I sit at the bar pondering the lust to rip flesh apart but not the heart to dive into it. I’ve deprived myself of its incomparable sweetness for the better part of five decades, but my body grows weary and my resolve is reduced to mere gossamer. The temptation consumes like nothing else.

The last time I lost control, it resulted in the death of the most beautiful face ever prematurely veiled. Either I’ve denied myself for so long to spare any other tender girl the same fate, or perhaps I haven’t been looking out for anyone but myself and simply haven’t seen another face that can compare to her memory, a face that could make me believe I’m more than I am, a beast full of never-ending bloodlust.

The reason why I’ve kept my yearning fangs out of young, taut female necks matters little. The end result is the same—I am tired of fighting and feel deader than those that are allowed to rest in afterlife. If I can’t have peace, then I’ll embrace the distraction of temptation—to give in and plant the sharp kiss that my body aches for into some pretty thing.

I sit in a mostly empty bar on Decatur, a place for people avoiding the Quarter crowd. The wooden planks on the walls are aged, and much like me, they no longer have the strength they once had. Nearby it’s very different. The clamor just down the street beckons me. The pounding of the hot, crowded dancing pulses through me. All that I’ve avoided and craved drinks, dances, and flirts within my reach. I can almost taste it in the air floating down this infamous street to me.

Adding to my frustrations, the world misunderstands us vampires. Few believe we exist. Those that do believe have such strange notions of what we are.

The most absurd notion is that a bitten human will turn into a vampire. It’s biologically ridiculous. You are a human because you have human DNA. Vamps have their own cursed genes. A vamp can no easier change your DNA into that of a bloodsucker than your dog could bite your ankles and make you chase cars, roll over, and become fixated with sniffing other canine rumps. A bite can only transfer saliva and blood. Drinking a giraffe’s blood or saliva can’t mystically make you 15 feet tall with a long, spotted neck. Neither can vamp blood turn you into one of us. There is no magic substance to make you into another being.

The only thing you’ll turn into from a vampire biting your neck is, if he or she indulges for a moment too long, a dead human.

Secondly, vampires are not regal and elegant. Blood junkies are dirty addicts. When was the last time you saw a junkie who spoke like a prince and was as well-groomed as a movie star? I’m not talking about one who dabbles with a bad habit, but one who is a complete slave to it. A vamp’s whole life is directed toward getting that next fix of blood—manners are not important. Vamps no more wear puffy, ruffled poet’s shirts, speak with British accents, or use fancy erudite words than would a homeless addict living under a bridge.

Thirdly, you can kill a vampire.

A stake through the heart or a silver bullet is going to hurt a vamp, but neither will kill it. However, doing those things to a vampire will likely guarantee that the enraged blood freak will not sleep or rest until he can return the painful favor to you.

Likewise, sunlight is only going to annoy a creature who has been prowling all night and is probably hung-over. No different than a human who has been out all night partying. Despite the myth, there is no logical way for the sun to make a vamp burst into flames.

The reason why vamps are hard to kill is they can heal. Beyond anything humans have ever seen, vamps can heal from nearly any wound.

While making us horribly sick for a short while, disease and infections are eradicated by our super-driven immune system. There is no single disease ever known to kill a vampire. I think the demands of our hyperactive immune systems and healing abilities are what drive us to drink fresh blood to sustain them. These processes are exhausting on the body, and require unnatural fuel to keep them going. No one knows if it’s why we crave blood, but it makes sense to me.

A vampire can be killed if the healing factor is cut off. Burning a vamp won’t kill him, although it would be excruciating. We seem to feel pain as much as humans, but it doesn’t kill us. However, burning a vampire to nothing but ashes will terminate him forever.

There is a legend, centuries old, of a vamp being reborn after his head was cut clean off. The story claims the head was placed back on the body for burial, and while in the ground, it slowly came back to life, clawed its way out of its coffin, and attacked the townspeople with relentless hatred. No one is old enough to have witnessed it to prove it’s true, but most believe if the head had been destroyed, there would have been no chance at recovery.

Basically, if blood is left around the injury, it will heal. Drain or burn up the blood, and you’ve drained the vamp’s life.

In the case of beheading, it seems to me that without a head there is nothing to control the healed body, and it will eventually die.

No one I know has seen a beheading, at least not a vampire beheading. We’ve learned to only expose ourselves to unreliable witnesses. That’s why we cling to places like New Orleans and its lively Quarter. No one believes the testimony of someone who drinks themselves into a stupor and then claims the next day to have encountered a vampire. Most times they don’t even believe their own memory of it, blaming the alcohol or whatever else they consumed the night before.

We stick to the clubs and bars. There are artsy neighborhoods with bohemian residents who would also make easy prey and are not likely to be noticed by many if they go missing. But their dislike of regular baths makes them quite untasty targets. And their particular mix of unwashed stink and patchouli is highly unpleasant to our heightened senses. However, the polished party people are usually clean, delightfully hot from dancing, and easily willing to be lured away by an attractive vamp.

Speaking of the desirables, the sounds of their partying reach my eardrums, and my body rages.

I step outside the bar, walking toward the sounds of the revelry, and the night air rushes into me, awakening feelings that I’ve kept buried for so long. The wind breezes over my body, lifting my black hair off my shoulders. I’d swear the wind hasn’t blown like this in half a century, but I know I just chose not to feel it, thinking it was wrong for me to enjoy it without her. Now the wind feels charged, tickling my bare arms, as if the earth were sending all of its energy right here, right now for something important to begin.

The sky seems as electric as I feel—the moon a lit reminder of the unchained wildness of the evening. Some deem the moonlight to be romantic, but this city of masks, drinks, and desires has no idea what infection is now spreading through its veins.

 

 

 

 

Light breaks through the openings in the tall bell tower, entering my tired eyes and falling flat on my tired mind, taunting me that I should feel something. Been so long since I felt anything.

