Lust for Life

by Jeri Smith-Ready

  “Let her say good-bye,” I tell Shane.

  “But if he’s not—”

  “It’s her choice.”

  Deirdre keens and wails against Jim’s chest, one hand in his dark-brown curls. His white linen shirt, drenched in blood, rides up to expose his pale belly. I look down to see red drops splashed on my jeans, the kitchen wall, and the stuffed blue dog in the corner.

  As long as Jim’s bleeding, he’s still “alive.” The moment he starts to die—if he starts to die—it’ll run backward into the wound, along with the rest of him.

  I don’t know what to do or what to feel. It’s like I’m in a movie, and the director just shouted “Action!” but I don’t know my lines. I don’t even know which character I’m playing. I wish someone would yell “Cut!”

  “What do I do?” I ask Shane.

  “Just wait.” His voice drops to a whisper. “I’m sorry.”

  I’m not sure who he’s talking to: me, Deirdre, or Jim. Or all three of us.

  The bleeding just stopped. I think.

  I hold my breath.

  For a long moment, the blood on Jim’s chest and the floor beneath him becomes a still pond.

  Then the pool begins to shrink. My breath sucks back into my lungs, mimicking the action of the blood. It’s begun.

  Shane slowly gets to his knees, crosses himself, and closes his eyes.

  “What’s happening?” Deirdre whispers.

  She’s never seen a vampire die. Did it have to be her own maker? “Deirdre, come with me.” I look at Shane. “I’ll take care of her.”

  He nods, never taking his eyes from Jim. Once, years ago, they were friends.

  Jim’s flesh begins to crawl, sliding toward the hole in his chest.

  “NOOOOOO!” Deirdre’s scream of horror is cut off when her own breath stops. She falls back, flailing. I catch her before her head can hit the wall.

  With some difficulty, I pick her up, carry her into the dining room, and lay her gently on the floor, away from breakable objects.

  The moment I put her down, she starts writhing, clawing the air and the carpet beneath her. With one hand I clutch her wrist, and with the other I pull out my phone and call Jeremy. To survive this, she needs fresh blood.

  When he answers, I say in a preternaturally calm voice, “We need you to save a vampire.”

  “What? Who? I’m on the air.”

  I look at the clock. It’s almost 5:30 already. Morning twilight is in forty-five minutes. I have no desire to spend the day in the house where Shane killed Jim. “We’ll bring her to you.”

  “‘Her’?” His voice pitches up in panic. “Is Regina—”

  “Not Regina. Just get ready.” I hang up. “We have to take her to the station so Jeremy can save her.” Shane responds with only a nod.

  I look down at Jim’s body, which is starting to fold in on itself. Then I turn and watch his mirror image in Deirdre. She scrapes at her dress, exposing the skin that’s bruising from the inside. A blue and black circle widens across her ribs. Her eyes roll up, showing nothing but white in her agony.

  Jim’s back arches. Deirdre’s back arches.

  Jim’s back breaks in half with an earsplitting crack. Deirdre falls to the carpet, mercifully unconscious. I check her pulse, erratic but strong, and focus on the rhythm of her breath instead of the sucking, snapping sounds from the kitchen.

  In the corner of my eye, the stuffed dog seems to shudder as a small red cloud rises from its fur. The blood drifts up, against gravity, over the dog’s outstretched paw. It hovers, then flies across the room into the wound, which is now an unrecognizable vortex of flesh.

  The last few drops enter the hole, and I wait for the soft pop that came with the three staking deaths I’ve witnessed—including Colonel Petrea’s, the one I inflicted.

  The wound explodes like a firecracker. I cover my ears and hold back a scream, half expecting Jim to reappear, inside out, rejected by the realm of the truly dead.

  But he stays gone.

  I lower my hands, and for several moments all sound is muffled, like after a concert where I’ve sat too close to the speakers.

  Shane rubs his ears, then bends over and collects Jim’s clothes: a pair of black leather pants, white button-down poet shirt, and pointed-toe black boots. Every drop of blood is gone.

  Something rattles on the floor as Shane lifts the shirt.

  “Whoa.” I go over and gather the stack of pencils, the ends of which are shaved off and smoothed out. “That’s how he survived. The Control kept these in his heart.”

