Liquid Diet Chronicles (Book 1): Bite Sized

by Chism, Holly

  Andi wandered into the kitchen as I came through the back door. “They’re finished with your suite,” she said, excited.

  I tried to smile. “Good to hear. I’d like to see it after I have a shower.”

  “There’s a full bath down there, tub and shower,” she said. “Want to use it? I’ve got everything ready for you, down there.”

  “Sounds good.” I opened the basement door, and wandered down. My bedroom set—the one that was in Andi’s bedroom—was set up down there. I could see it in the newly-expanded bedroom that took up a lot more of one end of the basement than my tiny bedroom had—the full width by about ten feet of length of the available room. The room had the door open, the light on, and was staged quite nicely. “Wait, what?”

  “I got the guys to help me move ‘my’ stuff down,” she said, shrugging. “I thought it’d be a nice surprise, but it seems like it’s a little bit of a let-down. We’ll still need to do something for you to have some comfy furniture for when you feel like reading down here a while before you…go die. What’s wrong?”

  “Bad dreams.” I shuddered, wandering around the small living space, admiring the way they’d set a small apartment size cook stove, sink, counter, and fridge/microwave into a cubby I could have sworn wasn’t there before, with cabinets above the stuff mounted on the wall that was well-finished. I frowned and stood back in the middle of the room, slowly turning, matching my memories of what had been the room’s dimensions to what they were now. I went to the door on the wall next to the cubby for the kitchen, and opened it. Linen closet. I considered, and grabbed one of the towels before I closed it again.

  “Again?” she asked. “I thought you’d not had one for a while.”

  “Yeah. I hadn’t. It was almost exactly a month ago, and the dream was almost exactly the same, and happened at the same point during my…sleep…cycle.” I had finally found the bathroom and stopped short. “Wow.”

  “Yeah, the contractor and I had a meeting of the minds,” she said as I took in the separate claw-foot bathtub and tiled walk-in shower enclosed on two sides in glass. Between the two, on the outer wall and venting out through that, was a tankless water heater. “He said that getting the tub and tiles down was less trouble than trying to get a fiberglass tub and shower enclosure, so gave us a massive discount—that was at materials cost, without labor added.”

  “One would think the fiberglass would be easier to get down here because of weight issues,” I said faintly.

  “I’d have thought so, too,” she said. “But he said that it would have broken the way he got the cast iron tub down. And that the enclosure would have been impossible to maneuver down here at all.”

  “What did he do, just slide it down the stairs?” I asked.

  “Basically, yeah. There was even a dent in the wall at the end of the stairs where it hit, until he tore it out and fixed it. All of down here is now finished out, and the apartment may be small, but it’s fully functional,” Andi said. “It’d be a selling point if you ever decide to sell. There’s even an external entrance, now, through there,” she finished, pointing to an area on the other side of a load-bearing foundation wall.

  I blinked. “Wha? When and how? It was solid dirt, past the wall behind the stairs. I thought.”

  “Actually, it wasn’t,” Andi said. “He started to excavate to create a secondary entrance, and found that there was a whole ‘nother chamber. The wall’s still there because it’s load bearing, but there was another room that had had the door walled over. It’s not big, but it’s also finished out with a couple of storage rooms on either side of a hallway to a new external exit.”

  “Weird,” I grunted.

  Andi grinned. “Less so than you think,” she said. “It was full of crates of money and booze, dating between ’29 and ’32. There may have been some secret entrance somewhere else, but with new flooring put in in your living room and library, it was probably covered over. I was planning on heading over and searching through city records tomorrow, see if I can’t trace ownership and see what I can find out about the hidey-hole.”

  “Huh. How much money? And do we keep it?” This really was interesting.

  “Yeah, we get to keep it all. However,” she hedged, “some of it’s illegal.”

  I sighed, bringing up a hand to rub the bridge of my nose. “Let me guess: there’s gold double-eagles in the stash.”

  “Bingo.”

  “Let me handle that,” I said. “I can get us more than the government would give us for turning them in, since I can sell them for weight, and the government would give us bupkiss.

