"A Damp Ear?"
"No! A dhampir. Half-vampire."
"What! No way. That can't be true."
"It is." He sighed and turned away from me, fidgeting with the cuffs of his sleeves. "Dad's a vampire. Mum's human."
"Seriously?"
He plucked a framed picture off his desk and handed it to me. A blonde, portly woman stood next to a thin, bearded man wearing all black. Two little kids—a young Gavin, and a little girl—stood underneath them. "Been married almost 30 years, now."
"How'd they meet? Did he, like, jump out of an alleyway and try to bite her?"
Gavin looked at me with a frown. "No. They met as grad students in Hematology, at the University of Maine."
"Oh." I looked back at him, studying his face. He didn't... look like a vampire. I mean, sure, his skin was pale, and his hair was dark. But he had no widow's peak, no fluttering cape, and—most importantly—no fangs.
"You don't have fangs."
"I have genetics to thank for that," he said, with a bitter laugh. "Got the worst of both worlds. I need blood to survive—but I don't have fangs. I compulsively count things, like I’m the damned Count from Sesame Street. I burn up in direct sunlight. Poor Thomas has spent thousands treating all the windows. "
“Oh! That’s why you used the umbrella, the other day!”
“Yeah.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
He looked at me. “I don’t like people to know. Especially people I’ve just met.”
My perception of Gavin—the entire persona I'd built of him in my head, from our brief interactions over the last day and a half—shifted. He wasn't some hot-tempered guy who freaked out at anyone invading his personal space.
He was protecting what he considered to be an embarrassing secret.
I looked down at the family photo again. Kid Gavin was grinning ear-to-ear, wearing some sort of badly-knit Christmas sweater; his sister was wearing a green velvet dress. With her dark hair, white skin, and widow's peak, she looked the most vampiric.
"Your sister looks it," I said, handing the photo back to him.
"Yeah. She got it all," he said, wistfully looking at the photo. "Fangs. Retractable bat wings. Semi-immortality."
"Ugh. Sisters." I pulled my feet up onto the desk; he grimaced. "You know what my sister can do? Fly. She posts selfies of herself flying around the Empire State Building. Or sitting on clouds, half-naked, like she's on a Katy Perry album cover."
He snickered. "Yeah. We got the short end of the stick, didn't we?"
"Hey, at least I can wiggle my ears! And knit. She can't do either of those things."
"Flying is much cooler than both of those things."
"Not that much cooler."
Gavin raised an eyebrow at me.
We broke into laughter. Something flitted between our eyes—the understanding between two people that only comes with the baring of insecurities. Telling him all that was, well, like offering my throat to a vampire: it demanded a certain level of trust.
Tell him about the hallucination, too, a little voice said in the back of my mind.
But I wasn't at that level of trust, yet. Now that I knew, with certainty, that it was a hallucination… I didn’t want him to know. He might think I’m crazy. Unstable. Falling apart.
He took another swig of blood, piercing green eyes meeting mine. "It's not all bad, though. I got accelerated healing, at least. Saved my life a few times."
"Really?"
"Yeah. I've been shot a few times as an officer, and had a nasty run-in with an ice elemental." He waved his hand dismissively. "I'm fine, now, though. Don't worry about me."
"Wait, so I have to ask. Do you... you know..." I pointed to my neck and made a choking sound.
"No. I couldn't even if I wanted to. No fangs, remember?"
"What about garlic?"
"Ergh, gives me a stomachache."
"Crosses?"
"I attend Mass every Sunday at St. Paul's. So, no."
"Wait, you said you have accelerated healing... so are you immortal?"
“Depends.” He chuckled. "Technically, I'm already dead. I'm not sure if I can die properly or not."
"Technically dead? What does that even mean?"
"I'll show you." He suddenly stood up and walked over to me. "Stand up."
"Okay," I said. I pulled myself up and he took a few steps forward, until we were only a few inches apart. My heart began to pound as I stared up at him.
He was more handsome than he had any right to be. A lock of dark hair had gotten loose from the rest, falling over his forehead. His piercing green eyes locked on mine. A shadow of stubble grazed his strong jaw.