  “His body probably healed around the wounds. He might not have felt it. Or maybe they did give him something for the pain.” Shane refocuses. “Right now, we have to save Deirdre.”

  • • •

  As we pass the radio station studio, Shane carrying Deirdre in his arms, Jeremy is standing there in the open doorway.

  “Holy shit,” he says. “What happened to her?”

  “Maker died,” I tell him. “She needs blood. Meet us in the DJs’ apartment.”

  “Be there in three minutes. I have to set up the last song and record an outro so it sounds like I’m signing off.”

  We enter the apartment and shut the heavy steel door behind us. Everyone is gathered in the common room, looking somber. I called ahead and told them what happened, and not to tell Jeremy until after he’d fed Deirdre.

  “Put her on the bed,” says our fifties DJ Spencer.

  The couch has been folded out, just like when my own life hung in the balance—and then toppled over into death and reanimation. I have the urge to set this couch on fire.

  Instead, I set the pile of Jim’s clothing on one of the dining room chairs, hidden under the table where Jeremy won’t see it. Two of the sawed-off pencils tumble onto the floor, in a noise that shatters the silence. Regina watches them fall but makes no move to pick them up.

  Shane carefully lays Deirdre on the thin mattress. Spencer sits beside her and feels the pulse at her wrist.

  “How old is she?” he asks me, lines of concern framing his dark eyes.

  “Jim turned her last December. So less than a year old.”

  I look across the sofa at my maker. Monroe’s watching me, probably thinking what I’m thinking: if he died right now, this is what I’d go through, if not worse.

  “Will she live?” Noah asks Spencer, anxiously twisting the end of one chest-length dreadlock.

  “She’s fading fast.” Spencer brushes the hair off Deirdre’s forehead and lifts one of her eyelids. “It’d be best if she could wake up to drink, but I reckon one of us can feed her the first few drops until she does.”

  Shane and I exchange a look. I give him a reluctant nod.

  “I’ll do it,” he tells Spencer. “I’m the only one she knows.”

  The silence stretches out. We all focus on the wall clock, waiting for Jeremy to arrive, rather than talking about the biggest thing to happen to the station since, well, ever. They’ve lost one of their own.

  Someone knocks on the door to the hallway. Regina opens it for Jeremy.

  “Let me wash up.” He hurries into the kitchen, yanking off his gray hoodie.

  Shane calls over, “Jer, we’re gonna need to do the neck. It’s faster, and she needs blood, stat.”

  Jeremy’s eyes light up with anticipation. “Sweet,” he whispers, pulling his T-shirt over his head. The action ruffles his bleached-blond hair and pulls off his glasses, which clatter on the kitchen floor.

  I pick them up and look through them at the recessed ceiling light. Huh, they’re real.

  I set them on the counter next to the sink as Jeremy cranks up the hot water. “I always thought these were a fashion statement.”

  He snorts. “I’m shallow, but not that shallow.”

  I pull a pair of clean dish towels from a drawer and hand him one. Then I notice a bandage on his right arm. “What happened to you?”

  “New tattoo.” He wets the towel and pours antibacterial soap onto i
t. “Just got it today.”

  “What’s the occasion?”

  Jeremy gives me a bashful smile as he washes the sides of his neck with the soapy towel. “You are.”

  This pleases me more than it should. Donors usually get enthralled by the vampires who feed from them, but Jeremy and I have always butted heads, trading snipes at every chance.

  “Let me rinse.” I push him gently to bend over the sink, then I wet the towel and squeeze it over the back of his neck to wash away the soap. Jeremy takes the dry towel, smelling fresh and clean and very, very chompable.

  But it won’t be me chomping him this weekend as planned. After feeding Deirdre, he won’t be able to donate again for two weeks. Lori’s taken herself out of the rotation because of her pregnancy. Shane said I need to drink from more humans to stave off the fading. What am I going to do?

  I pull my mind back to the present. Save Deirdre. Nothing’s more important now, right?

  As Jeremy and I head toward the bed, I realize that this is what it means to be a vampire. Our survival is tenuous, and a constant obsession.

  Shane sits a few feet away from Deirdre on the foldout couch. A stack of clean towels has been placed near her head, and two are folded next to her, where Jeremy will lie.

