Teeth

by Owen, Kelli

  His tongue flicked across the teeth he’d glued in against doctor’s orders. They felt strong, sturdy, and worked fine when he ate and held up when he brushed them. Now it was about the blood he could imagine they’d harvest. The blood he could swirl and swish in his mouth. The blood he didn’t need on a genetic level, but on a mental level had become highly addicted to.

  And he was almost out. Again.

  Living jar to jar is worse than paycheck to paycheck.

  Henry remembered when he’d had several jars at once, only a couple weeks ago, when he wasn’t gorging himself on the precious liquid. He needed to find restraint again. He needed to keep stock.

  I need a steady supply.

  The idea struck him without warning and the meaning of it took a moment to sink in. Henry watched the weatherman on television talk but wasn’t listening. He was rolling an idea around, poking at it ever so gently to see if it was viable.

  A supply, rather than a victim.

  On tap, as needed.

  Henry’s mouth became wet with the saliva of excitement.

  If there’s no body to find, they’ll think I’ve stopped.

  Stop killing. Keep drinking.

  Henry’s lips spread into a wide smile.

  Not a victim, but a captive.

  How? Where?

  He looked at the basement door. It was only a partially finished basement, but it was dry and had no exterior entrance of its own, no windows to break in. Or out.

  He could easily build a small room. A cage with solid walls.

  Add some soundproofing, a better lock at the top of the stairs, and it would take minimal effort, and almost no money, to create the perfect holding pen. A flesh refrigerator to keep his blood supply warm, and steady.

  Excitement built like a blush in his face, warming his skin and widening his grin. His eyes almost watered with adrenaline, at the thought of what he would have.

  Yes. A captive.

  Henry turned the television off and headed for the basement. He’d need to measure the area, make a list, and plan how he’d spend his weekend. He could survive a couple days without a new jar. Especially knowing what was waiting on the other side.

  — THIRTY-TWO —

  Dillon stared into the open fridge, taking inventory of the choices offered by the Lamplight Foundation. He was surprised by how much fruit and vegetables they ate, even though they didn’t have to.

  Victoria had explained, “If for nothing else, the flavor and texture is a nice change. Plus, unless you’re raised by lamians in a strict dietary household, you spend the first two decades of your life eating all those things. You develop favorites.”

  He had understood the logic, but it didn’t help any of it look any more appealing to Dillon before eight in the morning. He’d never really been a breakfast kid.

  He grabbed a single-serving orange juice bottle he could drink on the way, and he shut the fridge, turning around to see Max standing in the doorway.

  God, that guy can sneak up on a person.

  “Can we talk?” Maximilian was almost two hundred years old, and in truth didn’t look a day over eighty-five. But it wasn’t his looks commanding Dillon’s attention. It was the tone of his voice.

  Dillon glanced at the clock on the wall. “Uh, sure. I’ve got time.”

  “I can drive you if you want. We can talk on the way.”

  “Nah, it’s all good. I like walking.” Dillon pulled one of the wooden chairs away from the kitchen table and sat down. “What’s up?”

  Max followed suit but seemed immediately uncomfortable in the chair. The rounded modern design was obviously not his choosing, and Dillon realized he’d only ever seen the man relax in the wooden high-back chairs of the library rooms. Max laced his fingers together and set them on the table. “The school called.”

  “Oh?” Dillon furrowed his brows in thought. “I haven’t done anything.”

  “No no. You haven’t. Seems your mother has filed a missing person’s report though. The police then do a follow-up with the school. You haven’t been marked absent so they don’t consider you a runner—only what the principal referred to as a hider.” Max shrugged. “Which, I guess, is exactly what you are.”

  “Okay. Is that a problem? I thought you said I could stay here. That you’d help me emancipate.”

  “Yes, and I will, but they called looking for you.”

  Dillon’s eyes widened. He didn’t want to deal with his mother. He didn’t want her knowing where he was. “You didn’t—”

  “No, I didn’t. I feel she is a threat to your safety. And while I won’t tell the school that, if a police officer or a judge asked me, I would tell them exactly what I think of the situation.”

