by Alix Adale
“You don’t sound that way.” He slipped an arm over her shoulder, drawing her closer, lending her his strength. Such as it was. “You’re brave—refusing to hunt.”
She snuggled against him, under his arm and against his side. “I still don’t get why he did it. I don’t think even he knows, either. He can’t give me a straight answer.”
“Does he—he hurt you?”
“No. Never. He’s not a monster. He protects me, shelters me from the criticisms of the others, lets me stay in my rooms and do whatever I want to do, free from clan business. He feels guilty for turning me. Because I never asked for it. He’s a complicated, moody, strange man and I get he’s under a lot of pressure. The clans are cutthroat and ruthless, some of them.”
The idea had nagged him for some time, so he voiced his opinion. “It sounds like organized crime.”
“It’s a lot like that. Informally, they call it the blood mafia. It’s a supernatural gangland. But enough about all that. Tell me about you.”
“Me?”
Her head turned, resting against his arm, almost near his chest. He couldn’t see her in the dark but felt her presence against him, so near. The softness of her hair rustling against his sleeve. The scent of her perfume mingled with their dried sweat, the body odors, the dankness of this precarious refuge.
He wanted her. He wanted her so much. He wanted to hold her, to kiss her, to make her happy, to make her his. But he didn’t know how to tell her that, didn’t even know how to begin. “What do you want to know?”
“How can an amazing guy like you not have a girlfriend, let alone a wife?”
He winced. Her questions were leading down paths he didn’t want to go. He wanted to impress her, not drive her away. At the same time, he knew how to fend off these kind of questions. They came up when Suarez and the other guys dragged him off to a bar. The other guys in the firehouse ragged him about his lack of girlfriends. “I don’t know. I get busy. The job, working out, sports. It doesn’t come up much.”
Her fingers traced over his stomach. “Xerxes, get real. ‘Doesn’t come up much.’ A firefighter that pumps iron, you’re a stud, a catch. There’s more to it than that.”
“Maybe.” Could she hear the reluctance in his voice? He put his hand over hers, where it rested on his chest.
“Are you gay? If so, you fooled me completely.”
“No.”
“Are you given to weird mood swings?”
“No.”
“Bizarre medical condition?”
“No.”
“Toxic personality? Criminal tendencies?”
“No and no.”
“Then what is it?”
It was so hard to explain. He never talked about it to anyone, only hinted at it to Suarez a few times. And of course, Mom knew. “I’m … shy.”
“Shy?”
“Shy.”
“You?”
He smiled, in spite of himself. “Me.”
“Me too! Oh my god, that’s so awesome.” Her hand froze and she sat bolt upright. Her denim rustled in the dark against his leather. “Wait—are you a virgin?”
“No!” His laugh echoed through the dark. “I don’t drink or go to bars much, but my friends make me go once in a while. I meet a woman, sometimes. Sex is easy, the other stuff’s hard.”
His words didn’t have quite the effect he wanted, let alone expected. She pulled away, breaking contact and moving away.
“Dez? What’s wrong?”
The blankets muffled her voice as she curled up to one side, as if to sleep. “Nothing, tired all a sudden. Lycans almost ate us, remember? Let’s rest.”
“Right.” It still felt like he’d said something wrong, somehow. “What’s the plan, anyway?”
“Hitchhike to Alaska and become crabbers. Save up enough money to book passage to Australia. We’ll get married there and open an all-night manga and anime shop.”
Was that a joke? It didn’t sound funny. “Okay.”
“I don’t know! I don’t know what to do. I’m not a superhero and I’m the worst, weakest vampire in all of Dagon. I’m not trained in anything except Photoshop and Wacom tablets, okay? So I’m totally open for suggestions here.”
“Okay, okay. Sorry. Let’s sleep on it.”
“Good idea. Let’s sleep on it. Good night, Stud Puppy.”
“Good night, Amazing Woman.”
He curled up on his side of the blanket bundle, tried to get comfortable on the filthy mud and dead pine needles. But as he lay there, trying to sleep, he replayed their conversation over and over in his mind.
