However, she had not yet grown used to her heightened sense of hearing. The night sounds deafened her. The sawing of the cicada and crickets, the chirps and belches of frogs. They irritated her until she plugged her index fingers into each ear, hoping to stop the sounds, if only for a moment. It never worked, of course; the thunderous boom of her heart beating in her ears only replaced it.
John approached her from behind and placed his large, warm hands on her shoulders.
“You will be all right, dear,” he said.
“I don’t want to be like this.” She allowed herself to relax into his touch and knew she wouldn’t hurt him.
“It will be easier with time.”
“We’ll see,” she said. “We’ll see.”
***
“You’ve kept her waiting too long. She’s nearly sick,” John snapped when Devin entered the house.
“If you’re so worried, why didn’t you take care of her?” Devin withdrew his newly confiscated paperback from the inner pocket of his wet coat. He shrugged out of the coat and tossed it over the back of the sofa.
A touch of redness appeared on John’s cheeks. “I’m not a donor.”
“It’s too late to pretend to be a gentleman now,” Devin laughed. “Besides, I seriously doubt you would have minded very much. Nobody ever does.”
“Nevertheless . . .” John did not bother finishing.
Susan stood at the window, paying as little attention to the exchange as she could. Instead, she focused on the red blossom-shaped stains on Devin’s white t-shirt. She smelled the blood there, still wet, still fresh, and clinging to his skin. She flicked her tongue across her bottom lip and inwardly hated herself for being so weak.
Devin grabbed her hand and led her upstairs to his room. Her knees felt weak, so she held onto to his hand and arm tightly to keep from stumbling. How she hated the sudden dependence she had on this man. On any man. It seemed like years instead of only hours that anything other than the thought of feeding had entered her mind.
Devin put the book on his nightstand atop a stack of other paperbacks and kicked off his Chuckie T’s. He flopped on the bed and sank down into the soft down of the quilts. Stretched out and beautiful, he extended his hand. “Come here, Susan,” he whispered. “Make me feel human again.”
Feeling a pang of despair, Susan moved to him. Did he even realize what he asked? How could she make him feel human when she no longer felt that way herself? Michael and her old life were behind her now. Whatever Devin had done to her had taken hold. She would belong to him as long as she had a thirst for blood.
“It’s been a difficult night, hasn’t it?” he asked.
Susan moved over the top of him, loving the warmth of his body against hers. “You have no idea.”
Devin pulled her to him and cradled her head in his large hands, offering himself to her. She bit into his throat. The wound had already healed completely from the last time. Straddling his waist, Susan accepted Devin’s crimson gift and eagerly began to drink.
The heady scent of the blood made her a little dizzy, but at the same time, a sense of calm washed over her. The weakness in her limbs vanished, and instantly she felt she could do anything. Her mind was as sharp as it had ever been. All was right with her; she had what she needed. She was relaxed, relieved and overwhelmed with positive thoughts.
I really could stay here. I could be happy like this.
Taking another greedy pull from Devin’s vein, Susan wondered briefly if she might kill him. If she had fed this much from Michael, she would have surely killed him. But of course, Michael was only a man. Devin was…
She was beginning to believe Devin was really what he claimed to be. A Deathwalker. He called himself and those like him Deathwalkers, but she knew what they really were. Vampires.
Vampires aren’t real, stupid.
Then, she must have been overtaken by some kind of crazy hypnosis. They all were. Besides, the blood was delightful, and that was all that mattered now.
She raised up a moment, her eyes almost closed. She could just make out Devin beneath her, his big hands on her waist. The corners of his lips were curled into a slight smile. It was evident he enjoyed this as much as she did. Warmth spread through her body and mind. She closed her eyes completely and bent her head down to his throat again. The throbbing between her thighs beat in time with her heartbeat, with Devin’s pulse against her mouth.
Grinning, Devin pulled away and sat up. He pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it to the floor. In the warm, flickering glow of the flame, she was again taken by his beauty. His eyes were no longer menacing, but soft, the flames infinitely reflecting in them.
Susan’s hands moved downward, over the ridges of muscles in his chest and stomach. Then, she stopped and drew back. There, just below his sternum, was the scar she had left him with that Halloween night, so long ago. He should have died from a wound so violent, but he still had the strength to punish her so severely that it took her weeks before she fully recovered.
Frowning, she traced the wicked valley of that puncture, as wide as the tip of her finger and more than five inches in length. The skin had grown poorly over it—hairless and smooth, more like a burn than a stab wound.
Devin fell still and allowed her to examine the place. Then, he took her face in his hands and kissed her deeply, lapping his own blood from her tongue.
Finally he broke the kiss and whispered, “Do you really have any idea what I am, Susan? What we are?”
***
Devin reached to the stack of battered books on the nightstand. He found the paperback copy of Interview with the Vampire that he had stolen from Wallace’s apartment. Picking it up, he casually thumbed through it. After a moment, he threw it against the far wall.
“Rubbish!” he complained. “Who the hell would want to spend eternity wallowing in such self-loathing?”
