Pull my head further away from him, looking at the blue and black walls.
“No, Ruby, I was talking about your little blue-haired friend.”
“What about Ambrosia?”
“She’ll run and hide—a coward. She’ll never try to save you. She’ll run from us—run from Simon. Never cared about anyone more than herself—why would she rush here to take your place? Where was she when we grabbed you at the bar?”
I don’t answer, still looking into the blue-black.
“Tell me, Ruby—why didn’t she come take your place then? She was there—we saw her—lost her in the chaos, but she was there. She knew we were after her, but she let us take you. Why is that?”
“Maybe she didn’t have a choice. What was she going to do—beat up you and your two goons all by herself?”
Grumbling in the hallway.
“I’d bite my tongue if I were you, little one. They’re told to guard you only—not to hurt you unless you try to escape. But, I can’t watch them every second. Best for you to not make them angry. ‘Course, once I have what I want, I don’t care what they do to you.”
Those words bring horrible images to my mind—seem so close to reality—could happen between these same ghastly walls—they’re just outside the room right now.
“That’s right, Ruby, worry about it. Worry about all of it. It’ll all be soon upon you.”
“We’ll see.”
“Yes, we will. Very soon,” pausing, “But back to your pig-tailed playmate, do you know what she says about you?”
“Don’t care.”
“Do you?”
“Not if the words come from you.”
“Well, let’s just find out. Few weeks ago, met her at ‘80s Night—came back with me to one of Edgar’s filthy hangouts. Did she tell you that?”
“Yeah,” I answer before I can remind myself to keep quiet and not play his game.
“Well, late in the night we got on the topic of you. Care to guess what she had to say?”
“Wish my friend Ruby were here so we could both strangle this filthy vampire in his sleep.”
Flashes his fangs for a moment and then turns his mouth back into a storyteller’s smile, “How about ‘I only keep her around as man-bait. She’s pretty enough to bring the men in, but she’s so boring that they all end up with me instead.’”
Nights flash before my eyes where that situation did happen. Many times I was sitting at the bar or a booth—somewhere out of the action. Guys would introduce themselves, sit down, talk awhile. Eventually they all danced. They all drank more. I sat. They did end up with Ambrosia. Me with my pillow.
“You were nothing more than a pretty toy for her to wave in front of the boys—she knew you weren’t interesting enough to keep any of them for yourself—knew she’d have no trouble taking anyone she wanted from you by the end of the night. Used you for your beauty—knew she could abuse your plain, boring personality to steal any man from you.”
“Shut up.”
“Whether I’m silent or loud, it’s true. My silence won’t change it.”
“Liar.”
“Well, if I am, you have nothing to worry about, but the troubled look on your face tells me you know it’s true—know she never really cared about you—just a party favor to make her own night better—never caring about you or your night or you meeting someone. It was all for her. Coming here tonight would be all for you. She’d have everything to lose—nothing to gain. Doesn’t sound like Ambrosia—you know it. She’ll never come for you.”
“Maybe Simon will just grab her then. Maybe he’ll pick her up and bring her here. He won’t let her get away.”
“Maybe, not on purpose anyway. But, she’ll run at every chance she gets. Eventually he’ll put his guard down for a second—thinking about you, worrying about what we’re doing to his precious. Even if he makes it all the way here with her, he’ll have to deal with us when he shows. She’ll run then. He’ll never be able to handle us, but he’d have even less chance of fighting us and keeping a hold on her at the same time. Never going to happen. Never pull it off. Never.”
The trouble must show on my face, because he is delighted. Glowing—pleased with himself. Eyes as thrilled as if he’s feeding on blood through my pain. Bleeding my emotions and drinking them.
“You know he’s dying?”
Shake my head—don’t want to hear what he has to say, but too worried not to listen.
“The injections. The first little concoction was a nasty mixture of viruses and bacteria collected from our romps with the dregs of Decatur. Only got a little of that one in him, but it had an effect.”
Roderick bends down to make eye contact. Try to look at the floor, but he’s unavoidable.
“The second injection’s special—stronger—enough to make you wish you were dead.”
“He’ll come. He’ll come for me no matter what you did to him.”
“He’ll try, but dead men can’t walk very far. And, sadly for you, dead vampires can’t walk any farther.”
His pointed smile can’t get any wider, and he rises to his feet, turning away from me and toward the door. He stops with a hand on the doorknob and looks to me over his shoulder.
“You know, Ruby, if Simon dies before he can get to you, I’ll give you a little taste—a little shot of what we put into him. I know you young lovers want to experience everything together; it’d be only fitting to send you through the same hell that killed him.”
Two-story, 10-foot-ceilinged building constructed like a child’s boxy, rectangular popsicle-stick house. Lopsided and leaning, waterline still visible on the side—it’s a stained reminder of the devastation the city’s suffered and a glaring warning that no one who ventures through its rotting doorway ever recovers from their afflictions.
Hard to believe such a giant, rotting mess doesn’t topple over sitting on nothing but cinder blocks.
Ambrosia sits huddled, tucked as far beneath the car dashboard as possible. Doors locked—alarm on. She shouldn’t be in there long. This is definitely going to be messy. Painful. But fast.
The crooked steps creak, bending under my boots. The porch is uneven from one board to the next—rotting and leaving the trespasser feeling like he may crash through its sagging floorboards with every step.
Door handle is missing—just a hole—dim light leaking through it into the night. Hand slides over the door—different layers—paint peeling like a snake shedding its skin. Shove it open. Door chirps loudly as it squeezes out of its warped frame, sounding a warning like a raven foretelling doom.
Long, narrow room. Couches enclose two sides of a coffee table at the far right corner. Stairwell is off to the left of them. If I know Edgar, he’ll be upstairs.
A large man with a girl sitting at each of his sides stares at me. One other man sits on the other couch, too focused on inhaling what burns in his hand to look away from it.
Large one gets to his feet. Dark sunglasses reflecting the dim light of the lone, hanging bulb in the center of the room.
“Whatchyou want here?” he asks.
“Looking for someone.”
“We don’t do dat here. This’s a invitation-only kinda party, son.”
“I don’t need an invitation, and I didn’t ask you if I could come in—just came in.”
“Can’t come in here like dat, boy—all busted up. How we know you ain’t dripping the hiv everywhere?”
Almost forgot my wounds haven’t healed yet—still look pretty raw.
Walking toward me, stepping over the coffee table, “Don’t want none a dat in here. Nah, you turn yoself round and get right out dat door before sumtin’ bad happens to ya.”
“Don’t want to hurt you, big boy, just need to find someone.”
“Ain’t nobody in here wanna be found.”
“Coming in anyway.”
“Looks like you already been beat down tonight. Sure you wanna go again, punk?”
“Never judge the wounded until you see what they’ve walked away from.”