Teeth

by Owen, Kelli

  The man was crumpled in the shadow of the short wall, a massive gash on his head from where he’d slammed into the stone barrier. His leg lay at an awkward angle and Henry presumed he had clipped the jogger’s leg and hip with the car.

  “Oh my God, are you okay?” Henry shook the man. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you. I didn’t know…”

  He continued to shake the man, lowering his head to get a look at the man’s face as his sentence trailed off. The man’s eyes were open, unblinking, and he stared at something beyond Henry.

  “Oh God… oh God, oh God, oh God.” Henry scooted back like a crab on his hands and feet, the scrapes on his palms stung, as more gravel dragged across the open wounds. His mind spun, trying to grasp the repercussions.

  Jail. No way I can survive in jail. I didn’t even make it through high school.

  “No, no, no. This can’t be happening.” He crawled back toward the man, feeling the pain in his hands but ignoring it as the least of his worries. He shook him again. The man’s eyes had lost their shine and a single tear had fallen down his cheek.

  Henry reached over and put his hand on the man’s neck, hoping to feel a pulse. He had no idea what he was doing and simply mimicked what he’d seen done on television. He felt nothing. He moved his hands and tried using the tips of his fingers. He still felt nothing.

  He felt his own throat to feel where the jugular should be, where he could feel his own racing pulse. It was up higher than he’d been trying and he put his hand back on the man’s neck. Only two fingers this time, up high under the jawbone.

  Nothing.

  The man was dead. He’d killed him.

  Henry’s mouth dried in spite of his nervous swallowing, as he thought through his options.

  “I need to call the police. If I call the police right away, it’ll show I tried to do the right thing. That I’m not a bad person.”

  He withdrew his hand and started to reach for his phone. It wasn’t on him. It was in the car. He stood and headed to the passenger door to retrieve his phone, absently licking the stickiness from his fingers.

  Henry froze and looked at his hand in the glare of his headlights. His hand was covered in blood. Red that looked almost black in the dim light coated his hand as if he’d dipped it in paint, except for the clean streak he’d created with his tongue.

  It wasn’t gross.

  It was… It was good.

  “Perhaps I’m more lamian than my DNA claims.” He smiled up at the dark sky as if telling the universe it had been wrong about him.

  He brought his hand to his mouth and licked more of the jogger’s blood from his fingers, sucking on each one as he cleaned them. And then he got an idea.

  Opening the car door, he glanced at his phone in the center console but ignored it, instead turning his attention to the glove box.

  What do I have in here?

  A cracked CD case that didn’t close correctly anymore, a tire gauge, the vehicle’s manual, and a vent-style air freshener he’d forgotten all about. He considered the tire gauge for a moment while he contemplated his intentions. Could he really do this?

  The man is already dead. No one knows who did it. The fish will destroy the body. Why not?

  He felt the edge of the tire gauge and frowned.

  Not even close to sharp enough.

  He put the gauge back in the glove box and shut the compartment. Smiling, he reached over and pulled his keys from the ignition. The large old-fashioned key for the boiler room had jagged teeth that were much deeper than the other keys on the ring.

  This will do.

  Henry walked back to the jogger, trepidation and nervousness in his step. His lips tasted like excitement and fear, as he licked the dryness from them. He knelt down and looked at the man’s eyes again. Still open. Still unblinking. Still dead.

  He won’t mind.

  He found the man’s jugular again and put the key against it, trying to tear into the flesh. The makeshift weapon wasn’t going to saw through flesh and tendons. He turned it to the point in anger and jabbed it into the man’s neck. The trickle of blood that came out with the key brought a smile to Henry’s face. He stabbed at the man’s neck several more times until the blood ran more freely.

  Henry bent down and drank from the leak he’d created. Enjoying the free-flowing blood as it washed across his tongue, Henry began to reconsider every argument he’d ever heard claiming lamians didn’t drink blood. He questioned all those who claimed it was gross and not what they were.

  They’d obviously never tried it.

  When the blood all too quickly stopped running, Henry realized the heart was no longer pumping it through the small openings and began sucking. When he couldn’t get anything else out of the wound, he considered opening a different vein.

  Perhaps one of the larger ones in the leg?

  But he couldn’t be sure how long he’d been on the bridge. He wasn’t sure how much longer he’d be alone. He wiped his mouth and stood up. Looking down the road both ways, he smiled. He was lamian. If in practice only, he was one of them.

  He hoisted the jogger up and rolled him over the side of the stone bridge. In the darkness, he couldn’t see him land. And he barely heard the splash over the excitement pounding in his heart.

  Henry licked his lips as he sat in the car remembering that first time. It had only been five weeks, but it seemed so much longer. It had sent him on a path he didn’t regret. He may have wished on occasion he’d been more careful—as the image of the two teenagers came to mind—but overall, he could live with himself.

  He pulled away from the bridge and headed back to town. He was hungry. He needed to go home and get a snack. And figure out how he was going to get more blood.

  Female blood, he reminded himself.

  He needed to know why the girl on the football field had tasted so much better.

  And if that woman is still sitting in her car, maybe I should consider it a gift from God after all.