Her extreme reaction to his offhand comment, it made no sense. Then it hit him. Smacked him right in the face. Even he could pick up on that, given enough time.
Desiree might be a virgin. Then what about that thing with Armando? Did turning count? Did vampires have sex? It was a mystery. He was in the dark, literally and figuratively. But how to even broach the topic? Instead, he shut his eyes and tried to think of a plan, listening to her sleep.
That’s when it hit him. He knew what they must do.
Chapter 9: Respect Village
Desiree
How to tell him his idea was not only stupid but dangerous? Worded wrong, it might jump up and down on his feelings, even crush that puppy-like affection he showed her. There was that alluring vulnerability to him, like that stray forelock of hair that wanted to be gelled back into place.
The lightest of winds sent the trees along the Corridor rippling. The leaves sighed. Otherwise, warm air from what must have been a scorching hot day lingered in the hours after sunset. This was her new idea of ‘morning.’ It didn’t fit the concept, but without her nanorian she had to live true vampire hours. To never again walk in the sun … at least he walked with her.
They went hand-in-hand again along the trail. Not going anywhere in particular, they followed the Corridor deeper into the unknown.
“Well?” he prompted. “What about my idea?”
“No.”
“No?”
“You don’t understand. Armando, the Queen, her court—they have power. They can influence judges, jailors, courthouse procedure. Plant DNA evidence or take it away. Destroy video. I don’t know how it all works. I’ve kept myself—uninvolved.” She winced. That was the painful truth.
And it needed to change. What a fool she’d been. With even an ounce of interest in the outside world, her coping skills might have risen to this challenge. A competent vampire would have resources, allies, and experience on their side if they ever tried breaking with their clan. Instead she had—Xerxes. Innocent, naive, sweet Xerxes. Damn but he was so much sweeter than he had any right to be. Part of her wanted to latch onto him and never let go. Maybe that’s why his idea sounded so terrible. It would break them apart.
He pressed. “Trust the process, Dez. Most cops and judges, they’re good people. I know Detective Zenkowski, personally. He knows I had nothing to do with Mike’s death. Let me turn myself in to him. Tell him everything.” His boyish grin lit up his face. “I’ll leave out the vampires and the werewolves, nobody would believe that anyway. We’ll tell him this Cherise person did it. He can issue a warrant and we’re done. No more hiding in abandoned sewers.”
She wanted to go with his gut, she wanted that so much. He made it sound so easy. If she shut her eyes, she could pretend she was back in her little tomb beneath Braden House. She could emerge from her tomb, take a shower, get some clean clothes, some fresh blood packs. That life was gone and even if it wasn’t, he didn’t fit in that world. “We can’t turn ourselves in, Xerk. It’s not that simple.”
“Why not?”
“Because those bastards rule the world! I think. I don’t know—damn, I wish I paid more attention when Armando tried to get me involved in the clan’s affairs. But no, my web comic always came first. I’m such an idiot.”
He didn’t answer, but still clutched her hand. The smile had vanished though, replaced by a downward stare at the darkened
road.
“Hey, Xerk, look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap.”
“It’s okay.”
“Listen. If you want to go, go. I won’t stop you. I’m advising you, to the best of my ability. I’m telling you, that it’s a massive, massive risk to your freedom to trust the system in this particular situation.”
“You’re the boss.”
Was that sarcasm? She pulled up short. “What?”
“I mean it.” The smile on his face said it all. “I trust you, Dez, and I’d rather stay with you. Whatever you think is best, that’s what we’ll do. Except…”
“Except what?”
“No more stealing bicycles. If we can help it.”
She managed a weak grin in spite of everything. It was what she’d wanted, after all—staying together. Yet somehow the burden of his freedom—this man she’d claimed before the lycans—weighed all the heavier on her. Then it hurt. “Deal.”