As I sit in the grass in the middle of the quad on such a magnificent day, I know I should be feeling some sensation.

Class ends, and people pour in and out of old, imposing, brick buildings, each with a different emotion on their face. Horrified at the test they just failed, relieved with being dismissed for the day, elated with having learned something new. Some of them from out of town smiling at the quaintness of catching the streetcar down St. Charles to Carrolton to get some lunch.

I’m not a jaded hometown girl, but definitely a dulled one. The boys around here drink too much, spend too much time making their hair seem perfectly unbrushed, and too much money on I-listen-to-Dave-Matthews-so-I-must-be-hip sandals. Don’t get me wrong—there’s nothing wrong with any of that, and it seems every other girl here goes gaga over it. I’ve even tried it for myself, and all it’s done is leave me sitting in the hot late summer grass feeling as out of place as the church bell tower on this college campus dominated by vocal atheists.

Maybe I was just meant to exist in a century past, when the tower was in its prime and courtship was not embedded in superfluous social games played by 20-somethings having a second teenage decade with adult privileges.

But, they all seem happy…

Am I that much of a mutant that I can’t be what they are, or have they never paused long enough to stroll through the same lonely, pensive hallways as me? Can’t say I’d wish it upon any of them. Let them be happy.

Even my name—Ruby—doesn’t fit me with my brown hair that doesn’t resemble any gem I’ve ever seen.

People walk in many directions all around me—cutting across the grass to get to their next class, walking along the paved sidewalk in front of me, or wandering around looking for a nice place to sit.

A girl approaches wearing a shirt that reads “No Fur” while holding a mobile phone wrapped in a leather case. A boy passes me with the chain from his wallet jingling at his knees, wearing a shirt that says “Independent”—just like 15 other guys on the quad right now who all apparently share the same closet. A group of boys form a hacky sack circle just to the left of me.

All of them seem to shine in the sunlight and move around me in a dance I don’t know. I feel like a black hole in a sky full of identical stars.

Here comes something different. ‘80s-style sunglasses that consist of one thin blade covering her eyes—making her look like a machine; nose ring; black and white striped stockings in 91-degree, sticky, New Orleans weather with a blue Pippy-Longstockings-style ponytail on both sides of her head. Amidst the blue hair are traces of red highlights, more like streaks.

That’s my crazy friend, Ambrosia. I’d call her eccentric, but she works very hard to get people to call her crazy. In fact, she already has people calling her Ambrosia when the name on her official schedule is Amber.

“What’s up, chica?” she asks as she plops down on the grass beside me.

It’s so hard for me to talk to her with her sunglasses on—makes me feel like I’m talking to the shades and not her.

“Just hanging out. Still have about an hour before I need to be at Riverview High.”

“What are we doing tonight?” she quickly asks another question, although I’m not sure she listened to my answer to the first one.

“I wasn’t planning on anything. Maybe a movie.”

“B-o-r-ing.”

“Hey, I’m just not a party girl. Not everybody has to Wang Chung tonight to have a good time.”

Lifting up her sunglasses to reveal her yellow color contacts on bloodshot eyes, “Everybody needs to Wang Chung to have a good time.”

I can’t keep from cracking a smile.

“Come on, Ruby, you have to go out—it’s your 19^th birthday for Pete’s sake. What else are you gonna do—sit in the grass alone getting all philosophical-like?”

Laughing nervously, I say, “Yeah right, I’m not that big of a loser yet.”

The truth stings a little more when it comes from your own lips. Self-realization may be healthy, but sometimes it sucks.

Ambrosia smiles wickedly, and I know she’s brewing some mayhem for tonight that’ll make me wish I was at home clinging to my lonely nerdom. Dropping her blade-sunglasses back over her eyes, she says, “Then, ‘80s Night it is.”

“Oh, Lord.”

 

 

 

 

“Come on, keep up!” are the words she leaves trailing over her shoulder to me as she plunges into the hive.

Weaving between shoulders and hands grasping plastic cups that drip alcohol, I follow my blue-haired friend into the center of the vortex.

She moves and bops from one side to the other with the smack of the snare drum that so defines ‘80s music. She effortlessly becomes a part of the crowd like a drop of water added to a pool. I feel like a rock clumsily plunked in, making an unwanted wake.

Thank God—she reaches the exact epicenter of the dancing, turns, and extends her hands out for me to join her, giving me some visible reason for being out here on the dance floor with the graceful and the cool.

The song ends, and I nervously hold my breath, waiting to hear what’s coming next that I’m supposed to dance to. The sound of a keyboard playing the intro to “I Just Died in Your Arms Tonight” brings out a cheer from the crowd and raises hands in the air. I love the song, but I’m petrified, cold fear spreading through my body.

Ambrosia spins herself around, spattering the people around her with tiny droplets of her colorful drink. I sip my Coke, stalling having to dance for another moment. Surprisingly, no one minds that she’s sprinkled them—they all smile at her like she’s ‘80s Girl, saving them from the evil clutches of an ordinary night and dousing them with her magical ‘80s juice, sharing her supernatural cool with them.

She turns her bright, yellow eyes away from her admirers to glance at me quickly.

Swiftly grabbing my free arm at the wrist, she yanks me forcefully toward her, causing a tiny bit of my Coke to run down my other hand. She pulls my wrist back and forth, forcing my body to move with the rhythm of the song.

This is why Ambrosia is a wonderful friend. She’s forgotten to meet me places when we’ve made plans—dated guys I thought I liked, but she wouldn’t let me stay home on my birthday and now won’t let me drown of humiliation in this pool of coolness. She’s going to hold my wrist until I learn to swim—or at least tread water.

Lets go of my hand…body keeps moving…still breathing.

 

 

Two drinks plop down on the bar in front of me. I’ve switched from Coke to the hard stuff—energy drinks. The other cup is full of Ambrosia’s too-sweet-smelling, bright-colored concoction she’s been downing all night.