  — TWENTY-THREE —

  The church bells had stopped. The doors were closed. Service had begun. But Andrea was busy screaming at God in the parking lot. She yelled again at the top of her lungs and held it for as long as her exhale could last. The back of her throat burned, her eyes stung, and her chest hurt.

  She had no idea what to do about the monster she’d given birth to. She had raised him to be better than her. She had spent years teaching him morals and ethics, and not because some book told her to, but because she wanted him to be a good person. She had sacrificed for him—staying single to concentrate on him, working overtime to support him and get him anything he needed, anything he wanted. But it didn’t matter. None of it mattered after his teeth came loose and the truth grew back in their place.

  She closed her mouth and flopped forward, burying her face in her hands and letting the tears flow. God is testing me.

  Andrea hadn’t seen Dillon since Friday, but it wasn’t unusual on the weekends. She always hoped it meant he’d made a friend and was off doing normal teenage things. Instead, he was usually in his room—playing his video games on the television she’d bought him for Christmas, doing things on his phone, or working on homework. He was a loner. And she blamed herself for that as well.

  Maybe if I had dated. Maybe if I hadn’t acted like a loner myself, he would have reached out to more people. She looked up at the church and thought of her friends inside, likely wondering where I am. I can’t take the full blame for him being a loner. I have friends. He knows it. Why doesn’t he?

  She had dressed for church and was prepared for another normal Sunday with God and muffins, but then she watched the morning news and her heart skipped a beat.

  I never see him after dinner. He goes to his room. Or does he? Is he going out at night, and I don’t know about it? He’s quiet. He’s always b
een quiet. Andrea couldn’t count the times he’d snuck up on her without meaning to and startled her.

  Her thoughts twisted the news into some sort of logical path leading to her son. Her panic about him becoming a monster slowly grew into the conviction he already was one. That he was the one running around town killing people.

  The church’s stained glass had always looked beautiful to her, but this morning it appeared to have more red than she remembered, and the morning sun seemed to strike those panels specifically.

  Blood. It looks like blood. God is showing me the blood that will be on my hands if I do nothing. But I cannot go inside His house. Not until I’ve succeeded in the mission He’s given me.

  She put the car in drive and slowly pulled out of the parking lot. She wasn’t leaving God behind so much as she was avoiding her friends.

  Abraham didn’t ask others for help.

  She wouldn’t be meeting the girls for muffins and chitchat after Father Clark’s sermon. She didn’t have the strength or concentration to uphold the lies she had told the week before, and she had other, more pressing matters to deal with.

  She had to murder her child.

  Five people were dead. All killed at night, when Andrea never saw Dillon. All drained of blood, like a lamian would do, like Dillon would do. All the murders happened in Riverside, because Dillon didn’t have his license yet to travel and kill elsewhere. He hadn’t even asked to take the test when he turned sixteen, and when Andrea questioned that, he said lots of kids his age didn’t drive yet. Too many things pointed to her son.

  But she couldn’t call the police. She couldn’t turn him in and become the human mother of a lamian murderer. She couldn’t be plastered all over the national news, embarrassed and blamed, questioned and accused. That’s not what God would want. God wouldn’t want others to punish her for her failings. He’d want her to punish herself. To make her His instrument and then live with the sacrifice of her child.

  She drove past Ruby’s knowing she wouldn’t be there today and wondered what the choices of fresh cookies were for the after church crowd. Then she chided herself and pulled into the parking lot of the hardware store.

  It’s not time to consider treats.

  I need to be the hand of God. For He has given me a test and a duty.

  Andrea had briefly looked online, using the older-model desktop computer she refused to update. Over-the-counter medications would take too much or too long. Rat poison would be much quicker, more effective. She’d put it in the taco meat for their traditional Tuesday meal and he’d never notice—not with the amount of hot sauce he usually added to his plate. He’d get sick for a few days and then he’d be gone. It would be over. He didn’t have friends to miss him and she could claim he’d run away. The only part she hadn’t worked out was what to do with his body.

  She turned the car off, glancing at the time on the radio before pulling the keys. The sign on the door indicated the store would open in fifteen minutes. She could wait.

  Patience is a virtue, she thought, but couldn’t remember if the phrase had been in the Bible or if the quote had come from somewhere else.

  Tuesday. It will all be done Tuesday. Once he’s sick, he won’t go out and kill anymore. He won’t hurt anyone anymore. Suddenly she looked up and caught her reflection in the rearview mirror. Tuesday? That’s two more nights for him to attack. What if he finally comes for me?

  She watched her reflection without seeing it, as she imagined her bedroom and the furniture in it. She had a large wooden chest she could put in front of the door, or perhaps wedge the dressing chair under the knob. And the newscaster had said to lock the windows, so she’d need to buy a floor fan and shut her bedroom window at night. She needed to make sure he couldn’t get to her after the sun went down.

  She’d have to protect herself until Tuesday.

  Until she could do something about Dillon. Her son. The monster she’d created.

  — TWENTY-FOUR —

  “Yes, while the witch hunts carried a certain, similar hysteria, at the heart of the matter they were chasing smoke. There was no such thing. On the other hand, lamians are very much real.” Mrs. Fidler smiled at several students and Tamara wondered if it was because they were lamians, or because those students were humans who needed to pay attention to this lesson in particular.