Next, he retrieved a book that was especially dog-eared. He turned through the yellowed pages a moment and then began to read.
“Check this out. Vampires,” he said, “neither ghost nor demon, but who partakes in the natures of both.” He paused briefly and wet his lips with a flick of his tongue. “A pretend demon. Said to delight in sucking human blood and to animate the bodies of dead persons. That’s what the books say, at least.”
He took Susan’s hand and placed it on his chest. Beneath his ribcage and the wrappings of his warm flesh, the strong thump of his heart beat against her palm. “Do I feel dead to you?”
“Hardly,” she laughed and leaned in to kiss him. She couldn’t have cared less about what he claimed they were, or rather what she had only just become. She only cared for another taste of his sweet, salty blood.
“First, listen,” he told her. He flipped over several more pages, his finger running along the text until he came to the passage that he had underlined with a black pen. After a moment, he continued, quickly, as if he knew the passages from memory.
“It was generally supposed that all suicides become vampires, and this was easily extended to those who met any violent or sudden death.”
He closed the book and placed it back on the nightstand.
Susan laughed. “Please, Devin.” She touched the scar on his chest again. “This obviously was not as bad as it looked.”
Devin grabbed her wrist. “This would have killed a mortal man, my dear.”
“Perhaps you were lucky.” Though she believed him, she decided she would not let him win so easily.
Devin rose up on his knees and flipped her over. She stared up at him, unable to squirm free of his weight. But of course, she did not really want to.
“Why won’t you believe?” He took both of her wrists in one large hand and pinned her arms above her head.
“I don’t believe anything until I see it for myself,” she challenged.
“Even then, you will try to disbelieve.”
“We’ll see,” she said
“You will see.”
chapter twenty-one
The sun sank, painting the sky with a pretty pink glow. It illuminated the lingering clouds and haze as Michael and Kasper crossed Kasper’s weed-ridden front lawn and stepped onto the deserted street.
Kasper pulled a pair of dark sunglasses from his coat pocket and slipped them on. “I hate the glare of sunset,” he muttered.
Michael ignored him and scanned the old neighborhood in disbelief. When he had arrived last night, he had not been able to see the dire condition of the place. He had slept much of the day away and had not seen much of anything except the inside of Kasper’s gloomy old house, until now.
This was the north end, the miles of beach that had once been where families on a budget vacationed. He had a vague memory of playing in the surf along these shores as a very small boy, having been treated to a daytrip by his usually distant father. Rows of stilted houses sat abandoned, paint peeling away like strips of dead skin, wood siding gone to rot and breaking off like cancerous flesh. Blackened, rotting boards covered the windows, as if it was the day before a hurricane. The ones that were not covered were broken out. The remaining glass reminded Michael of a jack o’ lantern’s jagged grin. Scattered here and there were beachwear shops in dire shape. Street-front awnings hung in tatters down onto the streets like torn, filthy flags. As he and Kasper walked by, Michael saw that the front displays were shattered and the shelves emptied. Across the street from the Atlantic was an old arcade and next to it, a small amusement park where the remains of a broken wooden rollercoaster loomed like a prehistoric creature waiting for its next meal to come along. This was a ghost town. First, the tourists had left, and then the natives. And nobody returned, despite the prime beachfront real estate.
To the south, the city waited, with the buildings dark against a darkening sky.
A few cars lined the street and sat in parking lots, windshields and windows grimy from the salt air. Their doors and trunks had developed patches of rust. It was a horrible, apocalyptic image, and one Michael could have just as well done without. It seemed that the owners of these homes, these cars, these businesses had simply left, abandoning the place without a second thought to packing up or taking their things. It spoke of death and decay. The stink of abandonment lingered on the chilly early evening breeze. It was as if people had simply given up on the place. Trash blew down the street—pieces of newspaper, plastic supermarket bags, a woman’s Sunday hat.
Ahead, Michael spotted a couple rounding the corner and began heading their way. They were the first people he had seen on this end of town. He could not help but watch them—a boy and a girl, no more than seventeen, he guessed, extremely frail and emaciated. Kasper shifted the black duffel he carried from one hand to the other and scrutinized the two. As they trudged past, the boy boldly met his gaze.
“You’d better get out of here, son,” Kasper said. Michael detected a sudden softness to his usually harsh tone. “While you can, make your way back home.”
“Butt out, dude,” the boy shot back. He slipped his arm around the girl’s waist and pulled her to his side. Beneath her loose sweater and ragged boys jeans, the girl’s belly was large and round.
“For the girl’s safety—“
They passed without another word, and Kasper only shrugged. “To hell with it, then.”
Michael’s heart broke for them and the physician in him wanted to take hold. The girl was too pale and sickly; she would surely lose the baby, and possibly her own life in the process. It felt strange to allow them to pass without some offering of help. As he watched them lumber away, Kasper nudged his shoulder.
“Let them go. This won’t be the last time you see kids like that around here.”
Kasper motioned southward. “This way. There are a couple of shops up here. Get you some of the things you need.”
“Why don’t we just drive out to my car for my bag?” Michael asked.