Thankfully, he didn't smell like blood.
His hand reached up to the side of my face. Is he going to kiss me? My heart began to pound wildly. I'm not ready for this! Am I? No, definitely not—
He guided my head down to his chest, softly pressing my ear against his skin. I felt his warmth through the thin black tee, felt his firm chest.
"No heartbeat," I said. "Wow. So you’re like vampires, then. You breathe, and the oxygenated blood gets pumped around by dark magic—instead of a heart."
He laughed. “You know your vampire biology.” He stepped back, returned to his chair on the other side of the desk. Then he drained the rest of his blood and stared blankly out the window. "You know what the worst part is, though? My dating life. If I tell girls, they expect me to be all sexy-emo-vampire. Like Edward from Twilight, or Spike from Buffy. I get a lot of first dates... not a lot of seconds."
"What if you don't tell them?"
He chuckled. "Then they ask why you're sitting in the kitchen at 3 AM, drinking blood in your boxers."
"Oh."
His eyes flicked from my face to the clock on the back wall. "Anyway, speaking of vampirism—or dhampirism, as it were—it's five. It's dark out. I can finally leave the building without using my umbrella." He stood up and yanked his jacket off the chair.
"Oh, okay." I tried not to let the dejection show in my voice.
"You could come with me."
"Where?"
"To the vampire bar on 4th. You think you'd be up for that?"
"Sure!"
"All right, then." He grinned at me. Then he flicked the lights out in his office, and the two of us stepped out into the hallway.
We descended the elevator and walked out into the cold. He made a quick left on 4th, then slipped down a dark alleyway. Damp, sour air filled my nostrils as we walked into the darkness. Water dripped from somewhere overhead, and fire escapes crawled up the towering brick buildings on either side.
"Are you sure this is the right place?" I said, fear starting to take hold. This wasn't the safest part of town, and even though Gavin was strong and capable of taking down monsters, who knew what magical entities lay in the shadows.
"Yeah. Right here."
He pointed at a heavy, oak door recessed into the brick. Above it, in neon red letters, were the words: You're So Vein.
A panel in the wood shifted back, and two brown eyes stared out. "State your name, please," he said in a thick New Jersey accent.
"Gavin Barker, with guest Kira Steele."
The scribbling of a pen sounded through the slat. Then his hand slipped out, holding a small vanity mirror. "Show me your reflection, please."
"Oh, come on. I come here all the time."
"I've never seen you before," the man gruffly replied.
"Okay. Ask the bartender, Cameron. He knows me. And then we can—"
"If you've been here before, you know the deal. Hold the mirror up to your face, please."
Gavin let out an exasperated sigh. He held the small mirror up to his face, staring daggers at the bouncer, and then handed it back.
"Get outta here. Now." The wood panel started to shut.
"I'm a dhampir, you twat. That's why I show a reflection."
"A half-blood, eh?" The man snickered, his antagonism suddenly melting into am
usement. "Heh. Be right back."
The panel slid shut.
A minute later, clunk—the door pulled inwards. "Welcome to You're So Vein," the bouncer said, stepping aside. Still chuckling.
I stepped inside—and gasped.
The bar wasn't covered in black streamers. The guys weren't wearing eyeliner. The DJ wasn't playing Evanescence on repeat.
In fact, an upbeat tune filled my ears. Black Eyed Peas' I Gotta Feeling. On the dance floor, a blonde girl do-si-doed with a tall Asian guy. A few girls giggled in the corner, busting out ridiculous dance moves. At the end of the bar, I saw the antlered man from NIMP, his arm draped around a black-haired woman. As she threw her head back in fits of laughter, her fangs glinted in the light.
It was all so... ordinary.
"Gavin! Haven't seen you in a bit, mate," the bartender said, as we approached. I glanced at the large mirror behind him—it only showed the reflections of half its patrons. It was a strange effect, seeing people talking to thin air, dancing with no one.
"You want the usual?"
"Nah, I think I'll try something new tonight. What have you got?" Gavin replied.
