside. He's still in the green velvet drape jacket he wore at the show, but his tall quiff has fallen a bit, plastering a couple of greasy curls onto his forehead.
On his arm is Lydia, nuzzling his ear and giggling. Bloody hell.
A strange ripple moves through the room. Mitchell is icy and tense, but says cordially that it's nice to see her again. Robbie smiles unconvincingly and stammers his hello. Grant gives a slow hungry grin that could be interpreted as the appreciation of a man at seeing a pretty girl, if I didn't know otherwise. His teeth gleam.
Cutler ignores the mixed reception. His eyes flick toward Stephanie, and I might have seen a corner of his mouth twitch before he breaks into a wide grin.
"I'd heard the party was here!"
Grant and Robbie keep taking sneaky glances at Lydia's neck. Oh, God. Oh no. No. No. Mitchell and I exchange looks. I've got the picture.
Lydia accepts a drink from Robbie. She gazes up at Mr. Cutler like an adoring groupie and whispers in his ear. She reaches into his coat pocket to search for something but doesn't find it.
For half a minute Lydia looks round the room, with its worn tapestries, collections of empty liquor bottles, enormous hifi speakers, and minimal furniture. Her great dark eyes widen in shock and she gives a start violent enough that Cutler, who's been deep in conversation with Grant, stops droning on for a second to see what's the matter.
"Josie!" Lydia squeals. "Is that you? I can't believe it!"
To my surprise, she runs over to hug me. I step backward as soon as she lets go. My dress now has a stain on it that matches her lipstick. This is very bad. We've got to get her out of here.
I'm in no mood for games tonight, but I have no choice. I plaster on my phoniest smile.
"Lydia, how lovely to see you. Why are you here?"
"Josie, baby, great to see you too. Since we both had shows tonight, I met Nick after work. What are you doing with yourself these days?"
"Oh, same old thing. Working, mostly."
"What is it you do again?"
"I teach ballet."
"Yeah, yeah, right. I did know that. Did you know Roger and I are going to New York next month? Someone wants to film our show, so they're meeting to discuss the details. Let the men sort those things. I find it all so boring, don't you? "
"How, and where, is Roger, by the way?"
"Oh who cares? Nick here is loads of fun, and he's great in bed. Roger is a big boy. He can take care of himself, can't he?"
"I suppose he can." She really doesn't get Roger. If she treats him well, he'll give her anything she could possibly want: clothes, drugs, travel, stardom. She's throwing all that away for what she thinks is a couple of lines of coke and a shag. I hope that's all she gets.
I'm not a mean person. I have to do this.
"You know, Lydia, you're an idiot to be here with Nick. What if Roger saw you? If you cross him, you'll lose everything - even your job. It's not like he's particularly in love with you, you know."
"He does so love me. He's written me poetry."
"Oooh. Has he? And here you are, running off with the first flash arsehole to coke you up and get up your skirt. That's some gratitude you're showing there."
"Gratitude? What do you mean? I don't owe him anything."
"You don't? Fine. You got your job because you're so bloody talented. You could just start your own company, do all the choreography, hire the dancers, schedule the tour dates, arrange the publicity. You know, the boring stuff. Oh, wait, you don't have to! He's done all that for you already. All you have to do is show up, look pretty, and screw him every once in awhile. Think you can do the rest of it? Go on then, do it."
"I can't believe you're talking like this. What's come over you?"
The record has finished and the other conversations in the room by have stopped. Everyone is staring at me.
"Nothing's come over me. I'm trying to help you out. Do you think Roger gives a toss about you? Don't kid yourself. I know him as well as anyone. He loves the idea of you, don't get me wrong. But you, the person? Forget it. You're just the girl, an interchangeable cog, an accessory."
Her cheeks flush."No wonder he dumped you. You're a colossal bitch. "
"You think so? Ask me how I know all this. Go ahead. Ask."
I wait for a couple of heartbeats. I know she's not going to ask.
"I know because he told me. 'Lydia doesn't matter,' he said. He wanted me to come back. He said you were shallow. He thinks you're a cheap slut."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Sorry. A manky whore. Those were his exact words." I'm trying to save her life.