  Jeremy reclines between Deirdre and Shane. Though this is for survival and not for fun, his heartbeat quickens in anticipation. Even Jeremy’s sweat smells different the moment before he’s bitten.

  He turns his head toward Deirdre so he can see her face and give Shane access to his neck. “Who was her maker?”

  Shane freezes as he leans over. The other DJs go completely still, then Noah shuffles his feet nervously.

  Jeremy’s going to freak when he hears that Jim’s dead. He might not even be willing to donate or help us after he knows Shane killed him.

  I don’t want to lie to him. “We’ll tell you later.”

  “But—”

  “Shh.” Shane’s left hand covers Jeremy’s mouth as it lifts and turns his chin. “Hold as still as you can.”

  Jeremy flinches, and for a moment that prey freak-out look comes into his eyes. But then he closes them and exhales, making himself relax.

  “Thank you.” Shane’s lips, then tongue, stroke the skin of Jeremy’s neck, searching for the vein.

  Shane slides in his fangs. Jeremy’s body stiffens for two seconds, then seems to sink deeper into the mattress. They moan in unison, Shane at the taste and Jeremy at the sensation. I envy Jeremy his pleasure. Why can’t I feel something when I’m bitten besides fiery pain?

  On Deirdre’s other side, I slide my hands under her shoulder and lift her to sit halfway up. Now comes the part I’ve been dreading.

  Shane takes his mouth from Jeremy’s neck, full of his blood, leans over, and kisses Deirdre, feeding her the way a bird feeds its nestlings. His tongue moves in her mouth, forcing in the life-giving substance.

  But she just lies limp in my arms. Shane breaks away and strokes her throat. “Come on, swallow.” Her mouth hangs open. “Deirdre, wake up. If I’ve killed you, too . . .” he whispers with agony.

  Jeremy’s eyes open. “What do you mean, ‘killed her, too’?”

  “It was self-defense,” I tell him. “Her maker tried to kill us.”

  “I don’t understand.” He puts his hand to his neck, catching the thick blood as it oozes out.

  Deirdre surges out of my grip. “Shane . . .” She kisses him, making soft, urgent noises in the back of her throat.

  Shane pulls away. “No. Here.” He turns Jeremy over on his right side. “Drink.”

  She pouts. “I’d rather take it from you.”

  “This’ll be faster. It’ll save you. By the way, his name is Jeremy.”

  “I don’t care.” Deirdre falls on our friend, teeth snapping together.

  Shane’s hand whips out and catches the back of her neck. “Easy. No sucking, no chewing.” He withdraws the stake from his back pocket. “I’ll be watching.”

  She snorts. “I guess I should feel lucky you’re giving me a warning. Jim didn’t get that courtesy.”

  Jeremy starts. “Jim? What?”

  Shane lets Deirdre go. “Drink now.”

  “Wait! You guys!” Jeremy’s cries are silenced as Deirdre starts to drink. But tears form in his eyes, and when they overflow, I can smell their salt, mixing with the scent of his blood.

  I watch Shane watching Deirdre feed on Jeremy. As a Control Enforcement agent, his training demands he protect humans from vampires. I want to reach for him, hold him, let him tell me and show me how much the last hour has shattered him. If it has.

  Jeremy’s hand thumps on the mattress as Deirdre drinks from him, long and deep.

  Reality is starting to catch up to me. Shane killed Jim. If it weren’t for the pile of Jim’s clothes on the chair, topped with a stack of sawed-off pencils, I’d think it was a dream.

  Deirdre finally pulls back, then gazes down at Jeremy, who looks at her through heavy-lidded eyes.

  “You saved my life,” she tells him.

  His shoulder twitches in a tired shrug. “Glad to. I like vampires.”

  She lays her head on her thin pillow, facing him. “What was your name again?”

  “Jeremy. Is Jim really dead?”

  Her only response is to draw him close in an embrace. They weep together for the guy who brought them so much pain.

  After a few moments Spencer slips a hand between them. “Gotta clean the boy up now.”

  As Spencer bandages Jeremy’s neck, Shane steps away and watches the sobbing Deirdre with heartbreak in his eyes. But when he looks at me, the heartbreak turns to pride. He’s not sorry he saved my life. I’m not, either.