  “So you believe me?”

  Max sighed, and Dillon was surprised to see him relax his shoulders in a pseudo-slump for half a beat before sitting upright again. “Truth be told, I may have gone past your house on one of my nightly walks. And yes, I may have eavesdropped.”

  Dillon raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. Max was always about the rules being established for a reason. His behavior was never anything other than stellar, proper. And here he was admitting he had spied on the thoughts of someone in their own home.

  “I still think it’s rude, but I needed to know the extent of your concerns.”

  “You mean you needed to know if I was lying.”

  Max inhaled slowly, deliberately taking his time and choosing his words.

  “Yes.” He exhaled through his nose like a tired dragon. “You are new, and therefore your thoughts are a jumble, and not all of them can be easily read. And to invite you into my home with the threat of danger to follow? Yes, I needed to know if you were lying.”

  “And? I’m not, am I?”

  “Well, while I didn’t hear a direct threat toward you, I heard enough anger and hatred to know she’s not likely to come around anytime soon and it’s probably best for you to stay here. To stay out of her way.”

  Dillon sat back in his chair and put his arms behind his head. It was a cocky gesture meant to declare himself the victor. The feeling of satisfaction was fleeting.

  “You need to call her though. And tell the school. I won’t disclose information to the school without your consent, and I didn’t have it yet. You simply need to stop at the principal’s office and let them know you are staying with me. We’ve done this before and they know you are safe here.” Max paused for a breath. “And seriously, call her and tell her you’re safe. You don’t have to tell her where, maybe say you’re at a shelter.”

  “Okay. I can do that.” Dillon pushed out the chair to stand and Max shook his head.

  “One more thing. We need to talk about these murders.”

  “We? Why?” Dillon was instantly confused and defensive.

  “I need to know where you’ve been at night lately.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me!” Dillon’s voice echoed lightly in the large room. “You think I’m the monster she expects me to be?”

  “I didn’t say that, Dillon. I said, we need to talk about it.” Max stared at him, his age showing on his face.

  “Oh… you mean you want to talk about it, and listen to my thoughts about it.”

  Max nodded. “Yes, but not for the reasons you may think. You may have seen something, may know something, and not realize it.”

  “Whatever man. Do what you gotta do.”

  “I know you leave the house at night. Where do you go?”

  “The park. I wander my way through it and head back. Just fresh air, clear my head, no big thing.”

  “Is that where you go on Mondays when we have group?”

  “Yeah. I don’t do people, especially groups. I’ve got you and Vic and the library. I don’t need to sit with a bunch of
people and ask questions.”

  “Understandable. And after school? You always walk straight back here?”

  “Usually, unless I’m at the Quikmart.” He flicked a thumb at the schedule stuck to the refrigerator with a magnet from an out-of-business pizza place. “On those days, I’m down there with old man Mundy until eight or so. And then I walk back here.” Dillon glanced at the clock. “If this is gonna go for a bit, maybe you should give me a ride.”

  “Let me grab my keys.” Max stood without further provocation, and Dillon wondered what he could possibly think Dillon knew.

  — THIRTY-THREE —

  “Ohhh, how I missed your mom’s sandwiches.” Tamara almost groaned the comment, her delight obvious, and took another bite of the ham and cheese she’d traded her hot lunch ticket for.

  “Yeah, you’re nuts.” Madison shook her head at her friend and stabbed the plastic fork into the pile of lettuce and tomato on her plate. “I’ll take the pizza and salad bar over that any day.”

  “Hey, good job, you two.” An underclassman in khakis and a flannel paused long enough at the table to compliment them and walk away. The girls looked at each other, the unspoken question of who lingered on both of their faces. They shrugged, snickering with their mouths full. It hadn’t been the first well-wisher of the day.