"On tap we've got some fresh O-negative from Marlene. 24-year-old yoga teacher with an all-organic diet." He jerked his thumb back, to the woman sitting on the counter behind him. An IV line came out of her arm and descended to the floor, where it snaked back up to the tap.
She smiled and waved enthusiastically at us. I awkwardly lifted a hand and waved back.
"I'm not a fan of O-negative," he said. "Too bitter. What else you got?"
"The specials," the bartender said. He pointed at the blackboard behind the bar. In colored chalk, it read:
AB- AGED 5+ YEARS. STRONG, MUSKY TASTE!
O+ FRAPPE SERVED IN A CHILLED MUG WITH WHIPPED CREAM
ALL DRINKS 10% OFF FOR FREQUENT FANGS MEMBERS!
Just as I started imagining these vampires keeping hoards of blood-prisoners down in their kitchens, a bright yellow sign caught my eye.
All of our drinks are humanely harvested with consent of the owner.
And, tacked below it:
Supersize any drink, and an equal amount of blood will be donated to hospitals in need!
"I'll get the Bloody Mary," Gavin said. "O+, please."
"So, the usual." The bartender reached down and brought a glass out onto the countertop. Clink. "And for you, miss?" he asked, turning to me.
"A glass of root beer... without blood?" I said, uneasily.
He chuckled. "That's the only kind of root beer we serve here, miss."
We took seats at the bar. Gavin stirred his drink, took a sip. "This blood is bloody good," he said.
The bartender laughed. "Thanks, mate."
We sat in silence for a few minutes. I awkwardly sipped my root beer; he stirred the Bloody Mary, every so often taking a sip. Then, finally, he turned towards me. "How do you like NIMP so far?"
"It's great."
"Wow, that was convincing."
"No, it's just... I like it too much. The hunting, the people. Abby is a little over the top, but I can tell she actually cares about me. Even though she's known me all of two minutes." I ran my fingers through the condensation on my glass. "It sucks knowing that probably, after two weeks, because of you know what… I'm out."
"It doesn't have to be that way."
"No, you said it yourself. I can't even defend myself against a Squirdling. Or help you catch a doll-woman. And..." I'm not even sure I'm stable enough mentally, because I hallucinated some guy that didn't exist. I didn't say that part out loud; instead, I sucked a long sip of root beer through the straw.
"We can get you training.” He paused. “With a sword. Not a gun. Don’t want you shooting random things…"
"You said it would take years to do that."
"Probably. But it will help. I'll get you an appointment with Jim Ravenstone."
"Jim... Ravenstone?" There was something oddly off about those two names together. One conjured the image of an overweight, sixty-year-old man... the other, a dashing, mysterious hunk.
"Yeah. He's the best trainer we got. Besides, you should meet him—he's on Team Indigo with us." The fast Lady Gaga song faded into a slower tune I didn't recognize, and Gavin smiled. "I like this one. Shall we dance?"
My heart fluttered, and I nodded.
He took my hand and led me to the dance floor. It was populated by a group of girls freestyle dancing, swinging their hips and jumping around, and a few couples dancing suggestively. But Gavin was old school—he wrapped his left arm around my waist, and held my right hand. Then he began to waltz.
"Wait, wait. This is too fancy for me. I don't know how to—"
"Just follow my lead."
I stared down at the floor, trying to make sure my steps followed his. The beat was faster than I expected, though, and I ended up coming down on his toe.
"Oi! You just stepped on my foot!"
"I'm sorry! I told you, I don't know how to dance!"
In the flashing, pink-and-blue lights, his face took on a new kind of handsome. He was grinning—more broadly than I'd ever seen since we met. "I have an idea," he said, his eyes twinkling.
He pushed on my waist. I spun out, onto the dance floor, his hand in mine. "Whoo!" I squealed, turning towards him. "This is fu—"
I froze.
He was standing there.
The blond man from B2. He stood on the other side of the dance floor, staring at me. Perfectly still, as the dancers swayed and shifted around him.
"It's him," I said, my voice catching in my throat.
"What?"
I broke my hand away from Gavin's grasp. Took several steps forward. The man remained still as a statue.
