Soon it goes limp. I must have hit the brain. Part of me is grossed out, but I love this knife, so I pull it out, shuddering at the sucking sound it makes as I do.
“Gross,” I mutter to myself, looking around for somewhere to wipe the blade off.
A slow clapping spurs me to spin around. And there’s Foster-fucking-Graham, leaning against a blue city mailbox, grinning and applauding.
“You . . .” I stalk his way. “What are you . . . Did you just sit there and watch me fight that thing?”
He shrugs. Raises one corner of his mouth in a smile.
“At what point were you going to step in and help me?”
“Didn’t look like you needed help. Here.” He reaches out for my knife, still slimy from the creature’s eye. He wipes it on the grass a few times, holds it up to examine it, then reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a bandana. After thoroughly cleaning the knife, he hands it back to me.
“I could have used a hand, Foster.” Of course, I didn’t really. And pride surges through me to know he was aware I could take care of myself.
“Do you think I’d let you get hurt?” He pulls me toward him, crushing me into his chest. He’s cool, and it feels so good. I realize I’m hot and sweaty, and my heart is still pounding from the fight.
“I thought you were the one who wanted to hurt me.”
“Sometimes,” he admits. “But I never would. You just . . . confuse me, Thea. When I’m with you, I feel things I’ve never felt before. I want things I’ve never wanted. Things I shouldn’t be thinking about.”
I should be scared. Even more scared of him than I was of the hideous thing I just killed. I know that, among everything he’s hinting, at least one of his desires is to kill me. But I also trust him, as stupid as that is. I know he wouldn’t hurt me. No matter what he had to do to stop himself, I’m positive he’d do it.
People are starting to venture out into the street, some of them getting close to the monster for a few seconds long enough to snap a photo with a phone. They’re timid. Afraid. And they should be. They’ve never seen anything like this, and I have a feeling there’s more to come.
“You don’t want to be out here.” I step away from Foster and into the street. “It’s dangerous. There’s more where this came from.”
Most of the people run back to their houses or stores or wherever they came from.
“What’s going on? What is that thing?” asks a man, pointing at it and facing me, a frown on his face as though I’m somehow responsible.
“Don’t know. But it almost killed me. And if there are more coming, you don’t want to be in their path.”
“Who are you?” he asks.
“Nobody. Just trying to help. Seriously? You need to get inside. Now.” As if on cue, a loud cawing sound, mixed with flapping, as of giant wings, fills the air. I look up to see what might be a bird, but looks more like a pterodactyl. Instead of feathers, it’s scaly, but each scale shimmers bluish purplish. It reminds me of what Melliana’s scales would look like if she wasn’t sick in that tank on Floor Zero.
The animal caws again as it swoops downward. But as it gets closer I see its eyes, filled with fear instead of the vicious anger like the thing I just killed. Like it’s here, but not by its own choice. It looks terrified.
Screams fill the air as the remaining people scatter, disappearing into buildings and homes. I stand my ground as I watch it approach. It lands only slightly clumsily, tilting to one side and the other as it tucks its wings back and looks around.
Fear shines through its gray eyes as we gaze at one another. It doesn’t want to hurt me. I can tell. But it doesn’t want to be here either, and no sooner has it landed than it takes off, crying into the air as it flies away.
I turn back to Foster. “What the hell is going on?”
“I think I know. Come on. Let’s get out of here.” He grabs my hand and we run a block and a half to a shiny red BMW i8. “Get in,” he says as its two doors open upward like the wings of a bird spreading wide.
“This is yours?” I stand still, slack jawed, staring at him.
“Get in.”
“If tattoo artists make this much money, I’m in the wrong career.” I climb into the low, race-car styled seat.
“Do anything for over a hundred years and you’ll make enough money.” Foster starts the engine and peels off.
“Why be a tattoo artist anyway?” I ask, pushed back against my seat by the force of his speed.
He slows down the car and frowns at me. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, why choose a profession in which you have to work on a person closely for hours at a time? Don’t you, like, want to eat them all? Suck their blood? Why put yourself in the way of constant, unrelenting, taboo desire?”