  Word of their altercation with Brenna had spread through the school like wildfire. Most likely having made its way from the prom queen to the last loner of ninth grade by the time they’d gotten home last night, but they weren’t aware of it.

  Until they got to school Friday morning.

  Hopping out of the police cruiser—Tamara’s dad dropping them both off and declaring there would be no more walking for either of them—they were met by a small group of well-known lamians, who proceeded to slow clap as they walked past. Madison and Tamara looked at each other in confusion, but by the time they hit their lockers they realized what had happened.

  Word had spread. And Brenna wasn’t too happy about it from the unwanted, unrequested reports they each received throughout the morning.

  Depending on who was passing along the information, it may have been one of the girls who told Brenna off, or it may have been Tristan. Either way, the end of the story was the same—Brenna missed her last few classes yesterday and was seen in full-on tears climbing into her mother’s SUV. And she wasn’t in school today.

  “So…” A hot lunch tray slid down the table to land next to Madison. Dillon settled onto the bench in front of it. “I hear you two had an exciting day yesterday. Took ya long enough.”

  “Took us—” Tamara laughed and shook her head. “Grudge alive and well still?”

  “What? Kindergarten? I don’t care. But seriously though, good riddance.” He lifted the school’s idea of a special treat toward his mouth—the under-seasoned, overly greasy, cheese pizza available only on Fridays—and spoke with a grin before biting into it. “You’ve both been better than that glue-sniffer since you learned to tie your shoes.”

  “So… are you one?” Madison didn’t care to talk about Brenna. It hurt. It was still horrible to lose a friend, even if it was for the best. And she didn’t want to linger on it. She wanted to move forward, starting now.

  Dillon nodded the entire time he chewed and swallowed. “Yup. As of a week into summer vacation last year.”

  “Mine fell out in August,” Tamara proffered and then cocked her head at Dillon. “Wait, what are we now? What is this? Some sort of club?”

  Dillon almost choked on his next bite and had to take a drink from his chocolate milk carton to get it down. “Hell no. Just a nod and a hello, and then we’ll go back to pretending we don’t know each other.”

  “You don’t have to do that.” Madison’s expression twisted up into an almost pout. “We’ve known each other forever. No reason we can’t be friends.”

  Dillon tried to cover up his reaction, but Tamara saw it and smiled directly at him. He looked between the girls. “I don’t know… what tricks have you two learned? Can I trust you?”

  “Tricks?” Madison looked confused. “Ohhhh, oh that. I think I had a vision.”

  “Really?” Dillon leaned closer, his honest intrigue obvious.

  “Yeah. I saw those two kids before they were killed, but when I saw them, it looked like they were all bloody.”

  “Seriously? That’s nasty, Maddie. Why didn’t you tell me?” Tamara’s mouth hung open and her eyes squinted in disgust.

  “It’s been kind of crazy. Forgot I guess. Do you see things?” Madison asked the open air between them and looked at each in turn.

  “Oh I wouldn’t want that. No. But I get the serious heebie-jeebies sometimes. Maybe I’m going to have that sixth sense thing, what’d they call it?”

  “Clairsentience, or sent-i-ent? One of those.” Madison shrugged and took another bite of her salad, trying not to look overly curious about what ability Dillon might have.

  “They? Who they?” Dillon finished his milk and opened a second carton. Madison noticed he did not tell them what, or if, he could do anything psychic.

  “The Lamplight Foundation. It’s a lamian group over by the park.” Tamara answered excitedly. “They’re in the old bed-and-breakfast place, you know, the one everyone thought was haunted when we were little. They have a group meeting on Mondays to help newbies like us figure everything out and learn the history and such. You should come with us.”

  “That’s actually not a bad idea.”

  The three of them looked up to see Mrs. Fidler had stopped behind Dillon and Madison, leaning down slightly to interject into the overheard suggestion.

  “Nah, I’m all good.” Dillon shook his head and put his hands up in front of him to decline the idea. “I’m staying there, so I get access whenever I want and don’t have to deal with any group of anxious teens.”