She keeps begging me to try her drink like it’s some all-powerful elixir that’ll wash all the dorkiness inside me right out of my bladder. That’s just not me—I’m a sober gal. Can’t let go of control of myself—barely have a decent grip as it is. Besides, if I drank like Ambrosia, I’d only be an epically bad, clumsy version of her.

A chiseled arm in a tight-fitting metal-gray t-shirt rests its elbow down on the bar next to my drinks, followed by the most arousing male scent to ever tickle my nostrils. Two female bartenders smile and wave as soon as they notice him. He waves in one fast, straight motion. One of the bartenders blows him a kiss; the other makes a jealous face at her.

A hand lands on my back just as the last note of “Space Age Love Song” rings out the speakers.

Ambrosia must have known the song so well that she started walking to come get me with just enough time before the next song started.

Thinking of taut muscle wrapped in thin, gray, short sleeves, I say to her, “Hang on, I think I might get something else.”

When I return my focus to masculine beauty, I see long, red-tipped female interlopers running down the back of his shirt and up to his shoulders.

Interrupting my dislike of the long-nailed intrusion on my hunk is the beginning of “99 Red Balloons” and an excited Ambrosia voice shouting, “No! Go! Now-now-now!”

She pulls me behind her into the fray, clearing us a path with her hips. You wouldn’t think hips as average as hers could part the sea of inebriated dancers, but she puts a lot of energy behind their swaying.

Once we’ve reached a spot she deems acceptable, she raises her free hand straight up in the air and begins twisting her body to and fro.

I start dancing without any worry. Once the first few songs were over, I relaxed and have actually been having a pretty great time.

There is something so sweet and childlike about how much Ambrosia loves each and every one of these songs. She’s smiled, cheered, and waved her free hand in the air at the start of every tune so far. Her wildness does clash with the innocence, like a little girl in a white dress and polished Sunday shoes chugging Tequila. Maybe she’s just wild because she’s wounded, and she’s childlike trying to have a youth now that she missed back then. Maybe. Maybe not. But, she’s happy now, and it’s as contagious as a plague of joy.

Her face turns oddly serious as she stops dancing, grasps my shoulder, and talks into my ear.

I can smell and feel the hot alcohol on her breath as she speaks.

“He’s here.”

I wonder how she could have noticed my attraction to the guy with the gray shirt at the bar, but I grin anyway, his image still fresh in my mind.

She nudges her head in a direction behind me, and my vision helplessly follows her. I see him—my smile vanishes.

It’s Lyle, and there’s nothing “gray” about him. Damn it—what the hell is he doing here? Oh. Dang it. I mentioned in the faculty room that I was coming here tonight when they asked where I was going for my birthday.

Lyle walks closer to me, smiling so hard that I think his mouth may rip open at the corners. My stomach sinks in a pool of awkwardness.

Lyle’s actually not that bad of a person—he’s a dedicated, anal-retentive geometry teacher who pushes his students hard, but they learn a lot. He’s smart and basically a nice guy. And as he makes his way over here now, he’s not a bad dancer. Definitely not bad for a schoolteacher with an unhealthy obsession with the teachings of Euclid.

He’s just bad for me.

Just old enough to have his hair starting to thin and recede, recently divorced which has left him insecure and desperate—making him awkward and persistent, quite an unattractive combination. I’m only at Riverview High for one student teaching class a day—and I’ve only been there for a little over a month, but he’s tried to sell me his undesirable combination every day I’ve been there. Looks like he’s going to be making another sales pitch in 5…4…would it be rude if I screamed?…3 how much would a hitman cost?…2 ahhh! just aaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhh!…1 and the nightmare begins…

“Ruby, Happy Birthday!” he says raising his cup for a toast.

I tap my cup against his as gently as possible.

He moves closer raising his free arm as if he is going in for a hug. My stomach threatens to revolt if my brain can’t save me from this onslaught. Mind is frozen like it’s stuck in an alien tractor beam. Stomach grows more belligerent. Hell is upon me, and my wits are nowhere to be seen.

Blue flashes in front of my face as Ambrosia rushes between us and pulls me along with her for a quick 180-spin, placing me a little further away from Lyle when we stop.

He dances as if nothing’s happened. No embarrassment. No signs of rejection. Denial runs strong in this one.

The walls behind him are textured in a rich and exciting maroon color; people in flashy outfits dance all around him; 16 Candles is projected silently on the giant screen behind the stage—everything seems magical around him—everything’s downright fantastical except him—a colorless minnow in a tropical sea. Sounds like me. But not the me I want to be.

Not even the wisdom of Molly Ringwald, the eternally cool teenager, and Long Duk Dong up on the screen can penetrate the wall of buzzkill that is Lyle.

Desperately needing something to shine some light inside the dark pit into which I am rapidly sinking, I look for gray shirt. As if my desperation has summoned him, he steps down the two steps from the bar area to the dance floor.

Before now, I’ve only seen him from the waist-up at close range at the bar. I didn’t get to see his tight, black leather pants, and might I say, Yowza!

His smooth, pale, white skin tucked inside the gray shirt and black pants truly is a light piercing the darkness that surrounds me.

Buzzkill steps in front of the view of my Adonis.

“Ruby, I should get you a birthday drink. What’re you drinking?”

“No, it’s okay. I still have plenty left.”

“Oh, come on—it’s your birthday.”

“No, really, I’m fine.”

“A shot? Sex on the beach?”

“No, thanks.”

“Gotta tell me what you’re drinking, or I’m just gonna pick something for you.”

“I’m drinking an energy drink.”

“Oh, energy drink and vodka. You’re a girl after my own heart,” he says downing the last of the liquid in his cup.

“No, Lyle, just an energy drink.”

His eyebrows furrow, “Oh, but you’ve gotta try it. Nothing like it for a party!”