Foster turns right, the car hugging the corner. “I need to test myself.” He’s silent for a few seconds. “I need to know that I’m in control. And what better way to prove it to myself—constantly—than by putting myself in a position where I’m always confronted by my most terrible desire?” His voice is deep and dark and tinged with pain and sorrow.
“I’m sorry.” For what, I’m not sure. That I asked? That his life is full of suffering? “Tattoo me.”
“What?” He takes his eyes off the road just long enough to look at me.
“Tattoo me. I want you to work on me.”
“Thea . . . no. Why?”
I shrug. I’m actually not sure. “I want a tattoo? And wouldn’t it be insulting if I went somewhere else to get it?” I grin at him. “And afterwards, you can lock the door to your shop and we can . . .” I let my words trail off, remembering how erotic it was to watch Foster fuck that girl. But this time, there’s more than a tinge of jealousy at the memory.
He looks at me sharply. “You saw that.” It’s a statement.
I nod.
“Jealous?”
My first instinct is to deny it, but fuck if it isn’t true. I shrug. “Maybe. But only a little.”
“I won’t do it again.”
“Do what?”
“Fuck other girls.” He shifts gears, then takes my hand and squeezes.
“Okay.”
“And?” He glares at me.
“And . . . I won’t be with any other guys.”
“Good.”
“Good.” I grin at him.
“Maybe we can figure out this whole human vampire dating thing after all,” he says as he navigates around a giant frog, the size of a small car, sitting like a slimy lump in the middle of the street.
“What the fuck? I think that was a Wuhnan toad!”
Foster nods.
“So tell me why they’re all here. And where we’re going.”
“I’ve talked to some of my contacts . . .”
“What kind of contacts?” I interrupt. “Other vampires?”
He nods. “Mostly. And a few different types of creatures. Werewolves. And . . . it doesn’t matter. What we think is going on has to do with the ability you have. To sense cryptids? Well, all cryptids have that same ability, to varying degrees. Some can actually communicate real thoughts with it. Some, who don’t have very strong brains to begin with, only get signals. Sounds. But when cryptids are in danger in large numbers—which must be happening here, probably with Marcus’ experiments—others from around the world are called. They gather. Some of the more intelligent ones know why they’ve come. Some just do it almost through instinct. And they fight against whatever they see. Like that thing you killed back there. Or the Mongolian Death Worm downtown.”
I nod. “Okay. Do you hear it? The signal from the other cryptids? The ones in danger?”
“Yeah, but it’s too much. It’s a cacophony with no meaning. So I don’t tap into it. It’s probably the same with you.”
“But how are they getting here? I mean, that bird thing back there could fly. But what about that asshole monster I killed back there? Or the Mongolian Death Worm?”
“The worm could have travelled
underground. There’s a theory that some of them can transport themselves.”
“Like through a portal?” It sounds ridiculous. Then again, that’s what people think about cryptids. And I know for a fact they’re real.
“Kind of. Or just rearranging their particles from one place to another.” Foster shakes his head. “I’m not sure. All I know is they’re here. And more are coming.”
“Where are we going?” I look outside at the strangely abandoned streets. People must be getting the news that it’s not safe to be outdoors.
“The Center. We’re going to visit Marcus.”
“Wait. I need to stop at my place. Leon has my pistol. I’ve got another at home.”
“On it.” Foster turns suddenly to change directions, the car skidding and screeching.
“Jesus,” I mutter. “You’re almost two hundred years old and you still drive like an asshole?”
Foster throws back his head and laughs as he drives—practically flies—down the street.
9
Mrs. Bachman crosses her arms over her polyester house coat and glares at Foster and me as we ascend the stairs. She looks pointedly at me. “I see you’ve got a visitor.”
“Yes, Mrs. Bachman. This is Foster Graham.”
Foster steps forward and smiles at her while bowing his head slightly. “It’s a pleasure.”
“Hmph.” She looks him up and down.