  “Staying there?” Madison looked genuinely concerned. “What do you mean?”

  “Ugh, my psycho bi—” He looked up at Mrs. Fidler and changed his wording. “—beast of a mother. I can’t live with her anymore. It’s not healthy. So I’m staying in one of their boarding rooms for now.”

  “That’s awesome. That place is so cool.” Madison’s eyes lit up in a friendly but jealous expression.

  “Maximilian is a class act. He’ll take good care of you.” Mrs. Fidler nodded her approval.

  “You know Max?” Dillon looked up at her, squinting.

  “Oh yeah. We go way back.” Her smile widened, and Madison found herself looking at the teacher’s teeth and wondering.

  Tamara wasn’t one to silently question anything and leaned forward as she point-blank asked, “Are you a lamian? How old are you?”

  “It’s not polite to ask a woman her age.” Mrs. Fidler raised an eyebrow at her.

  “Okay… how long have you been teaching?” Madison looked up at her, prepared to do the math.

  “Since women earned the right to vote.” She looked at each of them. “Yes, let that sink in. I’ve been doing this class a long time. The social report that’s due? It used to be about gender, not genes.”

  “Oh wow. I mean. Wow.” Madison couldn’t find words to express her awe.

  Tamara’s mouth opened but only to form a surprised but silent circle.

  Dillon blinked away a shocked expression. “You look, um…”

  “Really good for my age?” She chuckled at the obvious comment. “I know. You will, too.”

  Mrs. Fidler stood upright and turned to walk away, revealing Amber standing behind her.

  “Is there room at the table for a human?” Amber’s face was one of regret and sadness.

  “Of course!” Madison grinned and pointed to the bench next to Tamara, noticing Tristan at the other end of the room watching them. As their eyes met, he nodded respectfully, as if to apologize fr
om a distance, and walked his tray to the table of jocks.

  — THIRTY-FOUR —

  Henry had been in the basement the better part of the day. He’d gotten everything he needed after work on Friday and waited until after dinner to haul it into the house under the cover of darkness. He’d been cleaning and building since early that Saturday morning. He had paused long enough to get more coffee, later switching the caffeine for bottled water, and then a quick trip to the store for a replacement battery for his drill—so he could use it for the screws rather than manually twisting each one in with a screwdriver.

  Surprisingly, the basement hadn’t been too terribly dirty—even though it was mostly unused, except for holiday boxes and the portions of his mother’s belongings he couldn’t stomach getting rid of yet. There had been the expected dust and cobwebs up in the open boards of the thick beams of the floor joists. And the gray Berber carpet had needed odor-absorbing sprinkles and a good vacuuming—twice—to get rid of the smell of the old, forgotten space.

  Surveying the area under the house, Henry had decided on the far corner. It would only need two walls, had a sewer pipe to attach a chain to, and a drain for dumping a waste bucket. It was the perfect place to create a small room with a heavy door for his would-be guest.

  Guest.

  He’d stopped referring to his eventual blood bank as a captive sometime during work on Friday afternoon. It felt mean, and Henry thought he was being nice by keeping them alive. Not mean at all, but rather, generous. And so, in his mind, it would be a guest he’d give a room with a bed and food, just as you would a visitor.

  He built a simple structure, using two-by-fours for the bottom plate and vertical studs that reached to the heavy beams above for strength and security. Framing a doorway into the side that faced the stairs, he moved inside and began screwing plywood to the studs to make the walls.

  He had originally considered soundproofing, but the materials—both acoustic tiles and the sound dampening insulation he’d found locally—cost more than he was prepared to spend. Paycheck to paycheck, with no credit cards or other means of spending outside his budget, meant he needed to get the essential supplies only. He’d decided he would have to keep a gag on his guest until they learned the rules. And although he thought the basement, lacking windows or an exterior door, would help keep the sound in, he did plan on a second layer of plywood—just to be safe. It was a cheap alternative, and something he could easily add on to the room on his next payday.