“I don’t think so.”

“I’ll just go get you one,” he says as he takes a step toward the bar.

“Lyle!”

“What-chu-need-sweetie?”

“Just an energy drink. That’s it.”

“All right. All right,” he says shaking his head, “It’s your birthday—anything you want.”

He turns and heads toward the bar. Suddenly I feel bad for the expression that must have been on my face. Lyle’s annoying, and he’s shamelessly trying to weasel his way in with me—but maybe I was a little harsh. Think I saw a hint of hurt on his face, but his unrelenting persistence should help him forget all about it in a minute or so. He’s certainly ignored every not-interested signal I’ve ever sent to him, and there have been plenty. Would be nice if he remembered my anger until one second after tonight’s over. Don’t want him hurt for long, or at all really, but I’d love for him to stay away for the rest of the night. Would be nice for me anyway. I was having a fantastic time dancing in public. What are the odds that’ll ever happen again? Heck, the odds are staggering that it even happened once.

Now, where is Gray? Scan the dance floor. Group of girls. Drunk guy stumbling. Drunk girl unknowingly flashing everyone a clear view of her underwear while she tries to climb up on the stage—not sure if anyone’s supposed to go up there. Well, at least she’s not wearing a thong. On second thought, in this place, thank God she’s wearing underwear at all. Bouncer rushes to her area—guess no one is supposed to go up there.

There is a pack of girls who are all dressed up ‘80s style with lots of rouge and blue eye shadow—clips and bows in their hair. They look authentic. Almost wish Ambrosia and I would’ve dressed up too, but then again she’s always dressed as her own character.

And there she is. Looks like she’s made friends and is dancing with a group of people. She likes Lyle less than I do—didn’t even tell him hello. No wonder she’s set up camp elsewhere.

Not much dance floor left. My heart starts to sink—maybe he’s gone.

A heavy guy, who’s been leaning on the stage all night watching girls dance, makes his way back to his usual spot. As he moves along, revealing people he was blocking from my view, Gray appears.

Perfect skin clings tightly down the steep slope of his imposing cheekbones. Lips so beckoning that the air around them fights in jealousy to slide over them. Piercing eyes. Blue and lit up like a fire. They’re on me. Oh my God, they’re on me.

Three girls dance around him, but he looks over their heads to me. Can’t look away.

He steps forward, girls sliding to the side as he passes them. Weaves through the crowd rapidly, despite his broad, muscular frame.

Eyes on him—his on me, paying no mind to the people he passes, even a girl who slides her fingers across his chest. His hair floats with his steps, just touching his shoulders, flowing like a black sea parted in two directions, a mane like a crown, untamed and setting him apart.

A few feet separate us now. Too embarrassed to speak. Too hooked to look away.

Inches. Inches away from touching me, he steps in synch with my dancing.

Quick glance down his body—slim waist, steel-tipped cowboy boots. My God, how does he move so well in them? Like some sexy ninja.

I step back and then forward toward him. See if he follows or lets me slip away. Does he want me, or is he just making his way around the floor?

Boy’s on my every move. About two inches from me no matter what I throw at him—swear he knows what I’m doing before I do it. Throw my arm out like a snake—he follows. Move my head back—moves his forward. Reflexes like an animal. Smooth, fast, beautiful…scary, almost.

So close, his tight gray shirt drapes over his rippling shoulders and chest like a sheet of water rolling over a cliff.

He starts leaning down. Blue eyes feel like they’re entering my green ones. Teal sounds like a delicious mix. Precious lips getting closer to mine.

What is happening to me? My God, I don’t even know his name. Don’t think I’ll pull away.

An elbow pokes at his left arm—he turns sideways, instantly bringing his dancing body upright, snarling, and fists clenched.

Excitement faces Buzzkill.

“Hey, buddy, she’s with me,” grumbles Lyle with a tremble in his speech.

Gray’s voice slides out his throat, “She didn’t say anything, friend.” Powerful, but smooth, with a hint of rasp. If it were a color, it’d match his shirt.

“I’m saying it for her. She’s…with…me.”

Shooting out of my mouth, “No, I am not!”

Gray looks at me and smiles.

“Hey, big man, this conversation’s between you and me. Not the girl.”

Still locked in on me, Gray pays him no mind. Neither do I. Lyle taps Gray’s shoulder roughly.

Looking back to Lyle, anger flaring in his face for a moment—Gray’s teeth flash before he pushes the emotion away, “Hey, friend, no reason to get ugly in here tonight—lots of girls in here. This one’s got a right to dance with whoever she wants, but so can all the others. Maybe you’ll find someone else you like.”

Dropping one of the drinks from his hands, energy drink spilling and spreading, cup bouncing on the floor, Lyle says, “Maybe, I should just beat the hell out of you.”

“Say that you could beat the hell out of me—then the night’d end with both of us in a jail cell together.”

Ambrosia pulls one of her new friends by the wrist, a blonde with a single ponytail, plenty of curve, and little of it covered by her low-cut exercise t-shirt and stretch pants with giant, pink leg warmers. They dance around Lyle. When he continues to stare at Gray, Ambrosia’s friend bends over very far and dances in that position right next to Buzzkill. Lyle’s eyes drop down and take in the shape of her butt. A smile sneaks over him.

Gray continues speaking to Lyle, his voice sending a tingle through me, “Wouldn’t you rather end up with someone prettier than me? Someplace better than a jail cell? God knows I do.”

Lyle looks at me. Then at the strange girl’s butt. Back to me. Strange butt. Then to Gray and says, “Look, I already told you…”

Ambrosia grabs Lyle’s hand and places it on the strange girl’s waist. Now standing, the girl moves in close and slides her arms around his neck. She pushes her body to him, rubbing against him, slowly leading him away from us. Lyle doesn’t look back.

Ambrosia bows at us, then resumes bouncing her body to the music.

