“No,” said Thomas weakly.
“Oh, you mean a coupla hours ago? When you got straight up mauled by that chap? That was brutal, kid. I couldn’t help but hear your scuffle though. Barely made it in time to scare the guy off. He was a blood junkie anyway, but I woulda liked to see the look on Ernest’s face when he got back, barely alive.” Lawrence chuckled.
Thomas remained on the ground and closed his eyes to stop the spinning. He could barely follow this Lawrence guy at all. Blood junkie? Ernest? He rubbed his eyes, but it didn’t help, so he peeked through his eyelids. Lawrence kept smiling at him, and there was something on his wrist. Thomas squinted. Puncture wounds, a bite mark, dried blood—he remembered. Some freak had sucked on his wrist, elbow, neck—drinking blood.
“I need to get to a hospital. Can you take me?”
“What’re they gonna do, kid? Check your pulse? Look, I’m here to help. You gotta learn to trust your Lawrence.”
Thomas began to wonder how anyone could trust this guy.
“I need to leave,” he said and began to struggle onto his feet. The pain twisted inside him, hurting more than anything he’d ever experienced, but it also seemed to fuel him. Despite being dizzy, he pushed himself up. He wobbled on two feet, and Lawrence reached out to steady him.
“Now, now, you can take it slow. No need to jump up like a rabbit in the snow.”
Thomas gave him a wry look. Despite Lawrence’s strange demeanor and bad idioms, Thomas sensed caring in his voice.
“Sit, boy, lemme get you a drink,” Lawrence said, sliding a chair toward Thomas and helping him sit down.
As the strange man strode behind the bar, Thomas shook his head. The pain building in his head and throughout his body didn’t dislodge as he’d hoped. He felt feeble, but the hunger inside continued to grow. An energy emanated from within him.
“You’re probably feeling mighty thirsty, right now, eh?”
“Yes,” Thomas replied, still not sure how much he should trust the man. How had Lawrence known that?
“Well this,” he said, plopping a dark mug in front of Thomas. “This is sure to help. Trust me.”
“Thanks.” Thomas said, desperate for anything to satisfy his thirst. The deep, longing thirst.
He raised the mug to his lips and a familiar metallic scent wafted beneath his nose. He’d smelled it every day at the hospital and most recently, last night—although it was fainter then. It was blood. He was sure of it.
“What the hell?” Thomas dropped the mug and peered into it. A thick, red substance swirled around the cup.
“Drink up, kid. Trust me.”
“You keep saying that,” Thomas said as he shoved the mug away. The dark blood slopped over one side by the handle. Its metallic smell enticed him, which irritated him even more. “But I don’t know you. Some freak drank my blood last night, and now you want me to do it, too? That’s blood, Lawrence. Blood.”
“It’s what you need, kid. You’ll feel right as rain, better than a spring chicken, firing on all cylinders, bouncin’ off the walls, brand spankin’ new after a little bit of red stuff.”
Thomas stared at Lawrence in disbelief. The man was crazy.
“What the hell do you think I am, Lawrence? A vampire? This is ridiculous. I’m leaving—I need to get to the hospital.” Thomas shoved his chair back, the wooden legs screeching across the floor and echoing in the silent pub.
Lawrence frowned and rubbed his eyes. “I hate to be the gent who has to break the bad news all the time. There ain’t no easy way to put this, kid. But yeah, you called it. The blood junkie who attacked you last night meant to suck you dry. Because you had the cahones to fight back, he bit you quite a few times—enough to turn you at least. You’re a vampire now. And you need that blood.” He pointed at the mug. The spilled blood had left a wet trail down the side and puddled on the counter.
Thomas’ body ached for him to reach out his hand and grab the mug, to lick the side of the mug and to drink. How could he consider that? Disgusted, he pushed it further away. His hand brushed the spill when he released the mug’s handle.
The energy inside of him began to rage. His dizziness faded, and his craving increased. He was thirsty—parched. But for blood?
He imagined tilting the mug and feeling the warm liquid rush down his throat. Was it warm? Or did Lawrence keep it chilled? His interest both terrified him and soothed him. Goosebumps spread over his arms, and he forced his eyes away from the mug. How could he want to drink blood?