They walked along the Corridor. The lack of a plan didn’t matter as long as she had him. That was one plan—never letting go. There was a diabolical way to make that happen, but it was too terrible to even contemplate. Not in a million years. Not after what Armando had done to her. So stop thinking about it. It did have a ring to it, Xerxes Braden. Stop that! Turning someone into a monster—what would that make her? A monster-maker, twice damned.
After a few miles, they came to another encampment, a chaotic welter of wooden lean-tos, REI tents, and plastic tarps. The dull thwack of an axe splitting wood echoed through the trees as they approached.
A shirtless man, as hairy as a bear, stood in front of a barrel fire, wiping sweat. A red fire-axe swung loose in the guy’s hand. A couple other men and one woman sat around the fire. Stacks of firewood lay scattered around. Yet despite the axe man’s girth and hirsute condition, he wasn’t a lycan. Her underworld senses failed to tingle. Other immortals always spooked her and a quick glance with her second sight confirmed everyone in the camp as mortal—or concealed beyond what her meager abilities could detect. But that last was unlikely; what immortal hung around in these wretched conditions?
Beside her, Xerxes stiffened. He whispered. “That’s a Portland Fire and Rescue axe. It’s stolen.”
Don’t laugh. She tried not to. Here she was, worried about demons in human form and other walk-ins, and he’s worried about a firehouse axe. “Forget it. They didn’t give you the job, remember.” She took a step into the clearing. “Hey, dudes.”
By now, she looked like a hippie or a hobo, one of the street people. Mud and dirt streaked her clothes and her blotchy face. Her makeup—what was left was a flaky mess of smears. Dead leaves, twigs, and pricklers clung to her jacket, her hair. Sleeping in a filthy drainpipe one night didn’t make her an honorary homeless, but at least she looked the part.
“Wazzup,” said shirtless guy, friendly but wary. Down in the Corridor, law and order lived far away sometimes. A sense of just how these people lived—in small groups, mistrustful, self-reliant—began to take hold. In one sense, it wasn’t that different than clans such as the Bradens and the Eibons. But in certain other, profound ways, it was life on another planet.
Xerxes stepped into the firelight, towering over the scene. “Hey, friends. Can we use your fire? We don’t want any trouble. We even have some hamburger meat from our friend Tricky that we’ll be happy to share.”
Shirtless guy looked over at his compadres. A quick back-and-forth went around the fire pit. “Actually, dude,” said Shirtless. “You can use the fire, but you’re a big dude. Can you help load the truck?”
Xerxes could not help himself. “This is an illegal firewood gathering.”
A flicker of tension went through the others. Dez stepped forward. “Xerk, forget that. Look, we’re happy to help load your truck. Where you going?”
“Respect Village.”
Yes! That was the answer. A thrill shot through her and she squeezed Xerk’s hand. She faced the shirtless guy. “Can you give us a ride? That’s where we’re headed.”
Her big guy looked baffled. “We are?”
She squeezed his fingers. “Yeah, we got friends there. Remember?”
“Oh, yeah. We do.”
Between his muscles and her underworld strength, they loaded the battered old Ford pick-up truck in no time. She forced herself not to carry more logs than everyone else. That would arouse suspicion. Afterward, Shirtless and another dude piled into the front seat. Shirtless shouted out the window, “Hop in the back!”
“Thanks!” said Xerxes, jumping into the pickup’s bed and taking the one, free slot among the heaps of firewood.
She clambered up and—before she second-guessed herself—into his lap.
Strong arms wrapped around her, holding in her place, though the roar of the engine made conversation impossible. Who cared? The night was magic and his arms held her tight and for the next thirty minutes, as the traffic rippled by, their headlights and taillights a cacophony of red and white streaks in her heightened senses, she forgot everything—the clans, the bloodlust, the murder—and let everything ride on by, wrapped in his arms.
For a homeless camp, Respect Village looked—respectable. No tents or tarps strung up between trees here. The place had about fifty tiny homes ranging from garden sheds to pre-fab cottages packed together in an abandoned lot owned by the city. Murals and garden planters abounded. Greenery closed in, while not far away, jets thundered up and down the runways of Portland International Airport.