Gray moves closer to me. We start dancing again. Still in synch.

“Sorr-” the first words out my mouth to him are interrupted.

Another man taps Gray’s shoulder. Long blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, pointed nose, almost the same size as Gray.

Gray doesn’t look pleased, but shakes the man’s extended hand.

Ambrosia blindsides me with a girl huddle, and whispers urgently, “Bathroom break.”

Is the whole world conspiring to keep Gray away from me?

Start to shake my head no.

“Now!” she demands.

Before I can respond, she pulls me away.

Gray stares at his friend who is talking to him. Don’t think Gray likes him much.

My head turns away from them to watch where Ambrosia is dragging me. Everything is gloomy and mean and coated in despair. Not because anything I see deserves it, but because it’s all a part of pulling me away from him. How odd that everything pales in comparison to a guy with such pale skin.

Nothing registers but a longing to be back on the dance floor with Gray until she pulls me into the bathroom, spinning around to face me once we’re inside.

“Ruby, that guy is a psycho!”

Suddenly feeling offended and hostile—how dare she say this about my wonderful Gray, I ask, “What are you talking about—you haven’t even talked to him?”

“We hooked up a few weeks ago here. He’s crazy.”

My heart sinks, and I feel my smile float away to the land of sadness.

“Oh, no,” Ambrosia laughs, “Not your guy—gray shirt. I’m talking about his friend with the blonde ponytail. His name’s Roderick. Complete psychopath—we gotta leave.”

My heart jumps at her last word, “‘Brosia, you say that about every guy you date after you break up. They’re all psychos or freaks. You wind up dating half of them again. And sometimes, again and again and again.”

Shaking her head and not smiling at my little joke, “Look what he did to my neck!” she says pulling her collar to the side.

At the base of her neck are two fiery dots.

“Psycho bit into me like I was freakin’ Buffy or something.”

“Oh, my God!”

“Yeah. And that was weeks ago—the marks are still there. Let’s sneak right out the front door—now.”

“What about your tab?”

“I’ll get my card from them tomorrow. I’ve forgotten to close out a few times before. No big deal—they all know me here.”

“But, the guy…”

“Told you he’s psycho.”

“No—”

“Oh, gray shirt!”

“Yes!”

“Don’t want to leave?”

Shake my head.

“Ruby, I don’t like this.”

Never heard her say that about anything but studying.

“Ambrosia, I really like this guy.”

“Really?”

“Completely.”

She rolls her lips tightly inside her mouth, thinking. “Okay, you go get your man, chica, but don’t get so focused on Gray that you forget to look out for your crazy Blue friend too. This Roderick guy’s sketchy.”

“You got it, girl.”

Walk toward the door.

I ask, “Hey, how did you get that blonde girl to go for Lyle?”

“Well, I told her he’s a trust fund kid, and…”

“And what?”

“Let’s just say we owe her free drinks for…well, forever.”

The walk back to the dance floor is nothing but a meaningless maze of people and objects. The only person to make me feel like my skin pulses with electricity is on the dance floor, and anything between here and there is a cruel torture that could never measure up to the Gray one whose name I don’t even know.

My God, I’m losing my mind, and I’m loving it.

I don’t see that Roderick guy, but I don’t see Gray either. Hope they haven’t already left—my feelings hurt just at the thought of it. Don’t even know him. Just know how I feel around him. Those arms. Those eyes…so different for me.

Lyle’s head is buried in the blonde’s neck. Same sights on the dance floor. Ambrosia starts to dance. My knees move with the beat, but with little energy and no enthusiasm.

Song ends and “Right Round” starts playing. It’s hard to imagine feeling dead on the dance floor with this song playing, but I don’t feel very alive right now—definitely nothing like how I felt dancing with him.

I feel movement close behind me. Step forward to get out of the passerby’s way. The movement follows me. Step forward again. Still feel someone there. Anger races through me—no Gray and some jackass trying to rub up against me.

“What’s wrong, Bright Eyes?” whispers the voice over my shoulder.

Like a leaf in the breeze, he spins around me. Facing me, Gray doesn’t smile—his face rigid and serious, but his eyes welcome.

My heart awakens at the sight of him, so quickly shifting from deflated and angry to elated. Completely elated.

“What was bothering you?” he asks, his breath tickling my ear.

“Kinda thought you were gone.”

“Well, I’m right here right now. What else do you need?”

Struggling to say something that doesn’t make me sound so pathetic, “Little Red Corvette.”

“You wanna hear it?”

“Sure.”

“Let me borrow your phone.”

“What?”

“Just for a moment.”

Take it out my tiny purse and hand it to him.

“Hang on,” he says.

After pressing send, he looks to the DJ booth on the balcony that runs along the length of dance floor. We can see something light up, but the DJ takes no notice, talking to a girl who sits on the table next to his equipment and is dressed as Borderline-era Madonna—stockings, short skirt, and hairstyle.

Gray sends the message again. Lights up. Still no notice.

Taking a few quick steps toward the balcony, Gray flings my phone at the DJ, which smacks him in the back and lands on his mixer. The DJ picks up the phone and looks down at the dance floor furiously. He spots Gray looking up at him. DJ smiles, reads message, nods head, and tosses phone back down to Gray.

Before he can get all the way back to me, the song stops abruptly, and the crowd roars in disapproval. Apparently they like “Right Round” as much as I do. I hope no one notices the guilty look on my face.

Cheers rise as the lights dim and “Little Red Corvette” begins—the natives weren’t restless for long, and I think I’m safe from their pitchforks and torches for the moment.

Gray moves perfectly, starting slow with the intro, speeding up a little when the snare kicks in, and building to a peak at the chorus.

His hand reaches out a little closer and closer with his movements. I swear I can feel the heat coming off his hand into the space between us. Closer. Warmer.

His fingers reach my waist with a smooth slide. Don’t know if my skin has ever felt so much, even through the shirt.

