Epilogue
A fter Santa Muerte had granted Aiden a second life, he’d scrubbed himself clean in Maeve King’s shower, and tried not to wince while she’d bandaged his abdomen. They’d dumped what was left of Laura into the bayou, shared tea and whiskey on the porch, and promised to keep in touch.
“There are so few of us,” she’d said, facing the sunrise, wearing a triumphant smile.
“It’s humbling to see you return, Aiden, and it’s certainly been a treat to meet you both.
I can’t promise you an easy life, and I don’t have all the answers, but you’re welcome to reach out.
I’ve stock-piled quite a collection of recipes over the years, believe it or not. ”
That morning, they packed their things at the Sheraton, loaded the RV, and slept until Pru pulled into a truck-stop ten hours later.
They shared potato wedges and floppy, greasy pizza at a roadside pizzeria, and Aiden flashed his fangs for Georgia and Dylan, crediting a Louisiana dentist for the cosmetic upgrade.
They laughed, and Shay linked their ankles beneath the table, and Aiden lived again.
KNIGHT’S BLOOD TOPS CHARTS IN THE UNITED STATES WITH NEW PLATINUM SINGLE NEVER SAY DIE
Knight’s Blood played two sold-out shows in New York City.
The band popped champagne in a high-rise suite, snorted top-shelf cocaine off of marble countertops, and bounced on neatly made beds, smacking each other with pillows cased in Egyptian cotton.
It was one week after Knight’s Blood’s first tour ended when the band announced their partnership with an elite record label and dropped a new album—Never Say Die.
Autumn teased the air when the band returned to Los Angeles, and Aiden brought Shay to his childhood home on a normal Tuesday night.
While Shay helped Blanca debone a chicken in the kitchen, Camila trapped Aiden in her bedroom.
She knelt at his feet, and muffled her funeral cries against his shirt, convulsing and shaking and sobbing.
Camila skidded through his death, transition, rebirth like a needle on a scratched record. Clumsily, lovingly, purposefully .
“I see blood on you,” she whispered, and pressed Blessed Water to his hot cheeks.
“Yeah, I know,” he said, and flinched away from a puff of cleansing smoke.
“I don’t want to know—I can’t know.”
“I know that, too.”
“Te quiero,” she said, relieved, and folded against him. “Ten cuidado.”
“I love you, too,” he said, and he meant thank you for giving me a reason.
Downstairs, Blanca served chicken straight from the skillet and scooped leftover frijoles out of a repurposed butter tub.
She creamed corn in a pot with chopped poblano and chunky onion, and flipped tortillas with her bare fingers on a greased pan.
They shared cheap beers and a homecooked meal, and sat at the dining room table, steadied with textbooks under uneven feet, set with placemats hand-embroidered by Antonella.
Two weeks after that, Aiden slid into Shay’s extremely uncool Toyota Highlander, and the pair drove with the windows down, singing along to Fleetwood Mac.
Knuckles knocked and laced, and sunshine shot through the windshield, glinting on Aiden’s black-painted toenails.
Los Angeles shook like someone madly in love, like a place used to being left, but Aiden still preferred the rich-city vibes and packed highways to anywhere else.
They parked in the garage attached to the Wiltern Theater and walked to Java, joining Georgia, Dylan, and Jacob at a table against the window.
“Finally,” Georgia said, picking at a cranberry scone.
Aiden fell into an empty chair. “Traffic sucked.”
“You degenerates have passports, right?” Jacob asked.
Dylan furrowed his brow, frowning. “No, actually.”
“Get one, have it expedited.” Jacob poked Dylan in the chest, then waved his meaty finger around the table.
“Listen, all right? You’re hot shit. You know it, I know it, everyone knows it.
We’re recording acoustic versions of Glory, Reign, and Never Say Die next week, and releasing a deluxe album-vinyl-duo with ‘stripped’ content just in time for the holiday rush.