  “Now. I am going to take a bath,” I said, changing tracks and reaching for the hem of my shirt. “If there’s more you want to tell me about, I don’t mind listening, but I am getting naked.”

  “I’ll wait upstairs,” she said, “but I do want to get you the furniture your place is going to need before I go die for the night.”

  I stopped and really looked at her. She had dark circles under both eyes, and was rolling her shoulders like they were tight. “Eventful day for you?” I guessed.

  “You could say that,” she said wearily. “I had a jackass come in for a bail bonds meeting who tried to do a runner on me when his bail got revoked. I strained right here,” she said, putting a hand where her neck met her left shoulder, “swinging said asshole around so that he tangled himself in my visitor’s chair rather than getting away, and he tried to wrestle loose when I went to cuff him. Not sure when it got strained, but it’s strained.”

  So was her voice, I noted. “Why don’t you go soak it in a bath or shower, while I have a shower?” I suggested. “That way, we’re both feeling better.”

  “Actually, that sounds really good. I think I’ll do that,” she agreed.

  She plodded out of my bathroom, and I heard her slowly going up the stairs into the main part of the house. I stripped, frowning. This was…getting weird. Once is happenstance, and this made two nightmares just the same: including the sense memory of the nasty, dirty hair making my scalp crawl.

  Ugh. I was hoping and praying that this was the last one.

  But something was telling me not to hold my breath.

  So to speak.

  Building a Mystery

  I spent the next three and a half weeks enjoying my new apartment. It was much nicer having a full-size bedroom than it was having a closet containing a mattress on top of a dresser that I slept in. I enjoyed shopping for an apartment sized couch with Andi, and we found a really comfy one. Slightly overstuffed, and over-sized for an apartment couch, but I loved it anyway. It was part of a set. The only piece I didn’t take was the loveseat. I just didn’t have room for it.

  I made a shit-ton of money selling the money to collectors for a thousand bucks a coin, too, and we weren’t out of coins, yet. If I could have authenticated them, I’d have made us a fuck-ton more than I did, but it was better selling the coins without trying for authentication and ending up with confiscation, instead. Damn FDR.

  Andi had found out that the owners during that time had been old, and had just…died. Together. Holding hands.

  Romantic, but I honestly had to wonder if there was poison involved, considering what had been found hiding in my basement.

  In any case, their kids had inherited, put in some new wiring, refinished floors, and sold the place. The next occupants had put in new floors over the old ones, and…there went the possibility of anyone finding any secret entrance into the hidey-hole with booze and cash.

  Winter arrived with a vengeance, just before the end of November: not with a ton of snow, but with such bitterly cold temperatures so intense that it wasn’t an exaggeration when I said I felt like I was going to freeze solid between the house and the car. Andi courted frostbite when she had to go out, until she invested in a set of flannel lined coveralls to put on when she had to go outside of a building. I had her looking into what it would take to build a garage onto the house on the driveway side. And it looked like w
e’d have plenty of money when construction time came, if we decided on that route. But we hadn’t contacted someone to do the work, yet. I wasn’t sure if they could before the horrid cold broke.

  And then I had another nightmare, waking me right at 4:43 p.m., exactly twenty minutes before sunset. The same as the other two. Once is happenstance, twice is circumstance, three times? Yeah, that’s a pattern. And not a good one, either.

  I took a very hot, very fast shower, then moved and soaked in the tub for a long time, thinking about the dreams. Wondering what was going on. They echoed my death so closely that I’d woke dry heaving, every time I’d had one.

  This time was particularly bad: I’d woke hungry, so I couldn’t huddle in fleecy jammies and hide out from my own nerves. I was damn sure that there wouldn’t be rapists out, tonight. There wouldn’t be anyone out that didn’t have to be—the projected low was in the double digits below zero (the weather guy said ten or twelve below, but he’d been consistently wrong for the past three weeks: it’d been a lot colder than he’d predicted).

  I’d have to hit a party.

  It was Friday, so there would absolutely be a party, somewhere.

