Someone close.
He opened his eyes a crack, taking in the surroundings. He was lying on a comfortable bed, and the bedroom around him, though large, was stark and cold. A wardrobe, a chair, a fine carpet… nothing to show that someone used this room or ever had. The duvet he lay on smelled clean but slightly musty, as if it had not been turned down or shaken for some time. He could not see the watcher.
It’s daytime, he thought, and that brought the dark memories flooding back. His mother, the house, Rose. He recalled her leaving him here just before dawn and telling him about the man she hoped would look after him. And she had made him swear not to reveal what he knew.
About the vampires.
He closed his eyes again and twisted the duvet cover in one hand, fighting back tears.
“You okay?” a voice said. Low, calm. “Want a drink? Something to eat? Breakfast?” He said the last word quieter, as if to himself. “Breakfast. Er… got some bread. Toast? Don’t have any jam or honey or anything, and I don’t want to go and get some because I promised Rose I’d look after you.”
“Daytime,” Marty said, opening his eyes again. The curtains were thin, and sunlight streamed through and around them.
“Yeah, well. Daytime’s safer, but not totally safe. Sometimes they have their servants.”
Marty blinked, trying to absorb what the man was saying. Servants? From what Rose had told Marty, that’s exactly what this guy was. Except he didn’t know. You work for vampires, Marty thought, and sat up.
There was a black guy sitting in a chair close to the bed. A liter bottle of water was propped in his lap, a book rested open and facedown on his right knee, and leaning against the expensive-looking chair was a crossbow. Marty had never seen one like it before. It looked very modern, not old, and was made entirely of metal, apart from the stock, which seemed to be heavy rubber. Bolts were fixed in several positions around its body. Their tips were bulbous and silvery.
“Vampire killer,” Marty whispered.
The man smiled and touched the weapon almost lovingly. “You’re safe here,” he said.
“You’re Lee Woodhams.”
“Yes. Rose told you about me?”
“A little.” He doesn’t know she’s a vampire… he doesn’t know, don’t forget that. Marty eyed the crossbow some more and thought of Rose pinned against a door by one of those cruel bolts.
“A little’s more than enough for now,” Lee said. “Come on, you can ask all you want while I’m doing the toast.”
Marty nodded and stood up from the bed, swaying a little uncertainly. He was still wearing his clothes from the night before, and he could feel the weight of dried blood on the legs of his jeans. It crackled as he walked. His sneakers also felt heavier.
Lee looked him over. “Oh, yeah. Clothes. Come on. You’re about my size.”
They exited the room onto a wide landing, one side overlooking the hallway below. Two floors above them was a half-globe glass ceiling letting in a flush of sunlight that warmed the air and danced with dust motes. Quite a place. Marty followed Lee blankly, his mind still half-asleep, ideas and memories leaping around and over each other. He was glad, in a way, that he could not pin down one or another. Sometimes there was blood, sometimes darkness. He knew that firmer memories would come soon, and with them the crippling grief.
In another room, Lee opened a wardrobe and indicated that he could help himself to clothes.
“Bathroom’s through there,” he said, pointing to a door in the corner of the room. He glanced around for a moment, hesitant. The crossbow looked very big in his hand. “I’ll be down in the kitchen,” he said. “Bottom of the stairs, right turn. Follow the smell.”
“Thanks.” Marty nodded and tried on a smile. It hurt his face.
“No worries.” As Lee walked past him and left the room, Marty realized for the first time that the man had been looking at him with a sense of awe. He’s a vampire hunter, and I’ve survived a vampire attack. He’ll want to know everything. He’ll want me to tell him about my…
Marty bit his lips, groaned slightly at the pain, and went to take a shower.
Later, descending the staircase and wearing Lee’s clothes, Marty had time to look around. The staircase was at least five feet wide and led down to a largish hallway and two corridors going off in opposite directions. The hall floor was solid oak and the walls were bare. He could make out at least a dozen lighter squares where paintings must have once hung. In the corridors were several sparse display cabinets, and one wall was lined with books. They were dusty and untouched; some had soft cobweb clothing.
The front door seemed to be lined with metal and had several heavy-duty bolts. It should have made him feel safer but had the opposite effect. It was a beautiful house worth a fortune, but its character had been stripped, laying it bare to the bone.
In the shower, Marty had started to cry. I should tell the police, he’d thought. My mum’s dead, our house probably burnt, Dad’s missing, I should go to the law and tell them everything that happened. His maternal grandmother would be worried sick; his dad’s sister would hear about it, though they rarely spoke; and his mate Gaz would wonder what the fuck was going on. He had people who cared for him and his family, and he’d left himself and his safety in the hands of a vampire.
Switching off the shower and drying, he’d tried to ally that word with his sister. He could not. He’d seen what vampires did. She had called herself a Humain, and that was the only way he could think of her from now on.
He followed the smell of slightly burnt toast, stomach rumbling. Something followed behind him, a heavy weight that promised to drag him down when it caught up. He’d stay ahead of it as long as possible, because it scared him. Even when Rose had vanished, he’d never truly believed that she was gone for good.
“Fit well,” Lee said, glancing him up and down.
“Yeah. Thanks.” He’d chosen a pair of jeans and an old Motörhead T-shirt that he could never imagine having belonged to Lee. He just didn’t seem the sort.
“Like I said, plain toast. But real butter. None of that low-fat shit.” He raised an inquiring eyebrow and Marty nodded. “Good lad. Not into that healthy-eating stuff.” He plated three thick slices of toast and slid it across the table to Marty. The kitchen was filled with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee, and two large mugs steamed on the table.
Marty ate silently, his stomach rumbling in contentment as he chewed the toast and washed it down with the orange juice he’d chosen instead of coffee. Lee busied himself tidying the large kitchen. Marty was glad: he hated people watching him eat. He finished the toast and accepted another glass of juice, looking around and noting that this room was as characterless as the rest of the house. Used, obviously, but there were no flourishes here. It was as if Lee had no desire to decorate his life.
The crossbow was in the corner on a wide granite countertop. Marty’s eyes were drawn to it again and again. He wondered what those bolts were tipped with. He wondered who’d made the thing and whether it had ever been used.
“Rose didn’t tell me anything about you,” he said at last.
“What do you want to know?” Lee asked. He turned around at the sink and dried his hands.
“Have you ever…?” Marty asked, nodding at the crossbow.
“Once,” Lee said.
“A vampire,” Marty said.