“I’m out, Lawrence. I guess, thanks for saving me. But vampires don’t exist.” Thomas used his newfound energy to head for the door.
“I wouldn’t go out there, kid. Sun’s only a few moments from stretching itself over the horizon.”
Too late. Thomas pushed open the pub door and stepped out into the bitter winter air. The night’s chill cut through his shredded coat. He was tired. Injured. Some energy boiled within him, but he was so thirsty. He needed to find a hospital and was in an unfamiliar part of the city. He searched his pockets for his phone but remembered he’d lost it during the attack, probably breaking it in the process. Sighing, he walked straight, hoping to find a main street with a name he recognized. After several blocks, he discovered he was closer to his apartment than he’d thought. He could go home first. Get some water. Then he could swing by a hospital for a full diagnosis of his injuries.
The empty streets were unusual in Colesbrooke, even in the early morning. Older buildings with chipped paint and signs lined the quiet streets. Scattered street lamps illuminated closed bars on a few windows. Normally Thomas would have walked faster, but now there was no one to notice that his clothes were torn and bloody, that his skin was bruising and scrapped. And the occasional person who did join him on the street kept to themselves. He preferred it that way, although he was tempted to swing by the drugstore on the corner that was open for early morning customers. The opening shift associate shouldn’t care—he would be half asleep as he nursed a foam cup of bland coffee. Thomas could slip in, purchase a water bottle, and not come under suspicion. He needed the water; he had at least a good half hour of walking to get to his apartment. The thirst needed to be quenched. Now.
The nineteen-year-old boy at the register shot Thomas a suspicious glance as he shakily put a huge water bottle on the counter.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine. Just the water,” said Thomas.
The kid took his money and let him leave, but Thomas was sure the cashier thought he was on drugs. Maybe he’d call the police, but Thomas didn’t care. He finally had something to drink.
Thomas stepped onto the side road the store cornered on and ripped off the bottle twist cap, the plastic splintering. The pain he felt inside kept growing and spreading, along with the building energy. It stemmed from the pain and wanted him to quench his thirst. The paradox of feelings was unsettling, and he wiped sweat from his forehead. Time to end the drought. He chugged the water. It was ice as it rolled down his throat, the condensation from the store’s coolers making the bottle slippery. Each swallow left his mouth drier, so he kept drinking until he’d drained the bottle.
He still felt thirsty. The feeling overpowered him, and he collapsed onto his knees in the middle of the sidewalk. Why was he thirsty? Why hadn’t the water helped? He could hardly focus on anything besides the parched feeling coating his insides.
The sun’s first rays peaked through the sky and distant skyscrapers. Small waves of light reached Thomas’ skin and scorched him. Thomas swore, tucking his hands into his jacket. In disbelief, he held his hand up. A ray of light rested across his palm, and his skin began to bubble and blister. He yelped and sprinted for better covering as the sun lightened the horizon and the area around him. All his exposed skin flared in pain as it withered in the weak light.
A large overhang attached to a nearby church cast a dim shadow in the day’s new light. Thomas dove into the shade. He lay there for a moment, panting, but the shade did little against t
he morning sun’s glow. Desperate to escape the light and pain, he scrambled up the wide stairs toward the chapel doors.
A strong hand grabbed his shoulder, tugging him away from the chapel door. “Glad I found you, kid. You don’t wanna go in there. That’ll burn your hands as sure as the sun did.”
It was Lawrence. He’d followed Thomas all the way here?
“Look, Lawrence, stop calling me kid. I’m Thomas.”
“I was wonderin’ when you’d tell me your name.”
“And I’m going inside because I’m dying out here.” Tears welled up in his eyes. “I hurt, and I can’t think straight.”
Thomas faced the doors and reached out to push them open, but as soon as he touched them his hand burned, sounding like sizzling bacon. He screamed and stumbled backward. His full hand was red, and where he’d touched the door the skin had burned away, revealing scorched bone, muscle, and ligaments.
