7
EVEN AS A HUMAIN, Rose still felt a twinge of something every time she entered Lee’s affluent street. She couldn’t call it envy anymore, because she was beyond caring where she lived. Maybe it was a sense of unfairness. Not for her but for her family—Marty in particular—though this time the unfairness was prompted by something far more terrible than postal code and property.
The street was quite busy this evening. It was Friday, and people were heading out for the evening, lights burning in the homes they left behind where babysitters sat children in front of TVs and started texting their friends. Most were dressed well, their evenings destined to consist of fine meals, nights at the theater, and the best wines and champagnes.
Rose and Francesco drifted along the street. Francesco held her hand and their ruse was complete: strolling lovers from some other part of town. Rose wore dark jeans and boots, a black silk blouse, a casual jacket. Francesco’s long coat covered the scruffier clothes he wore beneath, but he knew how to carry himself: not so upright and cocky that he attracted unwanted attention, and not so slouched or aggressive that he looked like trouble. Attention fixed on them and then drifted away again, and when they reached Lee’s house they were as anonymous as ever.
“Something’s wrong,” Francesco said. They stood on the pavement looking up at the façade, but Rose could not see anything that rang her alarm bells. But she had learned to trust Francesco’s instincts.
“What?” she asked.
“Too quiet.”
A light illuminated each floor of Lee’s large house, the normal signal that everything was normal. One set of curtains was half-drawn, but that wasn’t unusual.
“He’s not the nosiest inhabitant of the street.”
“No. But all the windows are closed. You see? Lee always plays music when he knows we’re coming.”
Rose noticed then, and berated herself. It was much harder to spot something unusual that wasn’t there than something that was.
“He knew what time we were due,” she said. “I’ll go first.”
“No.”
“Francesco, this is my fault, so—”
Francesco walked up the steps and approached the front door. Rose followed; when she reached him, he was already trying the handle and pushing the big door open, and she could sense his heightened alertness and feel her own jaws throbbing, her tongue swelling. The darkness was opening to her more than ever. She sniffed for danger and tasted the air, and realized that Francesco had been absolutely right: something was wrong. Whatever happened now, Lee would likely see something in them that he had never seen before. Everything would change tonight.
A rush of wretchedness hit her but she fought it down. Fuck self-pity. That had no place here.
She rushed forward to enter the hallway before Francesco, but his was an imposing presence and she could not squeeze by. He flowed through the doorway and the hall lights snapped on, dazzling her for a second. And in that second, she knew that something was coming.
There was a heavy thud and Francesco grunted, halting where he stood and dipping slowly to his knees.
Rose pushed past and scanned the hallway, spotting Lee instantly. He was squatting behind a display unit in the hallway beside the wide staircase. The unit had been pulled out from the wall and pushed close to the bank of light switches. He was struggling with something; metal struck wood and he cursed. In his voice, she heard a quaver of terror.
Beside her, Francesco was staring at the crossbow bolt protruding from his right hip, one hand around its shaft.
“Lee!” she screamed. “You don’t understand!”
“Don’t talk to me, monster!” he shouted. He was still fighting with something behind the unit, and Rose tensed herself, ready to run and crush him down. But then he stood and aimed the crossbow at her, and she held her hands out by her sides instead.
“I’m no monster,” she said softly. But her heightened senses were already making a fighting map of this space. She could smell Francesco’s wound and the hot, sickly-sweet stench that came from whatever had erupted in there. She frowned, trying to identify the smell. Her tongue lolled across her bottom teeth, and Lee’s eyes opened wider.
Marty’s face appeared at the top of the stairs. He pulled himself on his stomach, over the edge of the landing and onto the staircase itself, letting himself slide down. His limbs were loose, and he was obviously struggling to keep his head up.
What have you done to my brother, you bastard?
“Garlic…” Marty said, voice slurring. “Garlic… holy water… Rose…”
Lee had glanced aside in surprise, but now Rose saw him tense behind the crossbow again and aim it at her face.
Francesco laughed.
Lee fired just as Rose brought her hand up before her. She continued swinging her arm in an arc, and the bolt passed straight through her palm, scoring a line across the top of her ear and then thudding into the solid oak doorframe behind her. A rush of garlic stench washed over her, and she grinned as Francesco’s laughter came again. It hurt… but it hurt well.
She ran. It took her half a second to close the distance between her and Lee, and she couldn’t prevent her hunger from rising; she growled, and then hissed as she saw his terrified face. She kicked the display unit aside, snatched the crossbow from his hand—he still had his finger pressed hard around the trigger, and she heard the distinctive crack of bone—then raised it above her head, blood from her punctured palm dripping across its stark metallic surface.
Lee fell onto his behind and began to kick, propelling himself backward until he was crushed against the shattered remains of the display unit where it had come to rest against the far wall. “R-R-Rose…” he breathed, and in his petrified eyes she saw another man and another place. She threw the crossbow across the hall and darted forward, moving so quickly that she saw his pupils expand and contract as he tried to keep her in focus. Rose grabbed Lee around the throat with her bloodied hand and lifted him. She took her new strength for granted, mostly, but now she thrilled in the power pulsing through her. She rammed him against the wall and heard plaster crack.
Lee’s head lolled and his face grew pale. Rose smelled blood.
“Rose,” Marty said. He’d reached the bottom of the staircase and had hauled himself upright, holding on to the banister. He was incredibly pale, and his chin was streaked with puke.
“Ease back, Rose,” Francesco said, and she dropped the moaning man, turning her back on him so that she did not see his blood or the look of fear in his eyes. She didn’t want that temptation. I like the fear, she thought. Her vampire strength was a thrill, but her real strength lay in Lee’s perception of her.
“You’re okay?” Marty asked as she approached. He was looking at her wounded hand, not at her face, and right then she was glad. She closed her eyes and tried to compose herself. Her tongue remained engorged, but the bloodlust was dwindling. She was confident that she would never choose that path again willingly, but if an idiot like Lee put himself in her way…
When she opened her eyes, she looked at Francesco first. He smiled and sent her a gentle nod. He knows, she realized then. He went through this a long time ago, and perhaps he still goes through it now. But he’s learned to hold things back.
“I’m fine,” she said to her brother. She chuckled. “Garlic and holy water. Bet he’s wearing a cross too.”
“Told me he was an atheist.” Marty smiled, Rose laughed, and she had to catch him as he slumped back down to sit on the bottom stair.
“What did he do to you?” she asked.