The battered old pick-up truck rumbled up to the gate and stopped. For a few seconds longer than needed, Xerxes held her close. She didn’t protest that. Without the truck vibrating and rumbling all around them, his strong chest pressed against her back, rising and falling with his breathing. His face pressed against her hair.
This was getting serious.
Then the truck doors slammed open and Shirtless and his buddy jumped out. “Let’s unload this sucker!”
With reluctance, she parted Xerk’s fingers and slipped out of his grasp. She didn’t even risk a glance back. That would be—awkward. She felt all funny inside. This hadn’t happened to her, god, in years. Certainly not since her turning, or in the depressing years of college, when the medicine stopped working and the bills and the bad grades kept piling up.
Going ga-ga over some guy, was she? This wasn’t some guy, though. This was Xerxes. Even this dirty and scared, her long-lost desire had rekindled. Where had it been all those years? Vampires didn’t fall in love or even experience any genuine, sexual desire. That had been the assumption, based on her own experience. None of her clan mates interested her at all, nor did any of the other immortals they met at these putrid gatherings, these solstices and clubs. The others went through the motions of sex, a short-term fix to feel good, a hollow mockery of the humanity they’d abandoned, the way they still ate food they didn’t need or wore clothes that served no purpose to ageless, almost indestructible beings. That had been her operating assumption. Maybe those notions were wrong. Maybe desire and lust weren’t impossible in this condition.
Xerxes took his leather jacket off to help with the work. Underneath, his Golden State Warriors jersey was as filthy as her blouse, but that didn’t matter. Those hard, iron-sculpted muscles called her name. His chest could melt butter—it was that hot. Don’t dwell on it. Shirtless rolled up a few shopping carts and she got busy, chucking logs into the carts. They made a pleasing rattle as each log clanked against the steel mesh.
A knot of residents emerged from the village and pitched in. An older, pony-tailed guy with a clipboard, one of the residents, supervised. Rules posted in prominent places stressed cooperation and prohibited hard drugs and violence. Fences and gates surrounded the place and while they looked trivial to climb over, they said loud and clear: Keep Out! This wasn’t a lawless party zone. These people wanted back into regular society and when that didn’t work out, they’d made one of their own.
When the unloading finished, she approached Clipboard Guy. His
face had that same weather-beaten, grizzled look of other homeless. His threadbare tie-dye shirt looked like a 1960s museum piece. Did he know where that load of firewood came from? It didn’t matter.
Dez slipped on her best fake smile, trying to work a strand of charm in. Cherise knew how to put on a glass smile and suck up when she wanted something. Done right, that could be a useful skill. “Hey, uh, how’s it going?”
“Great. Thanks for your help.” He put his hand on the gate, signaling an end to the conversation. The rest of the residents filed back into the camp. Clipboard Guy looked like a mother hen, shepherding ducklings back in. He didn’t see her or Xerk as one of his brood. Shirtless and his buddy fired up their truck and drove off.
She stepped closer. “We came to visit a friend.”
He gave her the once over, scrutinizing her head to toe. The dirt would look authentic, but the boutique distressed jeans and designer denim jacket not so much. “Right on. Who’s your friend?”
“This dude, Oil-Can Mike.”
The guy yanked his head back. “Sorry, man. But Mike’s dead.”
Think fast, think fast. “Yeah, we heard. Thing is, we wanted to talk to his people, you know. Find out if there’s going to be like a service, or something.”
“Right on.” His grip on the gate relaxed and they passed inside. “See that yellow house by the wheelbarrows?”
“Yeah?”
“That’s Magnolia’s place. She was Oil Can’s girlfriend. If anyone knows, she would.”
“Thanks.”
“It’s cool. And, you’re welcome to hang out tonight,” he said, “but you can’t, like, move in. We got rules and a waiting list. You feel me?”
“Oh, hey, don’t worry about that. We’re in and out.”
