by S. L. Eaves
A thin cloud of haze blankets the club. Big couches with velvet cushions line the walls. Tall retro bar stools clutter the floor, most shoved aside along with their small round table counterparts to make room for the dancers.
I can’t help but notice this guy leaning against the wall as we walk in. Dark hair falling over his eyes, chiseled jaw, leather jacket concealing his equally chiseled muscles, or so I imagine.
One of my friends is clutching my arm and I’m dragged to the bar in the back of the club. After a mandatory round of shots (that were too sweet for my taste) I order a vodka tonic and scan the crowd for the Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome. The band on stage is keeping the throng of moshers below them energized and lively, to say the least. My friends are counting the bartender’s piercings. I glimpse my mystery guy. He hasn’t moved from his spot on the wall.
He is watching the band, then as if feeling my eyes on him, his head turns to the bar where my friends and I are gathered. I try to look nonchalant, bobbing my head to the beat of the music. I feel like he’s watching me, but there are a hundred girls worth checking out at this club. The crowd separating us is too thick to make eye contact. His attention returns to the band and I sigh, shifting my focus to the drink I’m nursing. The mosh pit is calling my name. So is Kylie. I can barely hear her over the din.
“A couch just freed up. We’re going to grab it.” She is pointing to the makeshift lounge at the far right wall.
Even farther from my new eye candy. I notice the woman’s room not far from his location.
“Okay, I’ll be over. I’m gonna hit the bathroom first.”
She seems to understand and nods; we go our separate ways.
Good plan. I can always duck into the bathroom if things go south—say, if his girlfriend joins him.
He looks up at me over his cigarette.
"Bum a smoke?" I ask as cool and confidently as I can muster.
He smiles, fishes out his pack, a brand I don’t recognize, and shakes one free. I put it to my lips, returning his smile. His Zippo jumps to life and I notice his eyes for the first time, glassy and pale grayish-blue. I inhale and pull away from the flame, but his eyes keep me entranced.
“Name’s Catch, luv, what’s yours?” he asks with what sounds like a British accent but is hard to make out in this crowd.
“Lori.”
“You like this band?”
“Yeah, they’ve got amazing energy.”
We smoke and watch as the lead guitar player rips a solo.
“I like their first album,” Catch adds as he plays with his Zippo.
I admire the engraving on its side.
“What does that symbol mean?”
“It’s Gallic for life everlasting.”
“Immortality?”
He grins like he’s got a secret he’s dying to share.
“So where are you from in England?”
“Born outside London. Small town. Beautiful countryside.”
“I can imagine. What brings you to such a…a contrasting part of the world?”
“Ah, well that would be the babes and bands of course.” His smile widens.
“I find it hard to believe you don’t have plenty of both over there,” I jest.
“Speaking of babes, that was one large herd of blondes you walked in with.”
So he had noticed. But is he fishing for an introduction? Are blondes his thing? My hair is light, caramel highlights, but doesn't hold a candle to a few of my friends rocking fresh platinum dye jobs.
“They do move like a pack, I’ll give you that one.” I try to play it casual.
“You in a—what do you call ’em? Not frats.”
“Sorority?” Laughing, I say, “No. Do you want an introduction?”
“Nope, just an observation. They seem out of their element. So how did you trick them into entering this fine establishment?”
I am enthralled and impressed by his poise, his wit, and our meshing sense of humor.
“How do you know I did the tricking? Maybe they're big fans of this scene."
He rolls his eyes, cocks his head sideways. I cave.
“No cover, good drink specials. It was easy. ”
“They look mortified.”
He is right. They’d given up their couch to a group of goth-types and are now huddled around a cocktail table watching the crowd with wide eyes.
A thought. “How did you know I was in college?”
“Just a guess.” He hesitates, then shifts his weight and glances toward the door. “I’m not a fan of crowds. How ’bout we go somewhere quieter?”
He read my mind.
“Well, you jump right to the chase, now don’t you?”