No. He's not real. He's just a hallucination, remember? I took another shaking step forward. He wasn't on the tape. Abby didn't see him. He stared back at me with blue eyes, his skin tinged pink in the flashing lights.
He's. Not. Real.
"Kira? Are you okay?"
Gavin's voice sounded so far away.
Stop looking at him. But I couldn't. I couldn’t stop my feet from shuffling forward. I needed to see for myself that he wasn't real. That when my hands fell on him, they fell on thin air.
I took another step.
That's when he—or the hallucination—bolted.
"Stop!" I yelled, chasing after him. I bumped into a dancing couple; they turned to stare.
He threaded through the crowd nimbly, as if it were an obstacle course he'd trained on all his life. His blond head bobbed among the crowd, nearly indistinguishable from the others in the flashing lights. "Stop! Please!" I yelled after him. He never turned around.
Then his hands fell on the door. Creeeaak—it swung open.
I ran out after him.
The icy air blew around me, ruffling my scarf. The sidewalk extended endlessly in either direction, lit in stretches by the amber glow of the streetlamps. A few silhouetted couples walked up and down the way, chatting to themselves. A cab roared by on the street.
He was gone.
No, I corrected myself. He was never even here.
Warm hands fell on my shoulders. I whipped around to see Gavin standing behind me, his expression confused.
"I'm sorry," I muttered. "I thought... I thought I saw someone I knew."
We walked back into the club. The bass throbbed painfully in my ears. The couples resumed their dancing, shifting and swaying on the floor.
CHAPTER EIGHT
That night I couldn't sleep.
I lay there, flopped down on the bed, face buried in a body pillow. I was tired and achy all over, but my mind wouldn't stop. I saw the blond man, over and over, standing on the dance floor.
Am I going crazy?
I couldn't tell Gavin. Or Abby. Not only would they think I'm crazy, but also, they could tell Thomas. And then he'd boot me out immediately. Before my two weeks were up.
Two weeks. Or, now, 12 days.
I had 12 days to k
ill—or catch—a monster. And so far, I'd failed spectacularly. The mission was doomed from the start. A powerless human among the country's best Hunters at NIMP—bah! How did that ever sound like a good idea to me?
When the sky grayed with impending dawn, I fell asleep. Two hours later, I woke up, showered quickly, and forced myself onto the balcony. The cold—and the instant coffee—would hopefully wake me up enough to tackle a monster-filled day.
Checking my phone led to the not-so-shocking discovery that Jerry had fired me for not showing up yesterday.
Over text, because he had no class.
I put my feet up on the rickety plastic table and watched Priscilla tend to her flowers on the next balcony over. She had her white gardening gloves on, and was picking and pruning at her flowers in their little pots. When she saw me, she smiled and waved.
I waved back. Then I went inside, finished up, and drove to work.
As I descended into the parking garage under NIMP, I got a text. Got you a training spot with Jim. 9:00 AM today. Floor 3, Room 1.
Crap. It was already 9:13.
When I finally got to the training room, breathless and cold, I found Jim sitting on the floor. Polishing his spear.
Not an innuendo. He was actually sitting there, rubbing a cloth on the ten-foot wooden spear across his lap.
He was incredibly large—tall, broad, and muscular—with bronze skin and high cheekbones that hinted at Native American ancestry. And, he was inexplicably shirtless. Tattoos covered his arms, his back, and most of his chest. A pack of wolves swept up his right arm, howling at the moon on his right pectoral. Owls, ravens, and shadowy creatures with glowing eyes filled his left arm, perched on branches that swayed every time he swept the knife across the spear.
"Are you... Jim?" I asked.
He grunted in reply.
"I'm Kira. The one who—"
"I know who you are," he boomed, standing up. He reached his full height, his man-bun nearly brushing the ceiling. "You're large. Good."
"...Excuse me?"
"You're large," he repeated. "That will help you in combat."
"I'm tall," I huffed. "Not large."
"Two words that mean the same thing," he said, his eyes falling back on his spear. "Stretch your arms out."
No Magic, No Problem Page 5
