“It’s me,” I called softly, not expecting any response.
“Cal?”
I froze, not believing my ears. None of the other girls I’d ever dated had spoken at all when I’d tracked them down, much less said my name.
But I recognized Sarah’s voice. Even raspy and desiccated, as dry and brittle as a lost contact lens, it was her. I heard her dry throat swallow.
“I’m here to help you,” I said.
There was no answer, no movement of rats’ feet. The sounds of her breathing had stopped. Peeps can do that, subsist on pockets of oxygen stored in the parasite’s cysts.
The balcony stretched before me, a row of doors leading to abandoned offices. I took a few steps and glanced into the first one. It was stripped of furniture, but I could see the outlines of tiny cubicles imprinted into the gray industrial carpet. Not a terrible place to work, though: Iron-framed windows overlooked the harbor, the views magnificent, even though the glass was broken and smeared.
Manhattan lay across the river, the downtown spires lighting up as the sun went down, painting the glass towers orange. Strange that Sarah would stay here, in sight of the island she’d loved. How could she stand it?
Maybe she was different.
Old clothes and a couple of crack vials littered the floor, along with more human bones. I wondered where she had been hunting and how the Watch had missed the kills. That’s the thing about predators: They leave a huge statistical footprint on any ecosystem. Get more than a dozen of them in even the biggest city and the homicides show up like a house on fire. The disease has spent the last thousand years evolving to conceal itself, but it gets tougher and tougher for man-eaters to stay hidden. Human beings are prey with cell phones, after all.
I stepped back into the hall and closed my eyes, listening again. Hearing nothing.
When I opened them, Sarah stood before me.
I sucked in a breath and the most trivial of thoughts went through me: She’s lost weight. Her wiry body almost disappeared in the stolen rags she wore, like a child in borrowed, grown-up clothes. As always when running into an ex after a long time, there was the weirdness of seeing a once-familiar face transformed.
I could see why the legends call them beautifuclass="underline" that bone structure right there on the surface, like heroin chic without the bad skin. And a peep’s gaze is so intense. Adapted to the darkness, their irises and pupils are huge, the skin around the orbitals pulled back in a predatory facelift, revealing more of the eyeballs. Like Botoxed movie stars, they always look surprised and almost never blink.
For a brief and horrible moment, I thought I was in love with her again. But it was just the insatiable parasite inside me.
“Sarah,” I breathed out.
She hissed. Peeps hate the sound of their own names, which cuts into the tangled channels of their brains just like an anathema. But she’d said, “Cal…”
“Go away,” came the raspy voice.
I could see hunger in her eyes—peeps are always hungry—but she didn’t want me. I was too familiar.
Rats began to swirl around my feet, thinking a kill was coming. I stamped one of my rat-proof cowboy boots down hard to send them scurrying. Sarah bared her teeth at the noise and my stomach clenched. I had to remind myself that she wouldn’t eat me, couldn’t eat me.
“I have to take you out of here,” I said, my fingers closing on the action figure in my pocket. They never went without a fight, but Sarah was my first real love. I thought maybe.
She struck like lightning, her open palm landing upside my head, a slap that felt like it had burst my eardrum.
I staggered back, the world ringing, and more blows pummeled my stomach, driving the breath from me. And then I was lying on my back, Sarah’s weight on my chest, her body as sinewy as a bag full of pissed-off snakes, her smell thick in my nostrils.
She pushed my head back, baring my throat, but then froze, something fighting behind her Botoxed eyes. Her love for me? Or just the anathema of my familiar face?
“Ray’s Original, First Avenue and Eighth Street,” I said quickly, invoking her favorite pizza place. “Vanilla vodka on the rocks. Viva Las Vegas.” That last one scored, so I added, “His mother’s middle name was Love.”
At this second Elvis reference, Sarah hissed like a snake, one hand curling into a claw. The fingernails, like a corpse’s, keep growing as everything else is eaten away, and hers were as gnarled and black as dried beetle husks.
I stopped her with the password for our shared video store account, then rattled off her old cell-phone number and the names of the goldfish she’d left behind. Sarah flinched, battered by these old, familiar signifiers. Then she let out a howl, her mouth stretching wide to bare the awful teeth again. A dark claw raised up.
I pulled the action figure from my pocket and thrust it into her face.
It was the King, of course, in Comeback Special black, complete with leather wristband and four-inch guitar. This was my only keepsake from her former life—I’d stolen it from under her roommate’s nose, dropping by a week after Sarah had disappeared, instinctively knowing she wasn’t coming back. Wanting something of hers.
Sarah howled, closing her fist and bringing it down on my chest. The blow left me coughing, my eyes filling with tears. But her weight was suddenly gone.
I rolled over, gasping, trying to regain my feet. As my eyes cleared, I saw boiling fur in every direction, the rats in a panic at their mistress’s distress.
She had started down the stairs, but now the anathema had taken hold of her mind. The Elvis memorabilia I’d placed on the steps did its job—Sarah twisted in mid-course at the sequined cape, like a horse glimpsing a rattlesnake, and crashed through the rickety banister.
I scrambled to the balcony’s edge and looked down. She crouched on one of the pews, glaring up at me.
“Are you okay, Sarah?”
The sound of her own name got her moving, gliding across the waiting room, bare feet silent on the backs of the benches. But she stumbled to a halt as she came face-to-face with the black velvet King poster, a horrible wail filling the echoing terminal. It was one of those spine-tingling transformations, like when a forlorn cat suddenly makes the sound of a human child, Sarah uttering the cry of some other species.
Rats swept toward me from all sides—attacking, I thought for a moment. But they were simply freaking out, swirling without purpose around my boots, disappearing through holes and into office doorways.
As I ran down the staircase, the metal bolts that held it to the wall yanked at their berths in a screeching chorus. Sarah darted from exit to exit, mewling at the sight of the King’s face. She froze and hissed at me again.
She knew I had her cornered and watched warily as I put the doll back in my pocket.
“Stay there. I won’t hurt you.” I slowly climbed down the rest of the swaying stairs. It was about as steady as standing in a canoe.
The moment one of my feet touched the ground floor, Sarah ran straight toward the far wall. She leaped high, her black claws grasping one of a web of steam pipes that fed a long radiator. Her long black fingernails made pinging sounds on the empty pipes as she climbed up and along the wall toward a high window I hadn’t bothered to cover. She moved like a spider, fast and jerky.
There was no Elvis between her and freedom. I was going to lose her.
Swearing, I turned and dashed back up the swaying stairs. A series of pops came from behind me, bolts failing, and just as I reached the top, the whole staircase pulled away, freeing itself from the wall at last. But it didn’t crash to the ground, just sagged exhaustedly, a few bolts still clinging to the upper floor like rusty fingernails.