"No, I fed last night."
"So don't feed." He shrugged. "Just hunt."
Maybe Maggie had been right about me. Maybe I hadn't seen enough in my one hundred and eighty-six years. "You just want to kill someone?"
He took his eyes completely off the road and stared at me. "Is this for real or are you playing? What do you do all night if not hunt?"
"Take care of William, read books, settle the bank accounts, talk to my investment broker. I don't know, just things."
"No?" Amused, almost pleased, he pushed the needle up higher. "William is gone. You are immortal, with no need for books and investment brokers."
That's the first time the word «immortal» sounded absurd to me. Webster's unabridged defines it as "not mortal; deathless; living forever." I know. I looked it up once. What a crock. We may not get any older, but the body count hit three last night. Sounded pretty mortal to me. Maybe Philip wasn't keeping score.
Watching him drive-his long hair flying out the window, his head bobbing to the music, his face sporting an adolescent grin-made me try to see beyond his gift. What was he besides beautiful and careless? His black Hugo Boss pants and Calvin Klein shirt suggested his taste was not only good, but up-to-date. Edward always bought Savile Row and Christian Dior, which worked on him but was sort of "older crowd"-sort of.
Philip also cared what Julian thought. Why? Why would Julian's opinion matter?
"Turn down the Mercer/Fairview exit," I said.
Downtown Seattle is a mass of one-way streets, confusing signs, and heavy traffic, but my too-happy companion drove as if he were on a backwoods dirt road.
"Where'd you learn to drive?"
"Paris," he answered. That figured. He found a pay-by-the-hour parking lot near the Space Needle and jumped out. "We ditch this car now."
"Whatever you say." Instinct screamed that it was time to ditch golden boy. But I didn't. Maybe he was the only true vampire among us-cold and fast and wild. Maybe Edward and I struggled too hard to hoard little bits of humanity and somehow never quite fit into either world. Philip didn't feed just on blood. He seemed to feed off the world, draining life and power and material wealth from anything unlucky enough to cross his path. And he did it without thought or remorse or pity-a purist in the true sense. Fascinating. Frightening.
"Look, a roller coaster," he said, smiling. Canned carnival music and bright lights flooded the scene. He bolted toward the bumper cars, and then stopped, looking back for me. "You like rides?"
"No… I don't know."
He jumped the few steps back to me, looking confused, as if he wanted to grab my arm but didn't know how. Again, his expression reminded me of a computer accessing data it couldn't find. Perhaps he'd forgotten how to touch someone he wasn't murdering.
"Come, Eleisha. Come on."
"How long has it been since you've hunted with someone else?"
His eyebrows knitted. "What year is it?"
What year? How could he be so up on fashion and not even know the year? "Don't you read the newspaper?"
That annoyed him. "Newspaper? For sheep and puppets. You start to believe your own gift."
"And you don't?"
The night lights and black corners pulled at him. I could see it in his eyes, and in spite of myself, it called to me as well.
"Too much talk," he said. "Come."
Changing his mind abruptly, he steered away from the carnival and headed down toward the fountain. I followed about a half step behind him, watching a wide variety of people pass us. Philip ignored all of them like an overfed cat turned loose in a science lab. We reached the huge round fountain in Seattle Center's heart. Four teenage kids sat on the lawn, smoking and talking. Philip headed straight for them.
A tall boy, about sixteen with a shaved head and two pewter skulls hanging in the same ear, took a long drag and noticed us. Apparently he didn't want extra company, because his lips tightened angrily at our approach, and then Philip smiled. All four of them smiled back. Too weird.
"Bum a smoke?" my partner asked, pointing to the cigarette.
"Here." Pewter Skulls held out the pack. "Where're you from?"
"France, but I like your city."
Philip's communication skills with the kid actually surprised me. I don't know what I expected. But the sight of him sitting on the grass smoking and making small talk didn't fit my mental image. Pewter Skulls introduced himself as Culker. The rest of the group included a boy named Scott with a green mohawk, a blond girl named Becky with small eyes and a blue leather miniskirt, and an African American girl named Jet in a pink, tie-dyed dress under a loose jean jacket. They were all about the same age. I thought the mohawk was passe. Becky seemed to have about four working brain cells, but Jet's face caught my attention, clean and straightforward. Part of me actually wanted to talk to her, but that wasn't my place here, not my gift. Philip had them eating from his hand.
He leaned back on his elbows. A mass of silky red-brown hair hung to the ground.
"Who's that with you?" Culker finally asked him.
I'd been sitting quietly behind Philip, hiding in his overwhelming shadow. A safe place, almost pleasant.
"Eleisha, say hello to our new friends."
I fell into my routine and focused on the ground. "Hi."
Scott turned to Philip. "Hey, if we give you the money, will you buy us some beer?"
"Where did you plan to drink it?"
"At Becky's. Her folks are gone. You want to come?"
This was too easy. Although if we trotted down to the nearest 7-Eleven, picked up a case of cheap beer, and then headed to Becky's, how would Philip manage to get someone off alone?
As we fell into step toward a store, I noticed Jet walking beside me and gave her an honest smile.
"How old are you?" she asked.
"Seventeen."
"How old is he?"
"Twenty-nine."
She wasn't dumb. Due to our unnatural skin tone, our ages are often difficult to place. But Jet's questions struck a little deeper. Why would an incredibly beautiful, well-dressed, adult Frenchman want to hang with them when he had a pretty, seventeen-year-old girlfriend for company? It didn't make sense.
"You going out with Culker?" I asked to change the subject.
"Culker? No way. These guys are just my friends. I like your coat."
"Oh, thanks… Did you dye that dress yourself?"
"Yeah." She seemed pleased. "I do all kinds of stuff. Sell clothes at the Folklife Festival."
"What's that?"
"You don't know 'bout the festival? Where're you from?"
I smiled. "Portland."
She smiled back, and we talked all the way to a run-down mini-mart. Philip glanced back at me once. He went inside and came out with a case of Henry Weinhard's Ale that must have cost twice what Culker gave him. Didn't this situation seem unusual to any of them?
"Awesome," Scott said. "My car's two blocks south."
Becky kept moving closer to Philip. I'm sure he noticed.
We all piled into a rusted Buick Skylark with cigarette butts falling out of its ashtray. We ended up driving to Capitol Hill, but Scott spent twenty minutes trying to find a place to park.
Piles of dirt and garbage had been plowed to the sides of the road. One decrepit apartment building melted right into the next one. Every available parking space seemed filled with a dented Volkswagen Golf. Babies cried through open windows, and some guy down the block kept yelling, "You bitch!" over and over again.
I wanted to go home, but we didn't have one.
Scott finally managed to squeeze the Skylark between two cars, and everybody climbed out. I'd figured out by then that Becky's parents didn't live in a house.
"We can't be too loud," she said. "The guys below us are crack dealers. One of them gets mad easy."
Charming.
Something about her apartment's interior touched more sorrow than its outside. Small arrangements of dried flowers sat on paint-splattered tables. An old mattress was covered by a hand-stitched quilt. Cheap lace curtains blew out from chipped windowpanes. Someone cared about this place enough to try to make it a home.