  “What about God then?” The boy at the front of the class talked without raising his hand. Tamara didn’t remember his name, but she knew he’d been homeschooled his whole life until this year. Apparently all homeschooled kids were now required to attend at least one year in public school for their grades to count toward college. She figured he wasn’t used to classroom etiquette.

  “What about God?” Mrs. Fidler’s look was one of pure curiosity. “We’re discussing the social problems to consider for the report and how current events can be compared to previous causes and cases of cultural upheaval. God is theological, not cultural.”

  “Well, according to my mother, who is a full-blood—both her parents were lamian—the humans stole God from us.” He said the part about his parents with a certain snotty pride.

  Mrs. Fidler tilted her head like a confused dog for a moment, the smooth skin of her forehead barely wrinkling in response to the single raised eyebrow.

  Tamara tried to figure out how old her teacher was. Younger than her parents, she figured—probably between the two. Mid-thirties maybe. She wondered if Mrs. Fidler had gone to this same school and was taught by some of the older teachers.

  How weird would it be to be co-workers with your ex-math teacher?

  Mrs. Fidler backed up into her desk and leaned against it. As she crossed her arms in front of her, a slow smile spread across her lips. “Okay, I’m listening. What, in God’s name, are you talking about?”

  Several snickers rippled through the class.

  “My mother says the humans stole God and rewrote the Bible, taking us out of it. She says Adam and Eve were lamian, and they ate the forbidden fruit so God punished them by making fruit useless to them, forcing them to live on meat only. And not for nothing, but doesn’t that make more sense than making girls bleed every month just because you ate an apple?”

  Several boys murmured to each other and Mrs. Fidler flashed a silent warning.

  “I don’t think that was the extent of the human punishment. I’m not a big church goer, but I believe it was kicking them out of paradise and making their lives difficult in general.”

  “Still, does it make sense? Just because they ate a piece of fruit?”

  “It’s an interesting point. Perhaps I’ll make that discussion its own assignment.” Several students groaned and Tamara knew the kid had made a couple new enemies. “But let’s get back on track for this assignment, okay?” She turned to the board and glanced at her bullet points there.

  “Much like we used to teach about Martin Luther King Jr. annually, I’m sure you’re all getting sick of this unit each year. But this is the last time. This is the year you write the big scary paper about it and move on. So, let’s talk about the difference between prejudice and bigotry, before we move into how those opinions affect things.”

  “Why are we even still having a problem with them? Why is this still something to discuss? Or teach? Can’t people just be nice to each other?” The girl to Tamara’s left asked. Stacy? Maybe? Tamara couldn’t remember her name, only that she asked enough questions to sound like a brown-nosed teacher’s pet in every class she’d ever shared with her.

  “That’s a good question, isn’t it? The lamians have been known and public for fifty years. The Treaty was passed for civil and social behavior, expectations, laws, etc. over twenty years ago. So why are we still hearing about hate crimes? Why do we still have to correct people and tell them not to call them vampires?” Mrs. Fidler looked around the room—her gaze landed on Dillon.


  He shrugged.

  “Anyone?” She looked up from him and waited. “Fear. The reason is fear.”

  “Mrs. Fidler, that doesn’t make sense.” The little brown-nose girl provided the pivot point to the teacher’s argument as if it had been rehearsed.

  “People fear what they don’t understand, Tracy. All actions, from anyone, come down to one of two things: fear or love. Those who have never met a lamian base all their beliefs on what they’re told, what they read, or what they see. If they are taught to be loving and respectful, then they view them a certain way. If what they are exposed to is toxic and negative, and they never meet one to counteract those teachings, how are they to believe otherwise? And then they have children and pass along incorrect information.”

  The teacher looked back to the homeschooled lamian. “Much like religion is passed down from parent to child, so are opinions and prejudices. If your parents are overly for or against something, you tend to be as well. Politics often work the same way, as children usually become card-carrying members of whatever party their parents vote for—though sometimes they will flip to the other side as a show of protest as young adults.”

  She stood up and walked around the desk to the board. Tapping on each of the lines there, she continued. “It’s the little things that change a big thing. For instance, take the first part of the problem path: OPINIONS. If we could form opinions based on experience rather than assumptions, we could solve many social problems. Prejudices are pre-judgments, as the word suggests, and not based on fact. Bigotry, on the other hand, is a stubborn will to hate. They may have all the truths, facts, and details, but they choose to be or stay intolerant to those who are different than them—whether it be color, sex, or as in this case, species.”

  She paused a beat to scan expressions. Tamara knew from experience she’d stop and backtrack if anyone looked lost. “Another thing that falls under these trigger words—and the umbrella of opinion—is when you lump people in collective groups of supposed fact. A derogatory connotation almost always happens along the way. All men are pigs. Or all blondes are dumb. Neither of these is true. But opinion is something people cling to, fiercely, protectively, as if it were their own tangible property and they can’t let go of it. That is the core of bigotry and prejudice. And something as small as language can uphold an opinion... Or change it.”