No ,” he said, and pointed at Aiden, “you’re not stripping for the new album, and no ,” he said, shifting to Georgia, “we’re not dropping the music video yet. ”
Aiden whined and Georgia opened her mouth to protest.
Jacob hollered, “Anyway, listen! This is fuckin’ exciting.”
Shay quirked his head. “Well, we’re all here. Shoot.”
“Knight’s Blood is going back on tour this winter,” Jacob said, nodding slowly. “Kicking off with a headliner show at ShredFest on New Year’s Eve at the London Stadium.”
Aiden cast a confused glance at Shay, Georgia, then Dylan. He bit back a laugh, swallowing thickly, and narrowed his eyes. Georgia’s lips curved into a suspicious smile, and Dylan looked delightfully perplexed.
Tattooed fingers curled around the back of Georgia’s chair, and Prudence Domínguez leaned down to peck her on the lips.
“Did I miss anything?” Pru asked.
“Pru’ll be your handler overseas,” Jacob said, and glanced at each of them over the edge of his reading glasses. Laughter coughed from him, big and barked. “You get it yet, fuck-wits? You’re goin’ international.”
Aiden kissed Shay in front of Westminster Abbey, and held his hand at Stonehenge, and walked with him through the Colosseum.
They sent pictures of the Vatican to Kelly, mailed postcards from Prague to Maeve, and video-chatted with Camila while they cruised the Acropolis.
Knight’s Blood played in packed arenas, and the band stood together on a balcony facing the Eiffel Tower.
Georgia said, “Paris,” on a gusty breath, and rested her temple on Aiden’s shoulder. “We did it.”
Knight’s Blood bounced from city to city, country to country, and Shay and Aiden peeled their clothes off in a Danish hotel.
This is my fate , Aiden thought, and put his thumb to Shay’s lips. I made my own goddamn prophecy.
When they returned home, finally , spring breathed life into the city, and Aiden bought a waterfront property in Venice Beach.
He filled the rectangular house with comfortable, oversized couches, and a teakwood dining table with eight matching chairs.
Spread fluffy rugs on the cool, concrete floor, and invested in a king-sized bed-set.
New furniture, new appliances, new bedding. The good shit—the best shit .
Shay wandered through Aiden’s beach-house, playfully complaining about closet space and jabbing accusingly at the fireplace.
We live in Southern California, what do you need that for?
Even so, he left his car keys on the counter and his clothes in the dresser.
Tucked pieces of his life into their boring, blissful routine.
Shay never asked can I move in and Aiden never asked will you move in .
But one day, Shay Bennett didn’t leave, and Aiden thought, yeah, that’s fair.
They hunted, too. Scoured nightclubs and dark alleys.
Killed swiftly, ruthlessly, and ate their fill.
Sucked blood from each other’s fingers. Fucked while their eyes shone black, mouths slicked red, flavored like regrets they should’ve had, but didn’t.
They stuffed corpses with stones and gave them to the ocean or buried bodies in the hills near Griffith Observatory.
After every hunt, Aiden lit a prayer candle on the altar in the corner of their bedroom and brought his sister’s rosary to his mouth.
Sometimes, wet footprints trailed in from the backdoor. Dampened the kitchen, climbed the stairs, and halted at the edge of their bed. Sometimes, Aiden stood at the floor-to-ceiling window and watched Thomas Manko welcome the tide, staring upward into their glass-walled bedroom.
Every time Aiden said, “Stay the fuck out of my house.”
Sometimes, Aiden caught a whiff of cigarette smoke in the bathroom and watched his shadow stretch into Cit. He lit patchouli incense, spritzed the mirror, and bleached the porcelain, but when he tried to grow his hair out, he stopped at three inches and sheared it again.
Every time, he spoke to his reflection, spitting words like venom. “I eviscerated you,” he said. “You were never worse than me.”
But most of the time, Aiden watched the sunset bend around Shay Bennett and settle on his skin, and he remembered, we’re alive, I’m alive .
So, so alive.