“Listen,” I say. “Mrs. Bachman, stay in your apartment today, all right? There’s a lot of, uh, crime outside right now.”
“Are you talking about the animals on the news? I don’t believe any of that.” She shakes her head dismissively. “A giant worm downtown? Ridiculous.” She sniffs.
“As a favor to me, then? Please stay home today.” I beg her with my eyes, but I know she’s as stubborn as I am.
“I need to get to the grocery store. I’m all out of prunes and these biscuits I love. They’re called digestives, like they eat over in England. I have them with my afternoon tea, you know.” Mrs. Bachman tilts her head as she looks at me.
“Right. What if I get you some? I’ll drop them off in, say, half an hour?”
“I suppose that would be fine. All right then.” She looks from Foster to me.
“Bye, Mrs. Bachman.” I smile and wave as we head to my apartment, trying to ignore the look of disapproval on her face.
Inside my place, Foster bursts out laughing. “I thought she was going to ask me to wait outside your apartment while you went in.”
I roll my eyes. “She’s a little overbearing. But she means well. Deep down inside. I mean, deep, deep down inside.” In my bedroom I pull my safe out from under the bed and punch in the code. The safe beeps and clicks as it unlocks. I retrieve my Glock and holster and an already filled magazine, which I snap into the gun. “All set.”
“Anyone ever tell you you’re pretty badass?” Foster’s staring at me from the doorway, where he leans on the frame.
I shrug. “Don’t need anyone to tell me.” I pull my leather jacket on so it covers the gun and brush past him on my way into the living room.
He grabs my arm, stopping my motion, and pulls me into him. I crash against his chest, all hard muscles and cool flesh.
“I wish we had time.” His voice is an icy growl against my ear.
“For what?” I grin up into his glinting eyes.
He shrugs. “This.” His hands are at the fly of my jeans, undoing it in a second and pushing my pants and underwear down. He pushes his jeans down just enough to release his huge hardness, then lifts me until he’s at my entrance. Kicking off my jeans, I wriggle my body and then groan as I find the right position and he slides inside me.
I wrap my legs around his waist as he turns so his back is against the wall. And we fuck.
It’s hard. And fast. And over in a few minutes, but not before I come, gripping him with my legs and arms, holding on tight as the orgasm unleashes inside me.
“You’re dangerous,” I whisper as I slide off him to stand on my own.
“You have no idea.” He bites my neck, just hard enough to hurt.
I know my heart is beating fast from what we just did, and I’m sure he can hear my blood circulating quickly through my body. I wonder what it feels like to him, to want something you can’t have. Or, by having it, you could no longer hold it. Having your cake and eating it too makes a whole lot of sense right now.
“We have to go.” I hurry into the bathroom to clean up, and then we head out the door.
“How often do you eat?” I’m grabbing the closest thing I can find to Mrs. Bachman’s biscuits, which is a pack of Oreos. The small grocery store on the corner has a limited selection.
Foster runs his fingers over some cans of soup. “I’ve never had this.”
“What? Canned soup? Everyone’s had canned soup.”
“Wasn’t a thing when I was growing up. And since I’m no longer human, the few times I eat food I reserve for things I actually enjoy. Like dark chocolate.” He winks at me.
“You’re so weird.” But my pulse ricochets remembering how he fed me the chocolate in my kitchen.
There aren’t any prunes, so I grab a dusty, large box of raisins and drop it into my basket. “And you didn’t answer my question.”
“I can go a long time without feeding. Weeks. But I get weak. I try to eat once a week. Or every few days.” He isn’t looking at me. I can’t tell if he’s embarrassed or what.
“And you drink blood from, what? Deer? Dogs?”
“Not dogs. Not pets, Thea. You really think I’d do that?” Now he turns to me, his eyes narrowed.
“Of course not. No! I’m just asking. Making conversation.”
“Strays sometimes. Deer, yeah. Coyotes once in a while. Look, I don’t want to talk about this here.” He glances around as though people are in ear shot, but they’re not. The shop is empty except for the half-asleep clerk at the counter, and we’re all the way in the back anyway. There’s no way he could hear us.