He keeps it there, swaying me in our rhythm, slowly working his body a little closer. Feel sweat break at my brow. Crowded and sweaty—been that way all night, but it feels so much warmer now. Didn’t even notice the heat earlier. Maybe I only notice it now because the hot air matches my sizzling emotion, when before it had no connection to me.

Or, the heat’s really intensified with the heavenly body holding my waist and filling my senses with visions of lovely things that I thought would never be for me.

Never believed in auras. Always nonsense to me. But I swear the air around him is like nothing I’ve ever known. I can feel it my chest—it tingles over my skin, almost tastes in my mouth.

Song ends and the first piercing note of “How Soon Is Now” cuts through the air. Even a song of painful loneliness seems to be about the beautiful feeling of him dancing so close to me—everything tinted in his electric energy. Still just his hand on my side.

He raises one corner of his mouth in the sexiest sneer, inviting me to experience more of him. My smile isn’t a thought or a choice, but an inevitability. He sees it, and I know he likes it—his eyes profess it.

Hand slides to the small of my back and waits. I’m not about to pull away. Watching my reaction, it’s his turn to smile, showing me those shiny, white teeth.

Pulls me to him. His torso touches me. Slide my arms up the delicious contours of his arms and to his neck. Strange territory for me, but it feels as natural as if I’ve lived here my entire life.

Song ends and gives birth to “Dancing with Myself.” The faster tempo gets the crowd bouncing. Sadly, we pull apart a few inches—the quicker beat makes dancing so closely difficult.

His hand still at my side, the air charged, my emotion redlined. Never been better…Ever.

I catch smiles cracking through the tight, pale marble of his face. A vista of male beauty. Blue eyes shining.

We start stepping back away from each other and then forward into the close, blazing warmth of the last few inches between us.

Long, red fingernails dive up Gray’s short sleeve and squeeze his bicep. Beginning to dislike everything red.

“Hey, gorgeous,” says the girl from the bar earlier, tickling his upper arm with those striking nails and rolling the “r” in gorgeous, purring so smoothly that she makes me feel like I’m missing something feminine that she has an abundance of. “Wanna split this thing one more way?” she asks while stretching her neck, placing her face close to his.

“Sorry, Maxine, I’ve never been good with fractions.”

“Well, what about sharing resources? You’re an athletic boy.”

“Not tonight.”

Her face flashes into something still enviously pretty but enraged like a screeching feline. A tall one, she looks down at me, wrinkle-nosed, and says, “A week ago you bit me so hard you made my neck bleed, and now you’re blowing me off for freakin’ Little Miss Mainstream?”

Okay. So she wants to play cute, little word games and mock me—mean, hateful words as angry red as her fingernails. I’ve got a riddle or two for her in my boiling, red thoughts.

Feel a girl’s hand at my elbow. Must be my blue-flaxened friend. Turn to see. Wrong. Strange.

A tall, redhead sways her head with the weight of one drink too many and talks into my ear way too loudly.

“I have a gorgeous friend who thinks you’re hot.”

“What?” I respond—too much on my mind for this nonsense to make any sense.

“His name is Jake,” she says pointing near the stage at a boy with spiky, thick, gelled, black hair that points in many directions, “He’s hot—thinks you’re hot and wants to dance with you.”

The boy raises his head in the air, pointing his nose at me like a wolf to the moon as if he can hear what we’re saying. He dances with a brunette and a blonde in front of him.

The redhead says in a quick slur, “That’s just our friends—they’re not his girlfriends.”

Don’t care if they’re his wives. Nothing wrong with the boy, except for two rubber bands bouncing atop each of his shoes around his ankles. Any other girl would go to him—he’s already dancing with a blonde and a brunette and has a redhead matchmaking for him—he’s surrounded by a Neapolitan girl entourage, but not me. He might as well be a smelly animal, some furry werewolf or something, for all my heart cares. I’ve seen the beginning of love, felt it shoot through me, and it doesn’t look like him.

My eyes have already chosen what my love looks like.

Song ends. The ceasing of music makes me panic that it’s not all that’s ending.

Mumble no thanks or something that sounds like that to the redhead and turn away quickly.

Gray stands with his hands at his sides, not dancing, so much energy, so beautiful, and standing like a statue, warmth frozen over, waiting for me.

Glance at Jake, then to Lyle, and back to my Gray. Gray is to men what men are to children. They’re all male humans but are so far apart in development that they require different names.

He waits. For me. Could jump right into his arms, but I grasp his hand and put it against my waist.

His eyes flash awake. Energy floods back into him. Through him it tingles into me.

His voice seems to run down my spine, “The whole world tries to tear us apart.”

The truth of his words sparks a wave of fear that makes my lips twitch. Lyle. Jake. Ponytail boy. The redhead girl. Fingernails girl. Even Ambrosia. Right—they all pulled us apart. Only boy I’ve ever wanted this way. So unfair.

“They won’t win.”

His words warm me, melting all worry, lighting me up from the inside.

Closely-shorn sideburns run from underneath his shoulder-length hair; giving way to angular, sculpted cheekbones; smooth skin clinging to them even tighter than his gray shirt stretches over his pecs and down toward his small waist. He’s a beautifully torn edge, equally full of the savage and the tantalizing. He could send a wolf pack reeling away in fear or bring any woman to her knees with the same confidence-soaked right-side sneer of his upper lip, and right now it’s focused on me.

His smile-sneer raises a little higher as he dances, and I wonder not if I’ll run from him or step even closer to him, but I only ponder if he is aware he is doing it or if it is beyond his control. I think I’d tingle even more if I knew his unique smile was uncontrollable around me.

My head barely reaches his shoulder, but I leave it there. Cheek pressed against him. My eyes close. Face overtaken by smile.

