Chapter 5
Since her infection there was no leisurely awakening, lolling in bed half-conscious.
Instead, a switch flipped and Simone was up, alert and aware to a degree she’d never before considered possible.
No coffee or tea necessary, and that fact was both useful—no need to waste time—and sort of maddening, because a mug of something hot and caffeinated was one of the better ways to start a day.
Of course, her days were nights, but that was beside the point.
Rolling off the bed and landing feather-light in the RV’s central aisle was surprisingly easy; she hadn’t needed to practice more than once, and that initial attempt had gone perfectly.
Running her fingers through her hair, she took a deep breath.
Yawning hadn’t gone the way of bathroom visits, so she gave herself a good one every evening.
The dry spot at the back of her throat was worse. Simone stretched, turning this way and that, shook her hands out. No need to check the bathroom mirror, really. The vampire movies got one thing right—being infected gave you clear skin and a great ’do right out of the gate.
Maybe that was what Barry’s billionaire friend was after. Leech-based beauty treatments.
The RV’s claustrophobic familiarity felt a tad different tonight.
She sniffed, experimentally—no, nothing off.
Her hearing, exquisitely sensitive as well as blessedly tinnitus-free, filled with absence.
Not even the usual low moan of wind brushed her eardrums. Of course, that was probably just edited out by her brain, since she’d been hearing it all throughout this particular bounty.
Still, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something important had changed, an invisible shift just barely under the threshold of sharpened perceptions.
But everything was as it should be—jumbo crowbar over the locked door, her laptop right on the table, the three bags of O-positive on the mini-fridge’s shelf looking smug and self-satisfied, knowing they weren’t enough.
Simone straightened, closing the fridge, and stood for a moment, her brain racing furiously.
Nothing. You’re paranoid, you know how it is every time you finish a real job.
Killing drunk-acting vampires was hardly a confidence booster, to be honest. Each death was horrifying, seeing the things they did to their victims a stark reminder of her own infection as well as what could potentially be awaiting her in a few more years, and even if she considered herself more a vigilante or an exterminator there were definite ethical drawbacks to either.
Her existence abounded with slippery slopes.
Plus, the thirstier she got, the more her nerves frayed. Maybe at some point that would overpower her instinctive revulsion at the act of drinking from a human, even a pushy guy at a bar or nightclub. How often had she actually gotten her fangs in someone, now?
Twice, and both times she’d been so goddamn afraid of possibly not being able to stop. That she’d rip a perfectly normal human being open like a bag of potato chips and leave them dead, just another statistic for the cops to file under weird story, but unsolvable, let’s go have some doughnuts.
The fact that she had stopped, that it actually hadn’t been that difficult, wasn’t a comfort. A lot of things weren’t hard until boom, sorry, you’re getting old, your knees and your marriage don’t work anymore, and forget getting up from the couch without making an old-lady sound, bitch.
She moved automatically, taking down her canvas messenger bag, stuffing the laptop in its big pocket, checking the pathetically thin roll of emergency cash and two fake IDs, the switchblade she hadn’t needed yet, the ashwood stake she’d tried before discovering her claws worked better than anything else.
She glanced at the bathroom door—there was her jacket, hanging right where it should be, but…
That was closed when I went to bed. Wasn’t it?
Now she couldn’t remember. She would sense if someone else had entered her space. Wouldn’t she? She was out hard during daylight, sure, but once conscious her nose was like a bloodhound’s.
Still, Simone’s instincts were screaming. The creepy sense of being observed by an invisible gaze was muted yet persistent, and sent a cool trickle of dread down her spine. Something was definitely wrong, growing worse by the second.
You’re paranoid. It’s the first step in going crazy like all the other—
A faint rustling under the shell of silence, like chiffon brushed by a fingertip.
The very softest hint of warm breeze inside the RV’s sheltered stillness, where nothing but her should be moving, and the consciousness of another living, breathing being nearby was sudden, undeniable, and utterly terrifying.
Her back prickled, and she had to concentrate in order to turn her chin, the rest of her following with dreamlike, wooden slowness.
Watching horror movies, she’d always mocked the agonizing snail-speed rotation of the camera to reveal a monster.