Thomas’ stomach churned and he collapsed on the top step under the church’s overhang. A leftover patch of ice in the shade was cool against the side of his face, but it offered little comfort to the pain throbbing from his hand. It overwhelmed his other sense of feelings, and he struggled to focus as he cradled it against his chest. He needed to treat it, bandage it, but he could only whimper.
He’d only survived the night’s attack to die in this strange way. Burned by the sun he’d lived under every day, his skin dissipated by a wooden door. A nightmare during wakefulness.
Lawrence offered a small juice box. “Look, Thomas, I don’t normally bring the red stuff outside the pub if I can avoid it. But I knew you’d need it when the day began. You’ve got to trust me, kid,” he said, punching a straw through the juice box and handing it to Thomas. Thomas snatched it with his unburned hand and the liquid sloshed inside. A small swell of renewed energy bubbled inside him, and his stomach lurched in anticipation as the metallic scent reached his nose.
What else could he do? He could continue to feel like he was dying, or he could trust Lawrence. The cravings inside him made his decisions for him, and he put his lips to the straw, unable to stop himself.
A thin stream of blood washed through his mouth and throat, relieving the dryness the water had amplified. The cold liquid was thick and tasted of metal. Thomas’ initial repulsion toward drinking blood didn’t fade, but his body relaxed and the pain in his hand dampened. He felt more refreshed than if he’d drunk ice-cold water or Gatorade after a spirited ball game with Sean. The hunger and thirst dissipated, and his head cleared. He sucked down the rest of the drink, trying to convince himself it wasn’t blood, despite the salty iron after-taste.
His hand tingled and he sat up to inspect the gruesome burn. The pain wasn’t as intense, and the muscles and tendons itched as they grew back, intertwining around his bones correctly. He watched in shock as blisters formed and faded, revealing pink skin spread over the healed wound. Even the swollen blisters on his arms and legs repaired themselves.
“Lawrence,” Thomas whispered, unable to look away from new pink skin on his hand. “You’ve got a lot of explaining to do.”
“Oh, I know, kid, but you’ve gotta get back to the bar first. You’re gonna need more blood, and I hate the sun as much as you do. Here, take these.”
Lawrence pulled out a wide-brimmed hat, a bright pink pair of dark sunglasses, a dark scarf, and a huge bottle of sunscreen from an oversized duffle bag at his feet and handed them to Thomas.
“Will sunscreen really work?” Thomas asked.
“This ain’t no regular off-the-shelf sunscreen, bud. This is some special ordered-it-from-Europe-specifically-for-vamps-like-you-and-me kinda sunscreen. It works, kid. Hurry up and slather it on so we can get back before these streets are jammed up with folks.”
The swell of energy from the anticipation of blood remained and had grown to a strong force that thrilled Thomas. He felt rejuvenated—energetic. He jumped up and slathered on the sunscreen. He’d never taken such care to not miss any spots on his skin, coating himself with the thick cream to avoid blistering again. As he worked, questions piled in his mind. He needed to follow Lawrence back to the pub. He needed answers.
“I’m ready.”
“One more thing, kid.” Lawrence pulled out a tiny dark umbrella and handed it to Thomas. “Yeah, you’ll look weird and all, but you’re new to this. It’ll help.”
“Thanks,” said Thomas. He followed after Lawrence, using the built-up energy to match the older man’s brisk pace.
◆◆◆
Were it not for Lawrence’s lead, Thomas might have passed by the Red Lightning Pub without noticing it. If the poor upkeep of the bar was any indication, he was certain not many potential customers existed for the place. The pub was located in the corner of a large red brick apartment building that was pockmarked and weatherworn. The bar windows were made from dark, tinted glass and crisscrossed with rusted bars. The sturdiest part of the pub was the massive set of oak double doors standing proudly beneath a long green canvas canopy jutting out from the building and slanting to one side.
On any other occasion Thomas would have found a certain appeal in the chic, rustic atmosphere portrayed by the bar. Right now, all he cared about was getting inside. Despite the sunscreen, his skin ached and the sun felt abnormally hot.
“Ah, here we are. Now, I’ll be the first to admit it ain’t the most hoity-toity of places around, but this pub and I go way back,” Lawrence said with a nostalgic sigh. “Very close to my heart. Then again, not many places around are built for people like you and me, kid. Not a lot of places at all.”