Lydia flushes bright pink. Her giant dark eyes blur with tears. "You're lying, you jealous, washed-up has-been. He never said that. I don't have to listen to you."
"Nobody is making you listen. But you know I'm right." (Am I taking a bit too much pleasure in this? Perhaps.) "And you know what I told him? I said, she's all you deserve."
Cutler turns from Grant to slip a protective arm around Lydia. "Mitchell, could you ask your little paramour to stand down? She's upsetting my girl here."
"She can hear you perfectly well. Ask her yourself." Mitchell jams his hands his pockets, stone-faced.
Cutler bares his weasel teeth at me.
"Excuse me, erm, Jessie, is it?"
"Josie."
"Ah. It's Lydia's business who she spends time with, isn't it? Could you cool it with the insults?"
"I'm only telling her the truth. Honestly, I don't care what she does, but I know very well who she's involved with. I'm giving her fair warning."
Lydia's had enough. She slides out from under his arm, tips up the last of her drink and gathers up her coat and handbag. "Nick, I'm sorry but I can't stay. I really don't feel welcome here. Perhaps another night? When we can be alone?"
She's out the door before he can stop her. Robbie and Grant are visibly disappointed.
Cutler shakes his head and tuts as if I'm a naughty child. "That was awfully clever of you. Now you've deprived everyone of my housewarming gift. These poor blokes are left high and dry."
"I'm sure you'll all get over it."
"A bit of disappointment builds character, I suppose. I'll be going now. The girl isn't safe out there by herself. Nice show tonight, boys." He turns and winks at Stephanie. "Mitchell, be sure to thank your lovely ghostie friend for coming out to see us. I look forward to hearing of your future exploits."
After the door slams a second time, Mitchell lights a cigarette. He looks annoyed.
"Nice going. We should say goodnight as well. It's late and we've both got work in the morning."
Stephanie sighs loudly. She'll be waiting for us downstairs.
I lay my head on Josie's chest and listen to her heart. Its music comes with pictures: eyes rolled back in fear, teeth sinking into flesh, welling blood. But not hers. Not hers. My hands open and close, twisting the bedsheet into knots. I rest on the surface and her pulse sings to me. The little tease. I want to go deeper. Need to. My insides tense and hollow: hunger, thirst, desire, rising. Clouds of red. Everything reaches for her. She sits up.
"Hey there." With a smile, she climbs on top of me and presses my shoulders into the mattress. Her breath is hot in my ear. "Don't you move. Lie back and think of England."
I make a sound that's somewhere between a hiss and a laugh. "Cheeky bint. I really ought to bite you." Which means I won't. Red fades to warm gold and aqua.
"Or you could do this..." She guides my hand. We do what she wants. No fear. Good. It's good.
She strokes my cheek and covers my neck and shoulder with slow, drowsy kisses before falling asleep. I feel better.
I've had one of those days. I seem to have lost a glove somewhere between home and work this morning. In the first class of the day, a four-year-old fell and sprained her wrist, and there was much drama and lamentation from both child and parent. I wore altogether the wrong shoes, ones I hadn't worn since I hurt myself, and now have a searing pain up the side of my foot and an inch-wide ladder in my best black stockings that started as a little hole near the toe and was up to my knee by lunchtime, when I discovered I'd left my wallet at home.
By late afternoon I am practically in tears. I ring Mitchell at James and Albert's with my tale of woe, and after work he comes to my rescue and takes me for drinks.
We arrive home to find Stephanie and Robbie huddled together on the sofa. He's bent nearly double with his face buried his folded arms. Her hand traces slowly across his back. She sees us come in, but doesn't speak.
Mitchell and I retreat into the kitchen to give them space. I take off these bloody shoes. It's such a relief to rest my sore foot. He puts on water for tea.
Stephanie's voice is filled with the forced cheer you'd use around someone who's gravely ill. "One more day. You can do that. You did two already. What's one more? "
Robbie sits up. "One more day? I don't know if I can t-t-take one more hour. "
"Of course you can. Stay here with me an hour. Then you'll have done it. Play guitar. Write me a song. Smoke some grass. Open that bottle of tequila you boys have been saving."