She’d since found out it actually felt that way, body and perceptions trapped in a torrent of clear, heavy goop weighing on every limb, straining against fear and simply hoping the bad thing would go away before visual data arrived at the brain to make it un-ignorable.
A tall, lean shadow, with a shock of dusty dark hair. Bright blue eyes under heavy near-horizontal brows, a long aristocratic nose, and of all things, he was holding a stiff, new black Stetson in both hands. He stared at her, head cocked slightly, and he was unquestionably a fellow vampire.
In her RV. Standing, in fact, between her and the cockpit, as if he hadn’t needed to go through the side door or the driver’s and passenger’s. As if he’d been there the entire time, just invisible.
Now she could smell him. Male, brunet, been outside for a while, her nose cataloging impressions swiftly, along with new clothes right off the rack, didn’t wash them and the information that his boots were brand-new as well.
Not that she would have thought otherwise, since they were shiny and uncreased, though thankfully not expensive black Tony Lamas with bright silver toecaps.
More than that, he felt ancient, in that funny instinctive way she could guess at the age of bounty targets—a riptide of pure force, deceptively placid on the surface, far older than any other bloodsucker she’d come into contact with.
A horrifying hush filled the RV’s interior, slopping against the ceiling, and Simone’s lungs refused to work normally.
Her exhale was chopped into little bits as she straightened, caught in panic-soaked slow motion.
Her lips trembled, her throat dry as Death Valley.
Door. All she had to do was throw herself backward and buttonhook to the left around the edge of the under-sink cabinets; the crowbar was basically to dissuade humans bent on daytime theft, but if she could reach and use it as a weapon…
The other vampire just stood there, examining her.
Those black jeans were so new they still had shelf-creases, the braided leather belt similarly just-off-the-shelf.
His shirt was like hers, thermal cotton waffle-weave, but black as sin and stretched over shoulders a little too broad for the rest of him.
He looked half-starved and stringy, but that was no indication; the instinctive sense of old, deep, controlled power was overwhelming.
This is going to end very badly. Simone stared, waiting. Time ticked by, caught in silent stasis, and the thought that maybe this creature was simply playing with her was utterly horrifying in its own way.
“Fine,” she heard herself say, dully. “Kill me. Get it over with.”
In a way, it was almost a relief.
Whatever Simone expected, it wasn’t the continuing slow appraisal, his gaze moving down to her toes and back up, fastening on her face.
He cleared his throat, an oddly human sound. His voice was hoarse, as if disused or broken from screaming—or as if he was dry-thirsty as her own desiccated self. “There ain’t no need t’ fear, pretty girl.”
Oh, there is. There absolutely is. Simone thought about the door again, and nearly gasped when the vampire leaned forward. A subtle movement, but marked to her sharp, inhuman senses.
Wait. He’s talking instead of just growling and snapping his fangs.
“Where is your protector, hm?” His long, capable-looking fingers tightened on the hat’s brim, pressing felt with exquisitely gauged pressure. “Your Maker, the one who gave you the Gift?”
Is that really what you want to know? And what did he mean, protector? There had been no protection involved, just the attack, the… the assaults, the biting, and the fear.
Remembering the agony, the terror, her own screams, the rattle of handcuffs…
no. She refused to think about that. “Dead.” The word shook, and the rest of her trembled as well.
The spot at the back of her throat dilated, prickling terribly; if she got out of this, even all three bags in the fridge at once wouldn’t be enough to erase the dryness.
Who are you kidding? This guy’s gonna tear you apart, just like you ripped up that motherfucker last night.
“I am sorry,” he said, gravely. He certainly wasn’t acting like the other vampires, weird and violent-drunk. Was it just a phase the young ones grew out of? “It must have been very frightening.”
Could this be the one who had infected her attacker?
Some of the folklore had funny ideas about lineage; it was the only thing that seemed to make sense.
If he was, though, had he been tracking her down for five fucking years?
Her brain attempted to process that question, plus the fact of another vampire actually talking, hit a sheer wall made of blank panic, and gave up. Simone threw herself toward the door.
Or tried to, at least. The vampire blinked across intervening space, iron-hard hands closed on her, and even though she was doomed, there was nothing to do but fight.