  I sighed, digging through my closet for party clothes. I found a pair of insulated black leggings, a flared, red plaid miniskirt (very much a slutty school girl look, there), and a black tank top and white button-down blouse that I knotted at my waist. I chewed my bottom lip, looking down my own body at myself, and nodded sharply. The outfit would look okay for the effect I was going for. And a pair of boots with inch-thick soles and five-inch heels would put me a good bit taller than my five feet even in bare feet.

  I turned slowly in front of the full-length mirror that I’d moved from the smuggler’s nook, examining the outfit from all angles, and making sure the skirt hadn’t gotten tucked into the leggings. I was good to go.

  I trotted up the stairs, unlocking the door into the main part of the house. With more renovation going on, it seemed a good precaution against accidents.

  Andi wandered out of the kitchen, brushing crumbs off her sweatshirt-covered ample chesticles. “Hey—woah.” She stopped and stared at me in consternation. “I know I’ve seen you go hunting before, but I have never seen that outfit.”

  I grinned. “Works, doesn’t it?” I said, twirling on one toe so she could get a good look. I looked about sixteen, in this outfit, with my hair up in a bouncy ponytail. “The frat I’m headed for really likes this one. I’ll be able to catch four or five, and eat well, tonight.”

  Andi eyed me thoughtfully. “You do look like a pervert’s wet dream. Hey, have you considered setting up a profile online that suggests you’re underage, and eating the sickos you get trying to prey on you?”

  I snickered. The thought was decidedly appealing. “Hunting over bait’s illegal,” I admonished, shaking a finger at my friend.

  “Well, I thought that was the point,” she said, giggling, as she headed for the living room, “since you look like jailbait.”

  “Hey, can you do me a favor?” I asked, hauling my heavy coat out of the closet at the end of the hall. “I need you to look into something.”

  “Sure, what do you need?” she asked, pausing in the doorway to look back at me.

  “I need you to…do your thing,” I said, flapping a hand. “That thing you do. I’ll pay for information,” I offered.

  “My thing,” she said drily, leaning against the door facing. “Do you mean the investigation thing?”

  “Yeah, that,” I said. “I have had the same dream, at the same time, every month. For three months, now, as of tonight. I haven’t dreamed in twenty years, and to have the same dream happen at the same time, on the same day, three months in a row…stinks of something I don’t want to think about.”

  Andi nodded slowly, arms coming up to fold across her chest, one hand coming up so she could chew on her index finger knuckle. “I can see that,” she said. “But you’re looking paler than usual, and I think you need to go eat somebody before you tell me what you want me looking for. I’ve got another month from tonight, assuming that your dreams are marking a pattern.”

  I grimaced. “You’re right. I’m heading out, don’t worry,” I said, buttoning the coat. I wrapped a scarf around my neck, and fished out my purse. “I’ll be back in a few hours.”

  “Wake me if I’m asleep, and let me know when you get back,” Andi said. “I’ve found I feel a lot better, knowing there’s a vampire living in the house with me.”

  I nodded, agreeing. “I shouldn’t be too long. You may still be up. It’s still really early.”

  There was snow in the yard, but not a whole lot. My ancient Toyota likely wouldn’t have any trouble getting out. It was damn cold, though. Cold enough I’d have to be careful about the BAC of anybody I snacked on. I’d likely freeze solid if I had to sleep in my car. As in, a literally solid brick of vampire that would have to wait until the temperature rose to thaw out enough to move. It had happened before, and I tried to prevent it from happening again. Because it’s horrid, being fully awake and aware, but totally unable to move. And when I’m frozen solid, it burns with how cold it is. I reconsidered, ducked back into the house, and stuck my head into the living room, pulling my pay-as-you-go phone out of my purse. “Hey, can I program in your number, just in case I wind up too drunk to drive home? I really don’t want to stay out overnight in these temperatures.”

  Andi giggled, and rattled off a series of digits that I was only quick enough to program in because of heightened reflexes and speed that came to me when I woke up dead.