He looks awful. His eyes are more sunken than I remember, with deep creases at the corners. With an unsteady hand, he smooths his hair flat against his head.
"Grant said this was a b-bad idea. He was right. "
With a scowl, Mitchell turns away from me and begins the washing up from breakfast. The plates seem to clatter more loudly than usual.
Her tone rises in growing desperation. "Wait, Robbie! Do you want to play cards? We could play gin rummy. You used to like that."
He stares at her, slack-jawed.
"What?" Robbie blinks a few times and shudders, like he's been taken with a chill. "Gin rummy?" He contemplates this. "Sorry, love, don't think it'll help."
"There must be something we can do!"
"I've tried! It's so hard, you have no idea. My guts ache. I hear voices, and they're angry, and they say awful things to me. Sometimes I see faces."
"They're not real."
"They're as real as you are. Except they're m-m-mine. I've wanted you since that night at Freddie's, but I could never let on. And I could never have you. Always someone between us, Freddie or Jenna then. Now it's Mitchell. You c-c-come back to him, he sees your face, hears your voice, and not just in horrible starving fits, but all the time. It's n-n-not fair. You don't even like him."
"I like you. I feel safe with you. You didn't kill me. "
His voice is nearly inaudible. "I wish I had."
"What did you say?"
He squeezes his eyes shut and clenches his jaw as if bracing for a blow to the head, or a bullet. He speaks quickly, but each word is clear and distinct.
"I'm not safe. I would've killed you if I'd had the chance."
Stephanie recoils from him.
"I don't believe you."
"Believe me." With all pretense gone, he lets loose. His eyes are narrow and cruel. "I always look for someone enough like you: your size, your hair, your walk, your voice. And And when I kill her, I imagine it's you."
A look of horror spreads across Stephanie's face. She chokes on a breath she can't actually take.
Robbie stands up, faces away from her, and lights a cigarette. He holds it between thumb and forefinger and takes a forceful drag, like he's smoking a joint. He stares at the lengthening ash and doesn't bother to exhale. "I'd b-b-b-better go." A puff of smoke escapes with each stammered syllable.
"Please don't. You can't do anything else to me." She huddles alone in the middle of the sofa, frail and transparent, her arms hugging her body as if for warmth. I want to wrap her in a blanket and give her tea.
His eyes widen and then squeeze shut. "Oh God. You can't even imagine. I'm so disgusting. Over and over. Different ways: from the neck, from the arm, t-t-tear the clothes off, leave them on, while screwing, after screwing, before screwing. Let them scream or k-k-k-keep them quiet. And-and-and just like Mr. Cutler said, I have to … t-t-take them away after."
"Shut up. Shut up!" If Stephanie could turn any paler, she has. She rocks back and forth while staring into nothing. "I know what happens after."
"Yeah, I guess you d-d-d-do. I'm sorry. I can't take this anymore."
"Are you out of your bleeding mind? You can't take any more? Am I supposed to feel bad for you now?"
"No! Don't you understand? I can't be your friend. I can't stop k-k-k-ki- "
She cuts him off before he can say the word.
"-but if you leave then I'll be all alone."
"No. You won't." He fixes me with a pleading, hungry gaze. I can't meet his eyes for long, because they remind me of the terrible days when Mitchell first quit blood.
He stubs out the remains of his cigarette in the orange ashtray.
"I love you Stephanie, but I'm no g-g-good if I hurt you. I'm so fucking sorry. It's all ruined."
Stephanie dissolves and reappears at the far end of the couch, curled up in a ball, her knees nearly under her chin. I go and sit beside her as she trembles with fury and sorrow. It feels like a fluttering breeze.
A nasal voice sounds from the doorway. "What pathetic whingers! Someone ate her and it wasn't you, get over it." Cutler lets himself in. His timing is either inspired or atrocious, I'm not sure which.
"S-s-sorry Mr. Cutler. I'll t-t-try and get over it. I will."
"What you need, pal, is something to get you through the rough bits, don't you?"
Robbie isn't sure how to answer that. "I guess. If you s-s-say so. Is it alright if I go now?"
Cutler smirks and reaches inside his overcoat. "Why don't you stick around? I've brought refreshments." He's holding a corked flask filled with something opaque.