Such a wild place. Never thought I’d be happy here. So odd that I found him in this strange environment. I feel like I let Ambrosia lead me into hell only to find someone who doesn’t belong here any more than I.

Open my eyes, and for the first time while we’ve been dancing, he looks away from me. Toward the stage. Ambrosia. Dancing.

Lots of guys watch her dance, but his face grows disgusted.

I ask, “What is it?”

Shakes his head.

I squeeze his forearm. He looks in my eyes—still silent. I say, “Tell me.”

“Your friend really shouldn’t be drinking.”

“Why not? This is a bar, isn’t it?”

“Na-nevermind,” he says, looks away from me, and shakes his head to wipe the topic clear, but he still looks very annoyed.

Did I say something wrong? Heaven a moment ago—so perfect. Now he’s angry. What’s his problem all of a sudden? Wish I knew. Then I could decide if I’m irritated or if I just want to help him solve it.

God, let it be the latter.

He looks at me—intent eyes and strong lines of his cheekbones offer no clues to his thoughts.

“You’re gorgeous.”

My bottom lip quickly finds its way behind my top teeth, feeling like it’ll burst.

His hand reaches my chin. I release my lip—hold back blushing—lift my head. Pulls me in. His lips come together. For me. So close.

Colorful drink splatters all over a face near the stage.

Furious, Ambrosia shouts at Roderick who drips with her sweet drink. Roderick’s nails dig into her forearm.

“Help her!”

Before the words are gone from my lips, he’s on his way.

A wicked smile comes over Roderick’s face as Gray approaches. Still grasping her forearm, he tugs Ambrosia roughly to the side.

Gray stops directly in front of him, stares him in the eye, and in a flash squeezes Roderick’s forearm that holds Ambrosia. Veins in Gray’s arm throb like raging rivers. Ambrosia’s hand slips out.

Blood runs from the nail marks left behind. Roderick snarls at Gray as her hand slaps him on the bridge of his nose, leaving a smear of her blood on his face.

I can read Gray’s lips as he tells Ambrosia, “Walk away.”

She obeys and turns toward me.

Roderick licks at the corner of his mouth. The two keep staring. Never budging.

Gray flings Roderick’s forearm back at him, pushing his body back a step.

Roderick sneers and puts both his open hands in the air.

Gray turns back toward us, his steps very fast, reaching us in no time.

He touches my elbow, but looks directly at Ambrosia.

Fifteen feet behind him, Roderick climbs on the stage.

Gray says in a desperate voice to my scared friend, “You know what he is—get the hell out of town and don’t come back!”

She nods, eyes watery.

Two tall guys push their way past the DJ table to the end of the balcony and drop down on the stage with two loud thumps. The three of them stand in the center, casting their shadows on the movie screen. The two hired dancers on the pedestals on each side of the screen quickly flee the stage into the crowd.

Gray sees it all, looks to me with a whirlwind in his eyes, and turns away toward the bar. He pushes Lyle and the blonde who were leaning on the bar kissing out of his way. With one motion he jumps to the top of the bar, toppling drinks, spilling their liquid across the old, stained surface. Grabbing two wooden barmaid stools from the other side, he places them atop the bar a few feet apart.

It looks as though the bartender, who earlier blew him a kiss, now asks him what the hell he is doing. Gray says something to her, his face hard as stone. She nods and throws two towels on the bar, beginning to clean up the mess and console the irate customers.

Gray jumps down and starts walking back to me. Lyle follows, shouting after him. Gray ignores him.

In front of us, Gray looks sternly at Ambrosia and says, “Wait for it.”

He turns from her toward the stage.

She calls after him, “For what?”

He doesn’t turn around. His eyes don’t glance at me, but his hand quickly brushes over my wrist as he passes.

Lyle comes barreling up to us, “What the hell—”

Ambrosia holds up her forearm bearing the bloody nail marks and cuts him off loudly, “The guy on the stage did this to me. He’s going after them.”

Lyle stares at her arm. Then looking at Roderick and the two goons on the stage, his face becomes angry. He starts after Gray.

“Lyle, no!” I shout, following behind him with Ambrosia in tow.

Gray motions to the DJ. He makes a fist and flings his hand out as if imitating an explosion. The DJ nods. In a blur, Gray jumps on the stage.

Roderick meets Gray, stopping an inch from him, face to face, just two inches shorter than my hunk, his two friends an inch or two shorter than that, one on each side of him—all three staring harshly at Gray.

Lyle grabs the stage and awkwardly tries to pull himself up, banging his shin on the edge. Without even looking in his direction, Gray reaches down and pulls Lyle to his unsteady feet.

I can hear bits of their conversation as we stand about a foot from the stage, some words buried in the noise of dance, music, and party. People have cleared back a few feet from the stage or left the dance floor altogether.

“You can ta— her trampy friend home with y— and do what you w— to her, but Ambrosia stays.”

Red-faced, Lyle shouts, “She’s no tramp, you son-of-a——she’s a schoolteacher at Riverview High for God’s Sa—”

Still not looking at Lyle, Gray’s hand slaps tightly over Lyle’s mouth—forcing it shut.

“A f——— schoolteacher?” blasts Roderick, laughing without smiling—his lackeys chuckling on cue, “Nice choice, Sim——.”

Gray says something slowly, his face stern. Lifting his hand from Lyle’s mouth, Gray puts both of them together and holds them right in front of Roderick’s face as if praying. The wicked expression that the gesture brings to Roderick’s face is something terrible that I wish I couldn’t see.

Gray says something else I can’t make out, nodding his head yes.

Give about anything to get the bits I can’t hear.

Finally something reaches my aching ears—Roderick saying, “Two minutes.”

He puts his hand right at the bridge of Gray’s nose with two fingers extended.

Lyle still rubs over his mouth as he’s done since Gray released him. Gray grabs him by his shoulders, lifts, and drops him down to the floor.

The bitter-sweet “Voices Carry” begins playing through the speakers.