“Fine.” Whatever. I don’t have time to argue right now. I add some chocolate covered peanuts and two of the cans of soup Foster was looking at to my basket. In front of the sleepy clerk is a bowl of slightly bruised apples and browning bananas, and I put one of each on the counter with the other groceries for Mrs. Bachman. I figure she could use a few extra things. I wish I had time to go to a better store, but that’s not a luxury we have right now. We need to get to The Center and confront Marcus. Maybe that way we can figure out exactly what’s going on—and how to stop it.
“Come on.” I glare at Foster, who’s taken a seat on the stoop outside my building.
“Seriously? You really want me to suffer, don’t you?” Foster laughs as he gets up and follows me.
“What are you talking about?”
Foster grabs my hand. Holds it. I don’t hold hands. But his is kind of nice, albeit cold. “It’s no secret that Mrs. Bachman doesn’t exactly like me,” he says.
“Ha! No, she doesn’t. And she’ll like you less when you give her the wrong groceries.”
“Me? No way!” Foster holds the front door to the building open for me. “You’re the one who has to tell her they didn’t have her special biscuits. Or prunes.”
“Fine. But smile at her! You have a nice smile.”
“Theadora! Is that an actual compliment?”
“So you’ve noticed I give them out sparingly?” I grin up at him.
“I’ve noticed you don’t give them out at all.” He squeezes my hand as we continue up the stairs.
“That’ll have to last you a long time, then.” I wink. Outside Mrs. Bachman’s door, I knock. “Hello? Mrs. Bachman? I brought your groceries!”
I wait a second listening for her footsteps inside, but I hear nothing. Frowning, I knock again. “Mrs. Bachman? It’s Thea. Can I come in?”
Still nothing. I put my hand on the doorknob, glancing back at Foster and giving him a warning look as I nod toward the apartment. My other hand hovers above my holste
red pistol. I have a bad feeling. My gut’s saying something’s not right.
The door’s unlocked, and I pull it open stepping back as I do and looking inside. “Oh shit! Mrs. Bachman!” She’s sitting on the floor, slouched back against the couch as though she slid off it. Her eyes are closed and there’s no movement. “Damn it!” I rush to her, feeling at her neck for a pulse. She has one. Weak but there.
“Call nine-one-one,” I order Foster as I gently shake Mrs. Bachman. “It’s Thea,” I say to her. “I’m right here. You’re going to be okay.”
She’s completely limp with no response whatsoever.
“What’s the address?” asks Foster. I look up to answer, and just as I do an expression crosses his face before it goes completely blank. He opens his mouth as if to tell me something, but then he crumples down to the ground.
I grab my pistol as I jump to standing, but it’s too late. I feel the shark prick in my shoulder just as I see Marcus step out from the hallway. He gives me a sad smile as I sink away into blackness.
10
Someone’s humming Iggy Pop’s “Lust for Life.” And my arms don’t work. My nose itches, but I can’t get my hand up to scratch it. Nausea roils up in my throat, but I manage to breathe in deeply through my nose and stay calm and still.
Slowly I open my eyes.
The lab. Or a lab. Probably somewhere on Floor Zero of The Center, because it’s Marcus humming as he stands in front of a stretcher on which a body lies flat.
Foster. His left shoulder is showing, the swirls of his now familiar tattoos proof it’s him lying there.
I don’t realize I’ve gasped until Marcus turns to me, a grim smile on his face. “Thea. Good morning. Well, evening.” He chuckles as he looks down at his watch.
“Marcus.” My mouth is dry, my lips cracking as I speak. How long have I been out?
“Three hours,” he says, as though reading my mind. “You were wondering how long you’ve been asleep, right?”
I nod, though it’s difficult. I’m strapped down to a stretcher like Foster is, except on mine the head is raised, as though Marcus wanted me to come-to in a reclined but sitting position. So I could see everything around me.
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