Chapter 17
“For fuck’s sake,” Layla hissed, glaring at the door. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Well, she wasn’t so much looking at the heavy wooden slab which probably weighed more than she did, with its brass hardware and a shiny, relatively new deadbolt keyhole sitting smug and prissy, well aware of its own importance. She was occupied with something else entirely.
Something invisible. Or rather just barely visible, rippling in her peripheral vision like heat rising off faraway highway on a deadly dry summer afternoon. A sheet of near-shimmering force lingered along the wall, and now she knew what Max meant by ‘seals’.
How in the hell was such a thing even possible? The demimonde was full of weird shit, sure, but this was certifiably insane.
No fan-vent in the bathroom, though air had to be exchanging somehow because humidity wasn’t accumulating on the walls.
The light fixtures were recessed, giving off a serene golden glow, and impossible to reach even if she clambered onto the pedestal sink.
Attempting to climb on the toilet-tank attached to the wall was a no-go, there just wasn’t enough space to wedge herself atop it.
She landed on her feet after two attempts, clicking her teeth together painfully though catching her balance each time, and decided that experiment had used up most of her daily luck ration. She’d probably break her damn leg if she tried again.
Even the single chair didn’t help. There was simply nothing to grab, no way to get close to the fixtures, and bouncing said chair off the invisible curtain only got her a clatter and nearly falling on her ass when she dodged the backfire of that stupid plan.
The chifforobe was unscalable even if she pulled out the rolling shelves.
Every attempt to monkey up its internal architecture and get near the ceiling was a dismal failure.
The thing was either fastened to the wall or so heavy she couldn’t tip it despite the newfound sense of vital strength coursing through her entire body, and trying to climb on the bed’s headboard got her nowhere as well.
She could rip up the sheets and blankets, sure, but what the hell would that get her? Punishment? A funny shaky sensation went through her at the prospect.
He hadn’t precisely hurt her yet. Unless you counted…
the bed. Which she avoided after her initial attempt to climb on the headboard, or settle the chair at the head of the mattress and get near the ceiling that way.
Even looking at the rumpled woolen blanket and plain cotton sheets was uncomfortable, not least for the strange half-submerged thrill shooting through her entire nervous system.
Hormones, or fear? Both?
Layla stroked the invisible curtain, wincing slightly at the prickles racing up her arm. Poking tentatively with fingertips gave a slight uncomfortable zap like biting on tinfoil, and slapping the solidified air outright stung as if she’d hit a brick wall.
Well, she had in more ways than one, really. What did a short while mean to someone who had lived two-thousand-plus years? All this nonsense about lemans and true death and captivity, and worst of all, Layla was thirsty.
That was an understatement. Her throat was impersonating all the world’s greatest deserts at once, parched as Death Valley, dry as the Gobi.
Cool water from the sink only made the burning worse.
It didn’t feel like strep, but she couldn’t really check her tonsils because the bathroom had no real mirror.
There was an oblong of burnished metal—looked like brass—fastened to the inner panel of the chifforobe’s left door, but its surface was too cloudy for details and anyway, she had to hop to get a glimpse of her face, because it was set for someone much taller than her.
Which essentially meant anyone, but still.
No windows, she couldn’t get at the door…
some indefinable sense told her she was underground, though she couldn’t be entirely sure.
There was a faint hum which might be HVAC, the light fixtures, or something else entirely.
The strange slow ka-thump, pause, ka-thump had vanished when Max left, and her own pulse was uncomfortably loud in her ears along with the ragged working of her lungs.
Every once in a while she ran a fingertip over her teeth.
No chance to brush them, but they didn’t seem any sharper.
The taste lingering in her mouth was strange, almost spicy, and only made her fractionally more thirsty each time she swallowed.
The lights seemed to be getting brighter, and all told she was as uncomfortable as it was possible to be.
Nah, if the power goes out you’ll find out it can get worse.
Wasn’t that a merry thought. She made a complete circuit of the two rooms, feeling along the invisible curtain as high—and as low—as she could reach.
And she ended up right back where she started. Staring at the door, again, her hands curling into fists and releasing.