“People like you and me,” Thomas repeated. His brain felt like it had a stuck cog. Nothing registered the way it should.
Lawrence stepped up to the big oak doors and threw them open.
“Right this way, kid. And it’ll be okay to take the glasses off once you’re inside. The place is dim to add to the—whatcha wanna call it? Majesty of it all? No, that ain’t the right word. Ambience. That’s it.”
The rush of muggy air from the open door soothed Thomas more than standing beneath the shade of the canopy. He sighed and stepped into the bar behind Lawrence, grateful for the relief from the sun.
The moment Thomas cleared the threshold, Lawrence swung the heavy oak doors shut. The resounding thud and the quick departure of light from the outside drew a deep, satisfied sigh from Thomas’ throat that sounded strange to his own ears. His brain groaned against its stuck cog as Thomas tried to process how appealing he now found the darkness.
Thomas eyed the inside of the Red Lightning Pub as if for the first time. The main room could have doubled for the backdrop to a Jazz era speakeasy. Maybe it was a Jazz era speakeasy that had managed to survive into the modern age.
There were a few circular tables and chairs placed at random across the scratched-up hardwood floor. A large wooden counter with rows of worn, squat stools waited at the far end of the room, a wall of amber glass and green bottles resting behind it. A small stage was built on the opposite side of the wooden counter, and Thomas doubted an entire band could fit up there.
He headed over to the counter, taking a seat if only to rest his feet, and shed the awkward accessories Lawrence had armed him with. As soon as he sat down, the wild energy he’d felt earlier vanished and a wave of fatigue unlike any other settled throughout his body. He leaned heavily on the bar, repulsed with himself.
Once again his stomach growled, but Thomas was too tired to care anymore.
That was when he smelled it.
It was as if a lightning bolt raced down his spine, so sudden was his renewed vigor. His eyes snapped open and he sat straight up, his heart raced and his stomach released out a thunderous growl of need.
“Ha, that’s a look I haven’t seen in a while. At least on my own mug, anyway. Then again, it’s been a while since I was nearly as thirsty as you are, kid. You haven’t had enough to drink yet,” Lawrence said, his tone had lost some of its initial cheerfulness and was more somber. “As it’s
your first day, this one’s on the house.”
Lawrence passed a topped-off glass Thomas’ way, expertly sliding it down the bar toward him. Thomas practically pounced on the glass. He grabbed it with both hands, his hunger affecting his manners. At the sight of the undulating liquid, Thomas was once again seized by an uncontrollable, obsessive desire that almost sent him to his knees.
It was excruciating.
Pressure built behind Thomas’ eyes, and, for a moment, he worried he might be delirious. Some animal need inside of him ordered him to drink, that everything would be better as long as he satisfied this craving and stopped the hunger. But another part of him, a more human part, was still revolted at the thought of drinking blood.
It was wrong.
“Go ahead, kid. Drink,” Lawrence said gently. “You need more before you’ll be back to normal speed, especially since your squabble with the sun and door.”
The need kept building until Thomas couldn’t control it or his thoughts any longer. It was too much. He was at his limit. The blood danced before his eyes. It was time to let go. He’d already drank it before, right? And he was ravenous. . . .
Clenching his eyes shut tight, Thomas raised his glass with shaking hands and parted his lips, self-loathing etched into every movement. The moment he pressed the rim of the glass to his lips, he lost control and tipped the glass too fast. Blood splashed into his mouth and down his chin. The animal need inside him was ecstatic. Every fiber of his being sighed as he tasted copper, iron, and salt.
The blood was more than delicious. It satisfied his intense craving.
Tipping back his head, Thomas greedily drained the glass. The moment the blood settled in his stomach, the euphoria of the drink faded and was replaced with something that terrified Thomas.
Strength.
With his hunger sated, Thomas felt vitality. The false strength granted by his hunger faded and was replaced by raw power seeping into his bones, saturating the marrow and flooding his veins. It wasn’t normal strength. He felt unstoppable. Every muscle he had radiated with a newfound energy that strained to be used.
Shadows of Colesbrooke Page 3