Mitchell slams his fist into the kitchen counter hard enough to make all the dishes rattle. "Not here. Get out. Both of you."
Cutler looks very pleased with himself. "All the self-deprivation has made you rather short tempered, hasn't it? True love not quite cutting the mustard? I'm here to help you out."
"Oh, knock it off. I'm not some fresh recruit you can manipulate by splashing a little blood. Do you really think that'll get to me?"
"In a word, yes. You're no better than we are, you're just hiding here and playing make believe. You may be the great John Mitchell, but if you're not being a proper vampire, are you really anything at all?"
Robbie clutches one of the mugs Mitchell's left to dry beside the sink. He holds it out like a beggar hoping for a penny.
Cutler gestures for him to set it down on the table, and tips the contents of the flask into the mug. I know what it is: metallic and savory, with a rapidly dissipating funk of meat and caramel. Robbie's eyes fade to black. And so do Mitchell's. He doesn't say another word.
"Drink it," Cutler says.
With black-hole eyes, Robbie looks at Stephanie, then at the floor. "No. N-not here."
Cutler narrows his eyes and turns to her. "Darling, help us out. Give him a little... er...visual aid. I know you can."
"No way! I won't do it. Piss off." The lights flicker. Everything in the room shakes. I didn't know she could do that. Mitchell moves the full mug away from the edge of the table, but one of the others slips off the counter and shatters. He curses and fetches the broom.
While looking squarely at Stephanie, Cutler hooks a foot around Robbie's ankle and yanks him off balance. He topples to the floor.
Cutler stands over him, feigning concern. "Oh, sorry. Did you fall?" He produces a stake from the pocket of his overcoat and kneels so he can hold it an inch or two above Robbie's chest. His eyes meet Stephanie's. "Look at him. He's suffering. He can't go on like this. I'm going to have to insist you help him. Or I'll put him out of his misery."
"Stephanie, just let him do it." Robbie's voice is flat and mechanical.
"No! You stinking loathsome horsefucking suppurating dirtbag bastard." She crouches on the floor, smooths Robbie's hair out of his face, and kisses him on the forehead. "Not you, Robbie." Her voice hardens. "Give me a second, you disgusting pig."
She vanishes and reappears in the form of her own horribly mangled corpse. Vampire food. On the floor, with Cutler's stake still pointing at his heart, Robbie inhales through his teeth. Tears run from the corners of his huge black eyes.
He rubs the back of his hand over his mouth. I can't tell if he's trying to hide something or wiping it away. "Oh God oh God oh God. Steph, I'm sorry."
Cutler daintily tucks the stake back into his overcoat, pulls Robbie up from the floor, and jams the cup into his hand. "Drink up. You'll thank me later."
Robbie drinks. When the cup is drained, he wipes his mouth on his sleeve, leaving a dark red smudge. Without a word he sweeps past Cutler and out of the flat. His footsteps on the stairs grow fainter, and somewhere above us a door slams.
"I'd say last call, Mitchell, but for you, we're always open."
"Get out of here before I kill you. If Josie weren't here you'd already be dead."
"Til next time then." And he's finally gone.
"You didn't have to spare him on my account," I say.
Mitchell finishes sweeping up the pieces of broken mug. He has to do it twice, because half of them spill from the dustpan as he carries it over to the bin.
He looks down at my bare feet. "Mind your step. Those fragments go everywhere. "
He lays his head over my heart and holds my forearm loosely so the pulse comes threading beneath his fingers. I breathe and he listens, his body taut with restraint and hunger. His touch arcs like a licked finger on a battery, at the wrist, the ankle, the upper thigh. My free hand is tangled in his hair. His eyes are empty and black. Here is where our desires meet: on opposite sides of the same door. We'll both stop short. Crossing the threshold would end us.
When his hands begin to shake and he stops breathing, it's time. Sometimes all we can manage is to disengage and retreat to opposite sides of the bed, but tonight we're okay. I'm incandescent with desire. He's ready with a smile and a wisecrack. There are things we can do for each other.
It's so dark. I don't know where I am. I touch his face but don't recognize him. I know him only by taste, salty and tannic and sweet. I've given him all I can.