Trapped. Helpless.
Of course, she wouldn’t have minded this invisible-seal trick while traveling with Dan and the guys. Sleeping with one eye open around a bunch of men was a recipe for perpetual exhaustion, and now Layla could admit she’d never quite trusted any of them.
Even Dan.
“But I liked him,” she blurted, the words bouncing off bare walls. The weird shimmercurtain didn’t muffle her voice, though the air was so goddamn dead in here. She was going to end up a claustrophobic mess.
Did you really? Her stupid, hyperactive brain, unable to figure out any way to escape current circumstances, decided on the time-honored amusement of Picking Apart All Layla’s Past Mistakes.
Sure, you had a thing for him in high school, and he knew it.
All the times he grinned at you while Suze was looking t’other way, all the homework you did for him.
“We were just kids,” she muttered, and stamped back to the bathroom. The towels, hung up neatly on door, sink, and wall-tank, were almost dry. Max had clearly arranged things for maximum airflow; she’d done her best to replace them in the same configuration.
Christ, the vampire picked up after himself better than any adult male she’d hung out with.
Yeah, you were kids. But did you ever think finding him with Cindy just before the wedding was a little too neat and convenient?
He didn’t even lock that door, and he must’ve known you’d be along to bring his cufflinks and boutonnière.
That was your job, since Suze was finishing up getting her hair done.
“None of my business,” Layla countered, setting off for the bed. The need to be doing something, anything, buzzed inside her bones, filled her muscles with shaky heat. “She wouldn’t have believed me anyway.”
Had Suzy really been pregnant before the wedding, or thought she was? She hadn’t said anything to Layla, but some things were private even between besties.
There were always secrets, from anyone.
Okay, different question. What was she doing alone up at Paradise Point? They never found another body, but…
Maybe Suze had gone up to the local makeout spot to think things through.
She’d claimed to be happy, sure, but sometimes Layla wondered during their monthly Olive Garden dinners.
Fancy pasta and cheap wine, habitual giggles as they endlessly recycled high school jokes, Layla talking about her job running a cash register at the box store, Suze about her only part-time gig at the Craft Depot, since Dan had a good position at the factory and wanted the trailer kept up.
He’d fallen behind on the payments after Suze’s death; consequently, only the sale of Meemaw’s doublewide and the land it was on had funded their first two years of vampire hunting.
Picking up Ben and Ack off the demimonde message boards, then Steve-o last year as the best of a bad batch of tryouts…
“Christ.” Layla stood next to the bed, temporarily overcoming the weird shaky feeling enough to snatch up and hug a plump pillow, its case plain white cotton like the sheets. “Everyone I ever really talked to is dead.”
Suze, the bright bubbly cheerleader, had always looked set to achieve escape velocity from their hometown.
Layla would never have believed she was the one to travel, even if only in junked-down jalopies looking for free wi-fi to download more forum posts, collating sightings, research, bona fides.
Or to sit with rapidly warming Cokes in crappy rundown honky-tonks while the men talked in low voices over cheap beers about patterns, firepower, endlessly shooting the shit.
The shit was now done shot, Meemaw would say.
Layla had been content being Suze’s longest-term bestie, content to tag along with Dan’s great revenge quest, mostly content to do research, lookout, decoy, laundry. At least she was needed.
What was she now? Alone, infected with vampirism, and literally fucked several ways from Sunday.
She didn’t even know what day of the goddamn week it was. Layla swayed back and forth, clutching the pillow, staring at the half-made bed, and wondered if the vampire was ever coming back.
And what she’d do if he didn’t.
The lights didn’t flicker, nor was there really any warning sound.
But the strangling leap her heart gave a bare moment before Max winked into existence right inside the door—and the invisible curtain—nearly knocked her down, and the brush of warm air across the room was such a relief she also let out a strangled yelp.
He swayed, and she dropped the chair—she’d been poking in desultory fashion at the force-field, more out of boredom than expecting real effects.
The chair’s back hit plain beige carpet very near her bare feet, and the next thing she knew she was next to the vampire, grabbing at the waistband of his Carhartts.