  Deirdre begins to wail. Clearly her strength has returned, at least to her lungs.

  “How could you?” She launches herself off the bed and totters toward Shane. “You didn’t even give him a warning. It was like you planned it.”

  “I did plan it.” He grasps her shoulders. “I ran this scenario in my head a million times. I killed him in my imagination, until it became second nature.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he’s twice as fast as I am, and ten times as strong. Surprising him was our only chance for survival.”

  “Speaking of planning,” I say, “funny coincidence that Jim showed up while we were there.”

  Deirdre gapes at me. “Are you saying I set you up? I hadn’t seen him since February.”

  “Then why did he come to you?”

  Spencer clears his throat. “Maybe it was the only safe spot in Sherwood.”

  “It’s not like he could come here,” Regina adds.

  “Why come to Sherwood at all?” Noah asks. “Why not run away? This is the first town the Control would look for him in.”

  Deirdre turns back to Shane and clutches his T-shirt. “I swear to God I didn’t know Jim was coming.”

  “We’ll see about that.” I go to her purse and pull out her cell phone.

  “What are you doing? Stay out of my stuff!”

  Shane holds on to her as I scroll through the incoming and outgoing calls. The lists are sadly short. “Is Ben your ex-husband?”

  “Troy’s my ex-husband. Ben’s my son. I know eight’s a little young to have a cell phone, but I gave it to him so I could call without his dad around. Sometimes in the middle of the night.”

  The phone shows no call to or from any unknown numbers. Just a bunch to Ben, a few to Troy, and two to a pizza place. I wonder if Deirdre bites the delivery boys.

  I slip her phone back into her purse, disappointed. She could’ve deleted a call from Jim from her list. If I could prove she had contact with him, maybe we could get more information out of her.

  “What is most puzzling,” Noah says, “is how Jim escaped from Control custody.”

  “Either he went all Hannibal Lecter and killed a guard,” I point out, “or someone released him, either on purpose or by mistake.”

  “Could he have mesmerized som
e sap into letting him go?” Spencer asks. “A human guard?”

  “His eyes were super-powerful.” I tap my chest. “Speaking as a human who had to look into them on a daily basis.”

  “He had beautiful eyes,” Jeremy says.

  We all fall silent as the weight of loss bears down on us. Jim is gone forever. He’ll never again recite trivia or overplay his poker hand or tell us something is groovy.

  Shane turns away and walks swiftly, silently, to his room. The door closes with a soft click.

  I shift my weight from foot to foot, uncertain whether I should follow. Maybe Shane wants to be alone to think or mourn. Then again, he might want comfort. What would I want? Hard to say, since I’ve never killed one of my longtime friends.

  I decide to err on the side of too much.

  I knock softly on Shane’s door, then open it slowly, expecting to find him pacing or maybe sitting on the edge of the twin bed in quiet sorrow, staring at the floor or the wall.

  Instead, I find him backed into the far corner of the bed, knees pulled to his chest. He’s chewing his thumbnail, eyes scanning nothing. He looks like a ten-year-old boy worried he’ll get caught for shooting out a window with a BB gun.

  When he sees me, his lips part but make no sound, like they’re waiting for the words to enter from the outside.

  I have none to offer, so I climb onto the bed and take him in my arms.

  Shane sobs without tears, heaving great, shuddering breaths that quake my body. He holds on to me so tight that for a moment I feel like I’ll squish up like a stress ball. But I’m made of strong stuff now, and I can take it.

  He pulls away finally and rests against the wall, tilting his head up to stare at the ceiling. “We need to call Lanham.”

  “He better find out how the hell this happened. If someone knew Jim escaped, they should’ve warned us.”

  “Yeah, that, too.”

  “There’s something else you want to talk to him about?”

  He lowers his chin to look straight at me. “Asking for a transfer.”

  “Out of Enforcement? I can understand why you’d want to do that after your first kill, but you’ve worked so hard, and if you start over in a different division, you’ll have to do a whole new training.” I can’t believe I’m arguing for him to stay an Enforcement agent. “Besides, Lanham will never let you do it. He’ll only color outside the lines when it’s his idea.”