Kasper laughed. “I’m positive that everything in your car has been taken by now. Those creatures are nothing but scavengers. They steal anything that isn’t nailed down.”
“Oh.” Michael nodded, somewhat saddened by the idea of someone, or something, rummaging through his things—his clothing, the couple of photos he kept in his jacket, his Blackberry, the iPod he had in the console of the BMW.
A block further, Kasper stopped in front of a men’s clothing store. A street bench had been thrown through the front window and now rested half inside the store and half outside on the sidewalk.
“Be careful,” Kasper warned as he removed his sunglasses and hid them away in his coat. He stepped through the display and into the store. “Those things like to hide in dark places.”
Michael followed, squinting into the heavy shadows of the old store, his chest tightening with fear. It reminded him of the old Charlton Heston flick, Omega Man. At least a dozen mannequins posed, frozen in time, wearing styles from the late 80s and early 90s. Uneasy, he felt as if someone was watching them. Kasper moved through the shadowy place confidently. He was so far removed from anything resembling fear that it amazed Michael. Perhaps he had become immune to it. Not a bad way to be in the end, Michael reckoned. But the things he must have seen to get to that point…
Kasper opened the leather duffel and removed two modified shotguns with leather straps. He handed one to Michael. “This is a riot gun. You’ll need to get used to having it with you at all times.”
Tentatively, Michael took it and hung it over his shoulder. He didn’t like the gun in the least. He didn’t care for the ruthless black barrel or the weight of it, but he resigned himself to the fact that he would need a gun and would very likely have to use it if he ever wanted to get Susan back.
The place was dark and smelled heavily of mildew. Behind the walls was the scurry and scuffle of rats running to hide. He hated this and, for a moment, considered simply letting Susan go. Could he really do this? He sighed and followed Kasper deeper into the darkness of the store. Silently, they sorted through what was left of the trousers, jeans and shirts. Nervous, he could not stop looking around, expecting someone to spring from the shadows and rip out his throat. The mannequins made him even more uncomfortable than he normally would have been. They seemed to be watching, waiting. Plus, there were so many of them, thin, plastic things with oddly high cheekbones and messy wigs.
“Try and find a jacket, also. The nights get cold,” Kasper suggested, moving off to the left and leaving Michael at a rack of cargo pants. Finding his size was a trick—he was of average build. Everything of value had been taken, stolen just as Kasper said, just like what they were doing now. However, Michael managed to pluck out two pairs in his size.
“Okay, I’m good.” He threw the clothes over his shoulder, ready to be out of there and back into the less-claustrophobic street.
Then, one of the mannequins moved. Just as Michael looked up, the thing screeched, leapt over one display, and upended another, rushing toward him. Michael grabbed the rifle from this back and thumbed off the safety, but it was over before he even took aim.
Kasper removed the Deathwalker’s head in a cloud of pinkish gore, and then blasted another round through the creature’s chest, for good measure. Michael went into a crouched position as the thing’s body landed in a heap next to him. Only a man, he realized. Looking at it, it was only a man.
He rose to his feet, his heart thudding at an alarming speed. "Shit!"
“Sneaky fuckers," Kasper muttered, frowning. He strode toward Michael, his rifle now at his side. "You need to be on your toes, man. Always, always! If your girl is one of them, do her a favor. In the flash of an eye." He snapped his fingers. "She won't feel a thing." He nudged the dead man’s leg with the toe of his boot. “You alright?” he asked without looking up.
“Yeah, I’m okay,” Michael answered, trying to keep his voice from shaking. He had serious doubts he would be able to find Susan unless he had this guy’s help.
Kasper stifled a yawn, and then grinned. "It's alright. Don't worry." He stepped closer and placed
a big hand on Michael's shoulder. "You look scared."
"I am scared," Michael said.
"You can't allow it to control you. They can smell it, Michael. Fear will get you killed."
Michael nodded, but he wasn’t sure what to do about it. He was afraid, for Christ's sake, afraid of those creatures, of what might have already happened to Susan. He was even still a little afraid of Kasper. He wasn’t sure he had ever met a more unstable person in his life, yet he owed his life to the man; he had saved his life not once, but twice, in less than twenty-four hours.
"You have to get mean. You have to get pissed. Everyone who was afraid is either dead or changed into one of those things." For an uncomfortable moment, he realized Kasper was watching him quite intently. Then, he picked up Michael’s rifle and shoved it at his chest.
Kasper gestured toward a bald mannequin—an ugly, slouchy shirtless figure dressed in baggy jeans. The face seemed made up, with large, blood- red lips and too-blue eyes. The waist of its jeans hung too low, revealing a set of sharp hipbones and the puckered waistband of a pair of red polka-dotted boxers.
Michael raised the gun. The sight wavered a moment, but he quickly steadied it on the forehead of the doll.
"Go on," Kasper prodded. "Imagine Devin McCree's stupid face up there."
Biting his lip, Michael did just that. Involuntarily, he stiffened, prepared for the report and the sound, but neither was as much he expected. The mannequin’s head vaporized into a small cloud of plastic and dust.
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