Screams stop upstairs. Hear feet coming down the stairwell that’s out of sight and around the corner.
So crazy—so unexpected. Surreal—like I’m planning or dreaming an escape—not actually doing it for real, as if I’m still trapped in the blue-black void. Trusting Maxine deep inside Roderick’s cavernous house—taking an escape route provided by a succubus.
What am I doing?
Can’t just sit still waiting for Simon to come into this hell to save me. Waiting on him to get slaughtered—waiting on Roderick to grow tired of toying with me—tormenting me. Soon he’ll move from attacking my mind to my body. Who knows what else he has waiting for Simon? Have to do something. Have to try.
Put my life in the hands of a female beast—a vampire who loves my Simon, one who’d be better off if I wasn’t.
See sharp fingernails hanging around the corner. My hand grasps the same stake that struck Maxine. Dim light reveals little, but what it does show breeds dread.
If this is it, I wish I could press against his lips one last time—let my soul soar inside his eyes—feel his heartbeat pulse into my chest.
Whatever horrors are around this corner—whatever monster belongs to those claws, I hope Simon stays free of them.
Follow me into the vampire’s den. Not really our place—Roderick’s place. All who can bow are welcome.
Enter through the back window under the shadow of the rear balcony—the dark, unseen entrance is appropriate. So much happens inside these walls that the sane would love to turn their backs to—pretend it never happens—not in their happy world. Would kill to be in their world. Sometimes kill just to stay alive in my own shadow of a world.
Slide the window up—it’s always unlocked. Wood frame cries a little—squeal into the darkness of the back room.
Hear shuffling—maybe a mouse—a rat. Can’t see anything. Streetlight doesn’t reach back here—not much else does either.
I’d say you’d get used to the smell, but numbing your senses is the only thing that makes it reek less. Can’t explain it exactly. Can’t live like an animal and not have your home smell like a wild den. Musky on the edge of rotten, but human girls associate it with sex. They don’t seem to mind it on us, but most of them have drank, smoked, or shot their senses dull before being brought here. We find them late in the night—coming for them when we know they’re ripe, and we know exactly where to look.
Step through the window. Hand flies at my face—nails extended—threatening.
Grasp its wrist mid-air—inches from my eye.
“Little touchy tonight, Desirée?” I ask.
“Dangerous night to be creeping though windows, Edgar.”
“Always dangerous creeping though windows—especially in this place.”
Barely see her eyes in the darkness. Haven’t seen her in weeks—a girl after my own addictions—hooked on the same things but not in as deep as me. Not yet.
“Where’s Roderick?” I ask.
“Upstairs—where he always is.”
“Crowd with him?”
“Yeah. Supposed to be a busy night. War’s going on outside.”
“Will be. Very busy.”
“Speaking of busy, Maxine’s here. Borrowed a wig from me.”
“Maxine’s here? Wonder if Roderick knows she’s here. He won’t like that. Not tonight.”
“He’s looking for you, you know. Pissed—said you ran off at the bar.”
“Roderick still got the girl—what’s he pissed about? Didn’t need me.”
“He got the girl to get the other girl—still doesn’t have the one he wants—didn’t get the blue-haired one. Besides how’d’you know he got any of them if you cut out early?”
“No need for questions, dear. Why don’t you keep those sweet lips shut and forget you ever saw me come in here?”
“Can’t, Edgar. Roderick’s gone nuts. Kill me if he finds out I saw you and didn’t tell him.”
“Yes, you can.”
“No, not this time,” Desirée resists, shaking her head trying to convince herself. So feeble. So pliable.
She looks like she’s made of angles. Always twisting her body askew before she says anything. Shoulder cocked up at one angle—her chin down at another angle—her eyes aimed up and over at me from yet another. Three separate angles to separate her from what she says. One for satire, one for sarcasm, and one for style. Never looking head on—but behind a few turns, distancing herself from what she says, making a simple phrase seem deeper because the words must travel through the maze of curves in the pose she holds, hiding her real intentions down the crooked path into her mind, far away from being responsible or ridiculed for them—the listener having to look from her pointed shoulder, down to her neck, from her neck to her chin, from her chin to her lips, and from her lips to her eyes that lie beneath batting lashes. She makes it a winding journey for anyone to see inside her, and most are too lazy to travel through her bends and folds.
I see into her because I just like breaking through doors that I’m not supposed to open.
“Yes, you can—you will. You find a nice place to hang out—a quiet corner in here, and I’ll bring you some of the good stuff.”
Her face lights up—can see it even in the darkness that my eyes are slowly becoming used to, “The new stuff?”
“Yeah, the new breed. What else?”
“You promise?”
“Now, what good are words, sweet thing? Desire is good enough—you know I want it as much as you. Ache for it,” fight to keep my eyes from rolling in the back of my head, “All the better to feed on it together.”
“How are you gonna get it?”
“Just found out where it’s kept.”
“Okay…okay.”
I pat Desirée’s cheek with an open hand and finally release her wrist. She disappears out the doorway, so far into the pitch black that I can’t see her, but the marks of my pressing fingers are still red in her wrist and my promise in the dark tantalizes her senses. Her heartbeat pounds with the thought of the new breed—not even the darkness can hide her lust for it.
She’ll keep quiet. At least until her rising urges make her scream out in impatience. Better not take too long.
Birth of flames. Hungry tongues surging out—lusting for air to burn more—hotter—faster—spreading.
They burn out of the engine—flickering high in the air around the hood that has been busted open and mangled.
The edge of the fallen balcony crashed into the driver’s seat—crushing the roof of the car—smashing it down toward the ground—mangling its axles under the immense weight—bending the wheels crooked and sticking out. Flames rise up and scorch the wood.
Don’t know if I hate or welcome the fire. Definitely welcome the dark smoke billowing from out of the hood—wish it would be thicker, more dense—everywhere, granting me a smoky cloak to hide beneath.
Don’t know if I’m far enough away if it explodes suddenly—flames could reach the gas tank—could have ruptured the gas line—could engulf me in an instant. Start to wiggle my body—push with my legs to shove myself deeper under the house.
Need a minute to heal. The sting still shoots through me. Maybe need two minutes.
Even in the darkness I can see discoloration in the shape of puddles and drips on the wooden floorboards above my head. The terrible tales these stains could tell—each dripping from some atrocity, spilling from something wicked.
Sharp nails pierce my left ankle. More dive into my right. They tense and drag me back toward the smoke and fire.