Grinning, he takes my hand and whisks me through the door.
The night air is refreshing, the silence disarming.
“It’s too lovely a night to submerge ourselves in such a boisterous atmosphere.” Catch points to the sky. “This is my nightlife.”
I look up amidst the mass of sky rises. The waning moon rests squarely above our heads, ablaze on this clear night.
“You’re right; this city has very few nights as crisp and clear as this. You can almost see the stars.”
My guard is up slightly, but he strolls casually down the sidewalk. People are around. I figure if he is planning to try something sketchy he would’ve pulled me into an alley or his car. This feels more natural than anything else, like we’d done this before. And there's a romantic zeal to its spontaneity.
We walk a few blocks and reach a park. Catch runs his fingers up my arm, sending a chill down my spine. He wraps his leather jacket around my shivering shoulders, pulls me to him. I'm mesmerized by him.
My cell phone rings. One of the girls I’d left at the club.
He watches me as I debate answering. “You should let them know where you are.”
“Yeah…” I sigh and flip it open. “Hey, Brooke. Yeah, no, no—can you hear me? I went out for some air. I wasn’t feeling well.”
My words echo through the park as I compete with the club.
“Yeah, I’m fine. I’ll see you tomorrow. Have fun.”
I put my phone on silent.
“Sorry. My fault for not telling them I jetted.”
“Don’t apologize.”
“Was I yelling as loud as it felt? My ears are still ringing.”
“There’s no one here; it doesn't matter.”
The park is quiet and I’m starting to have second thoughts. He slides his arms around my back, eyes lock on mine. We share a spark-filled, passionate kiss. I hadn’t noticed his tongue ring.
We roll around in the grass like a couple of horny teenagers. The damp ground feels cold on my body, soaking through my clothes. Catch’s skin is freezing, but we keep each other warm. His lips find my earlobe, slide down my neck, and then I feel a sharp pain and everything goes dark.
***
“Stay with me, Lori. Come on!”
Catch presses his ear to Lori’s chest, his hand cupping the base of her skull, propping her head up.
He worries he drank too much. He removes switchblade from his back pocket, snaps it to life. The metal catches the moonlight as he brings it swiftly across his wrist. A quick glance confirms they are indeed alone in the park. He lowers his arm gingerly to her lips, under her nose.
“Drink, Lori. Please, you must or everything will go dark forever.” Catch struggles to pry her mouth open. She would want this, he tells himself.
The blood streams down his wrist and her throat. Minutes feel like eternity.
Catch collapses, weakened and trembling by Lori’s side. He checks repeatedly for a pulse, but there is none to be found. He’s unsure if this means it worked or failed. He stares at the corpse waiting for some kind of sign.
“Damn it, Adrian! Are you happy now? Is this what you wanted?”
***
Everything aches. My head is pounding, joints throbbing, nothing wants to function. I am lying on something soft. Bed. Good. Sl
eep. I just want to sleep.
How much did I drink last night? Must’ve been a lot. Figures.
There is a dense fog where my memory should be. It hurts to think. Can’t do it. Thirsty. I need water.
I envision an apple. Crisp, sweet. I bite into its skin, juice fills my mouth, lingers on my tongue. Delicious. Everything aches less.
More cravings. A large pizza with buttery crust, oozing with grease, cheese dripping off its edges: the ultimate hangover remedy next to a strong shot. That’d take the initial edge off. I’d start with some Jack if my stomach could handle it.
There is a song in my head I need to hear.
My eyes peel open.
I am not in my bed.
My vision’s blurry. I close my eyes and open them once more. I wait, trying not to panic. The room comes into focus. I do not know this place. My mind is racing to find a memory that isn’t there. The room is beige and maroon. And dark. The drapes are pulled tight.
I sit up. I feel queasy. My body aches. Drugs. I must be on drugs. Sitting atop a comforter, I take in my surroundings. A made bed in a small, bare room. Closed doors to my right. Closet? Bathroom? A doorway with no door and a shadow.