  I waved, and trotted back out to my car. The drive into town was really pretty—the snow sparkling in the moonlight lent an eerie extra light, and I cringed at the idea of how bright it would be during daylight, wondering how many accidents snow blindness would cause.

  I parked a few blocks away from the frat I planned on feeding at, and insinuated myself into a group of already-drunk coeds, shedding my coat in the entry hall. My purse I’d locked in the car, so no worries about someone taking it while it was unattended.

  And I threw myself into the party.

  I rolled my eyes as I recognized Ed the newspaper delivery boy-slash-barista ’s spastic, epileptic with a seizure style of really drunk dancing. And the sloppy drunk co-ed he was dancing with. I read her body language—she was actually willing, for once—so I left them to it, and drifted off. I found my target less than a minute later as a girl collapsed, and the guy she was dancing with caught her, hefted her over his shoulder with a leer, then headed upstairs. I followed.

  I felt eyes on my back, and swung my hips as I trotted upstairs, assuming that the other boys there were considering things that would get them munched on if they carried out their contemplations.

  I was in, and done, inside of two minutes, and the nasty frat rapist was convinced that it was just too awkward to undress unconscious girls, and wouldn’t be doing that again.

  The rest of the evening went the same way, for the most part. I nailed six would-be rapists (and convinced them that rape wasn’t the way to go), helped out six near victims (who were all left in the same queen sized bed in the same room as the first chick to sleep off their drunk), and wonder of wonders, Ed managed to get laid without being all rape-y about it.

  I was still mostly sober when I collected my coat and left, a bit over an hour after I’d arrived. It was still really early, so I went to the bookstore for a while, to browse. And buy a paper. I hadn’t snagged one for a while.

  The crappy indoor/outdoor carpeting muffled my boots, and I took a deep breath, reveling in the scents of ink, paper, and coffee, and wandered through the discount rack. I found half a dozen books, and stacked them in my arms, headed back to the counter, humming happily to make sure others noticed me just enough that they didn’t run into me like they did if I just…didn’t breathe.

  The bookstore was a nice indulgence after waking from such a bad dream.

  I made it to the counter and asked the cashier
to add a newspaper to my stack of books.

  I wondered, as I drove home, if Andi would still be up.

  I got hit in the face with a bag of blood when I walked in the living room to check. “I got that shipped here. Wanna see if it’ll work?” Andi asked.

  I blinked. “Why are you hitting me with this now?” I asked.

  Andi shrugged. “Partially because I wasn’t sure if it would be adequate, and I thought you’d be able to tell even if you’d just…eaten.”

  “Okay,” I said, eyeing the bag. It was…unpleasantly cool, and reminded me of how a melted ice pack felt. “You said partially. What was the rest?”

  “Delivery didn’t make it before you left,” she said, shrugging. She twisted around, kneeling on the couch, arms folded on the back. “Go on.”

  I shrugged. “I guess it can’t hurt,” I said cautiously. I looked, found the tubing, and tore the little sealed part off, then stuck it in my mouth like a straw. It…seemed like it would work. But gag. Cold blood. I made a face and pinched the tube shut. “It’ll do, but God have mercy, that’s gross.”

  “Would it be better warmed up?” she asked, cocking her head and tapping an index finger thoughtfully on her elbow. “Like, in a mug in the microwave?”

  “I do not see how it could be worse,” I said, shuddering.

  She bounced off the couch, and nearly skipped into the kitchen. I didn’t immediately follow, a little shocked and feeling whiplashed. She reached back into the living room, and hauled me along behind her by the elbow. “Come on, let’s try it. I can get my hands on this—not easily, but it removes some of the risk hunting carries.”

  “Risk?” I asked, frowning.

  “Yeah. Risk.” She shifted stuff I knew I didn’t have around in the cabinets, pulling down a new mug—a black one, with a smiley face with a bloody hole in the forehead. I smirked as I recognized where it came from. “Every blood-drained corpse you leave behind is a risk.”

  “I don’t leave very many of those,” I said. “You’d be surprised how few violent rapists I actually come across.”