Silence.
“Well, am I? Am I going to become like you? Is that why he wants me so bad?”
“No,” I grumble, losing the fight to be pleasant to the infection, “You can’t turn a born lion into a tiger by getting the tiger to bite him. It’s genetics. You have human genes that make you human. We have vampire genes. A little blood and spit can’t change that in you.”
Silence. As good as peace can be with Ruby in trouble. My eardrums relish in the reprieve.
The violation starts again, “Where are we going then?”
“A crack house.”
She chuckles, waits, and asks, “No, really, where are we going?”
Slowly take my eyes off the blazing road, “A crack house.”
“What?” she squawks, “Why are we going to a crack house? Is that where they took Ruby?”
“Look, I need to think. My head’s all jumpy from that crap they injected in me. Need to focus. Need a plan to save Ruby.”
“Why are we going to a crack house? Is she there? Oh my God—is Ruby in a crack house?”
My skull threatens to crack under the strain of her words.
“No, she’s not there. Need to get someone who knows where she is.”
“What-do-you-mean-you-don’t-know-where-she-is?” question flies out of her as if it were one word loaded into the slingshot of her mouth.
While I marvel at how fast such a slow mind can sling words and remind myself to fight the harsh thoughts—fight the malady brewing in me, she flings out another barrage, “Don’t-you-guys-all-sleep-in-the-same-place-for-protection? All-in-coffins? Don’t-you-know-where-they-all-are?”
“No, vampires don’t sleep in coffins. We don’t like to tip off the humans that we’re vampires—it’s the whole mob with pitchforks and torches thing. Best to not let them know about us. Sleeping in a coffin is a big tip off—plus, why make it easy on anyone to bury you alive?”
“But—but you don’t know where they are?”
“No, Roderick and his goons all hang out somewhere. Only Roderick lives there—just a place to party for the others. They move it every few years—haven’t been with them in decades—don’t know where they are now.”
“How do you not know? Aren’t you one of them?”
Vision seems to be tainted in red. An angry red that doesn’t like seeing any blue. Irritation swells.
“Haven’t you been paying attention at all? Did you see us hanging out together, partying, and having a beer last night, or did you see them kicking the hell out of me? Not sure—was a little drugged up—oh yeah, they did that too. ‘Cause I’m pretty sure they were kicking the hell out of me.”
“No, I mean—don’t you guys have a vampire order? A coven or something?”
“No, there’s no order. We don’t get together too often, but Roderick’s been stirring everybody up to hunt me down to get to you.”
She looks like she may cry.
“But no, we don’t get together too often. No covens. It’s hard to wrangle up a bunch of blood junkies. Spread all over the city doing something perverse or recovering from something perverse—we’re not easy to organize. It’d be like making a club of crack addicts—you’d never get anyone to show up for the meetings. Sometimes they’ll show up for a party—guess that’s what Roderick’s doing now to get them together and keep them there—giving them drugs and whatever else they want.”
Shock of frustration shoots through me—body feels so sour. Stomach burns—fever—head pounding. Strain to hold back foul mood. Losing.
“What’d you expect—a vampire picnic—a bunch of vampires all suited up playing a secret game of baseball in the middle of the woods? Come on.”
Don’t want her feelings hurt, but my mind could use the silence. If I just let her be hurt, she’ll stay quiet. Mind could rest—recover. Guilt overtakes the anger for a moment.
“It’s alright, Ambrosia. That stuff’s making me mean—making me feel so sick—need some time to get it under control.”
She still looks like tears are imminent.
“C’mon. Ask me what you want to know. Know you have questions.”
She smiles bashfully, pushing her head down and shoulders forward.
“It’s alright. Ask.”
“Don’t—don’t you guys…shimmer?”
“Only if you shove glitter up our asses.”
She laughs so hard a little stream of mucus shoots out her nose and onto the black vinyl dash.
She puts her hand over her nose.
“You better clean that up. My friend Danny’s a nice guy, but he’ll kill you over this car.”
“Sorry,” she says, still laughing as she wipes it off with her hand and then on the floor mat, “Just what I need: one more person trying to kill me.”
Sudden anguish surges in my head. Pangs—throbs—aches. Feels like my skull is tearing into pieces—every tiny noise is an earthquake ripping it apart further and deeper. Strain with all my might to keep eyes open and on the road.
She sniffles and asks, “So where do vampires come from?”
Led Zeppelin’s “Immigrant Song” plays on the radio—a wailing, beckoning vocal.
All the sound—even the pleasing sound—too much for my head—don’t respond to her. She still looks down and away from the windows, not noticing the expression on my face.
She repeats, “C’mon, where do you guys come from? Europe—Transylvania?”
Throbbing too bad—can’t talk. Point to the radio, trying to make her think I want her to be quiet so I can hear the song.
The lyrics talk about an exotic, frozen land.
“Oh! Vampires come from Alaska?”
“No,” I shake my head, laughter threatening to take over, even through my dizzying, spiking pain, “I was just trying to shut you up—those were Led Zeppelin lyrics—and they’re not talking about Alask—”
“The drummer only has one arm?”
“No, that’s Def Leppard.”
“The guys who sing ‘The Boys Are Back in Town?’”
“No, that’s Thin Lizzy.”
Putting her hands at her hips, twisting playfully in the bucket seat, and batting her eyelashes, she asks, “Sexy, Thin little Lizzy, like me?”
“No, that would be Little Dizzy.”
“Hey, my head’s full of all kinds of useful things—I’m no ditz.”
“You are truly a fountain of misinformation.”
“Thanks…I think.”
“Keep thinking, Ambrosia—the answer will come.”
She smiles.
Pat her shoulder and slow the car down to double digits. The crack house comes into view. Tires scream as I bring the car to a stop. Hope it’s the last screaming I’ll hear tonight, but I doubt it.
“Now, what would make you think such a terrible person is coming for you?” Roderick asks—the two of us alone in the blue and black room with the two guards still outside the door in the hallway.
“Don’t say that about Simon—you’d never talk about him like that if he were here.”
Three raw rips on Roderick’s cheek—jagged and red. So raw they look as if hatred hisses out of them. One is much deeper—the other two look like they only skimmed him—leaving dotted marks. Odd. All of the vampire fingernail wounds I’ve seen so far have been deeper—more precise—and always in a set of four. These look different.
“I’m sure he will come, Ruby. Come blazing in here like an action hero and be killed before he has a chance to see you again.”
The thought of it steals the words from my throat.
He reaches out to touch my cheek—scratch wound on the back of his hand similar to the one on his face—this one with two deep grooves and two skim marks.
Pull my head away, and he stops his hand—holding it in the air not far from me.
He says, “What made you think I was talking about him, dear thing? Is it that you’re afraid he won’t come? Is that why you immediately thought I was talking about Simon?”