A figure leaning up against the wall. I see his eyes and gasp. I can no longer suppress the panic rising inside me. Gasping turns to coughing. I wasn’t breathing and my chest aches from the sudden effort.
He comes over and kneels at the edge of the bed.
“It’s okay. Just relax. Let it happen.”
Let what happen?
I look at him. He looks familiar. But different somehow. Something’s off, something’s not right. My hand is on my chest. Brought there instinctively from the coughing, now I realize there is no rhythm, no heartbeat.
That can’t be good.
I must have taken something strong, something really potent. I’m hallucinating. This is what I tell myself.
“Do you remember me?”
I nod slowly. Then shake my head. He smiles warmly and takes my hand in his. I do not pull away. It is cold, but comforting.
“What’s happening? Did you drug me? I can’t seem to remember.” My voice is hoarse, but even.
He opens his mouth to answer and maybe responds, but I can’t hear him. I am overcome by a seizing, paralyzing pain throughout my body. Everything blurs once again and then goes dark.
***
I awake sometime later. Same place. My head has cleared somewhat. I am not groggy like before, but weak and hungry. The drugs must have worn off. Okay, let’s try this again. I sit up slowly and climb off the bed. I’m standing. I feel gross. Cold sweat, fever kind of gross.
Where is the man from before?
“Hello?”
Nothing.
Should I be relieved? I don’t feel relieved. Confused, I make my way around the room. It’s a hotel suite and in the living room there’s a note on the coffee table written on pad bearing the hotel’s insignia.
“Everything will be all right. I'll explain. Sit tight. I’ll be back soon with dinner.”
Food. That works. Parched, I find a bottle of water in the mini fridge and chug it down. Should I run? Call someone? The person with the answers will be back soon. I'm in a city hotel. I'm not restrained or being held captive. I likely overdosed on some drugs. This isn't something I need to call the cops about. Plus the probation thing...I decide to take a shower.
Once in the bathroom, I look in the mirror expecting to see a train wreck with swollen, bloodshot eyes and mascara streaked down my face.
There is no one staring back.
A short while later I have showered and redressed, noticing blades of grass on my outfit and not remembering being anywhere but inside the club. I’m still not feeling well. The sharp pain in my abdomen refuses to surrender. This is not a typical hangover. This is something much worse.
My memory has not returned, but with every second that passes I'm realizing something’s terribly wrong. The bedroom light casts a shadow on the wall. I step into the light and stare at my silhouette. My fingers glide across the smooth, dark surface. The door opens and closes. It’s the man from before, and he’s carrying a bag.
“Hey. You’re awake.”
I look from him back to my shadow.
“How do you feel?” He sets the bag down.
“What is happening? Am I dreaming? Bad acid trip?”
He shakes his head. “Sorry to leave you. Truth is I didn’t expect you to regain consciousness for a while and I was going barmy up here.”
“Where is here?”
“Hotel uptown. Near Central Park. What do you remember?”
I cross the room to him. “How’d you know I wouldn’t run?”
“I didn’t. But I knew I’d find you.”
He regards my perplexed expression with kind eyes. Then his gaze moves to the bathroom where he spots the shards of glass from the mirror I’d shattered blanketing the tile.
“I’m sure you have questions.”
I raise my hand, revealing a jagged piece of the mirror. I bring it to his throat.
“What did you do to me?”
***
“I’m at a loss for where to start. In many ways it’s not my story to tell…so I’ll skip ahead a few centuries and begin with an incident that directly pertains to why we are both sitting here. Now.
“In 1973 The Covenant burned to the ground and a war began. The Covenant served as home to vampires, a place where they did not have to hide what they were, a sanctuary from a world that would never accept them. And they were okay with that. We are okay with that. It is preferable.
“Not every vampire lived in The Covenant, and those who chose not to were known as rogues. This choice is permitted as long as you lived by one main rule: do not risk exposure. This basically means no killing humans. It brings too much attention and is unnecessary in this day and age.
“Today, we survive mainly off blood banks and butchers. Our technology outmatches humans, as do our abilities, making it easy to slip in and out of places unnoticed. To procure what we need without drawing attention. And when money isn’t an issue, much of the world is at your disposal.
“Point is, if you lived at The Covenant you never went hungry. Rogues have to fend for themselves. But there’s plenty of places to score a meal without drawing attention. If we catch wind of a suspicious death and trace it to one of our own, we deal with it. Keep it in the family, so to speak.
“Which brings me to another important part of your new life. We talk like we’re immortal, but we’re not. We’re vulnerable to sunlight, wooden stakes through the heart, and crosses…well they just burn, but get a big enough one and a hunter can crucify you into a pile of ash. Extreme circumstances can kill us, too—decapitation, explosions, fire, fall from a plane—you get the idea.
“Consumption of human blood accelerates the healing process and slows the aging process. We can live for centuries if we keep these human bodies—hosts—well fed with fresh blood, preferably of the same species.
“You are much stronger than you were as human—reflexes faster, senses heightened—your skills are boundless. And I will show you how to master them, or at least I’ll try to. This brings us to Purebloods. They are the oldest of us, our ancestors. There were once four or five known to exist; now we know of two that walk among us, possibly a third. My guess is there are more; they just choose not to reveal themselves. Purebloods are pure demon. They share few human attributes and they are incredibly powerful.
“Like us, they need blood to survive. And vampires are born of their blood. They have created others, who then created more vampires and the bloodlines continue. Purebloods have always been very selective about who they turn and have turned very few themselves. It’s a power thing. They made us and they can destroy us. Disobedience has severe consequences.
“Most vampires are third and fourth generation bloodlines. We are hybrids. We wear our human face like a mask. Unmask to reveal yellow eyes and fangs. We can control this t
ransformation. I will teach you. We do not have a reflection, as you discovered, but cameras can capture our image.
“You do not have a pulse. You do not breathe. Your body has died. The life your body lived is gone.”
Catch clears his throat and sips vodka from a chilled glass. I stare at the glass he’s given me. It is not clear and I have no intention of drinking its contents.
“We are at war with werewolves. When humans are bitten by these rabid beasts, their blood is infected and they undergo a transformation within a few hours. Once slaves to the full moon and few in number, they lived in fearful seclusion. Times have changed. Now they are growing in population and are becoming more brazen by each passing night.
“Like many species, they have evolved; they have learned how to control their instincts and can transform at will. Their strength is heightened by the full moon, but it no longer dictates their state. And they’ve organized against us and against humans. They now present a very real and rapidly growing threat.
“Silver through the heart or head kills them. Heart especially. Head, you might need a few. Personally, I opt for decapitation. Extreme circumstances seem to be as effective on them as us, even more so in fact because they are more reliant on their human form than we are. Their human form must stay alive. They are mortals. Very hard to kill, not susceptible to many otherwise lethal measures, but mortals nonetheless.
“There’s another aspect that works to our advantage, though I’ve never had occasion to use it. The infected can be cured if blood is neutralized before transformation. Used to be we had until first full moon; now we’re not sure. Seems like most humans experience the change within hours of becoming infected. Bitten. Werewolf saliva enters the veins and controls and contorts the human form. Find an infected and contaminate the poor bloke with vampire blood and it works as a cure. Prevents the change. Doesn’t work once the mutation has completed. Trust me, we’ve tried.
“Conversely, a wolf’s bite cannot infect a vampire. We are already dead and immune to infection.
“And it takes more than a bite from a vampire to turn a human. For a human to turn into a vampire, the human has to consume a vampire’s blood after the bite and I’m talking large amounts. Drinking a vampire’s blood alone won’t kill or turn a human or have any long-term effects. Mind you, I’m not telling you this because I want you to practice it; I just want you to understand how it works. The process essentially kills the body. For resurrection to occur a death – of sorts – has to happen.”