Gray jumps to the floor, looks at Lyle, and points to the front door. Gray spins Ambrosia around and pushes her toward the bar. He grabs my hand, pulls me in front of him, places his hands on my shoulders and guides me in the same direction. Lyle regains his balance and starts walking.

As we approach the bar, without turning his head all the way around, Gray glances back to the stage. The three remain huddled together, Roderick watching us, the other two with their backs to us, facing Roderick.

Before I realize he’s taken his hands off me, Gray leaps to the bar, grabs the stools, spins round and flings one zinging through the twenty-five feet from bar to the stage, crashing into the back of the man at Roderick’s left, the other stool right behind crashing into the other goon’s head and neck, sending shattered bits of wood into the crowd around the stage. Both goons fall to the ground.

The remaining people rush toward the bar and the front door.

Not looking at his friends who’ve fallen at his feet, Roderick stares at Gray who has leapt back to the floor—standing between me and the stage. Roderick stares with both hatred and a look of crazed amusement at the chaos that has just begun.

The look of amusement flees his face, his upper lip rises like a curtain unveiling hell, fangs shining—he rushes forward, stepping on the back of one of his friends. Sparks and flame shoot the length of the front of the stage, trapping Roderick. The DJ—the last person on the balcony—sprints for the exit, panic screaming across his face.

The flames make a wall of orange and yellow, casting a glow on Gray as he turns to look at me.

Fire rages in the background, but I don’t care if the whole world burns. His azure irises swirl—coursing with emotion. His kiss takes me. Sparks run through my lips. His tongue so intense, desperately trying to tell me the things he no longer has time to say.

Eternity in a moment. Together whole. The same energy racing through both of us.

Damn this world that makes him release me.

I look into his eyes, waiting for the word that will sustain me or break my heart.

His blue eyes quake, yearning to say I’ll come for you, but he pushes his lips tightly shut, holding back the promise. Suddenly, the word falls from his lips.

“Run.”

“Voices Carry” fades away. No sound. Just the hissing of the pyro flickering at the stage.

A hand reaches through the flames, an accusing finger points, flesh burns and singes, and a tense, charred fist forms.

Feeling like I’m fading away with each of his steps, I watch my Gray dream turn from me, possibly for the last time, walking into the fire so I can escape its wrath.

 

 

 

 

The rumbling above my head booms as if a thousand gargoyles were trying to knock the 4^th floor down upon the 3^rd. Feet pound in stomps, mimicking the desperate beating of my heart.

In a dark fantasy, I imagine their worn, tired eyes becoming wild at the sight of an unprotected room. I picture saliva sliding down their exposed canine teeth, glistening at the opportunity before them. My mind races to the mayhem that is beginning above me, feeling its energy run through the building like a virus, knowing what lies at the center of its terrible heartbeat. It throbs for evil freedoms. The feet stomp for one girl. I’m the one they seek. I’m sure they’d love to never see me alive again.

The bell tolls. While it rings for all of us, it marks certain doom for me. This is what I chose to do—better than the alternative, but it’s still a lousy choice. Just hope no one gets hurt.

Just hope my man in Gray is still alive.

 

 

In someone else’s fantasy, the piercing daylight would be scorching its way through my irises, turning my eyes into vapor and jelly, and then sizzling my brain like flesh in a broiler. In my reality, the sun is just irritating my tired eyes that have seen a long night.

There’s been no rest since I saw her last. Knew I had to track her down before Roderick found her. Had very little to go on. Thankfully her coworker had a big mouth, and her phone is still in my pocket.

Don’t know what is so special about her blue-haired friend, but Roderick was willing to expose us all to get her. If he hasn’t found her yet, he’ll be hunting down the only clue that was given, the same one that’s brought me here on the rooftop, 4 floors high:

…she’s a schoolteacher at Riverview High…

Surely the others can’t be far behind me. They’ll come for Ruby to get to her friend.

Should never have gotten her into this. Can’t care about anyone. Too dangerous. I know this. Remember Eleni. Spent a half century alone, because I know better. Come out and party for a few months, and the only girl to grab my soul since Eleni’s death appears out of nowhere. Beautiful—stunning—her face would still be on my mind even if she weren’t in so much danger. It’s been just hours after my hands first touched her sweet body, and death is surely coming for her. They’ll have to tear me to pieces first—never let them touch her. Not while I’m alive, but that may not last long.

They’re plotting or already acting. Roderick must have them in a furor. Impossible to stop them all.

Worst part—I have no plan.

My God, I hope she’s still alive at the end of the day.

 

 

When I walked into the 4^th floor classroom, no one was hanging from the ceiling, no desks were overturned, and no hell had been literally raised, at least none that left any evidence. In fact, they actually came to order with just an exhausted growl from me.

Bizarre.

They never listen to me the first time I say anything. I’m 19, a student teacher working with a group of seniors, and 2 of the girls who are in their 2^nd round of 12^th Grade were in a P.E. class with me 3 years ago. Why should they listen to me? If I hadn’t skipped a grade and taken summer classes, I’d never be here this young—probably the youngest student teacher they’ve ever seen.

Discipline’s not my big strength either. Teaching literature is what I love. Good characters, beautiful writing—people risking it all for love, dying to save someone else—these things don’t seem to happen anymore, but they happen in books. That’s why I could talk about literature all day long. Telling Johnny he can’t touch his classmate with the same finger he just shoved up his left nostril or telling Suzie I can see her cheat sheet in the strap of her bra are things I could go my whole life never having done and feel perfectly fine. I really could. But, I have to do them. It’s my job. The students know I hate correcting them, and they push me because of it.

So, why are they listening to me now? Why are they behaving on a Friday when no teacher was here at the start of class?

Could it be that they know that if I’m late something has to be wrong? I just wanted to make it impossible for Lyle to corner me before class and talk about last night, so I was late on purpose for school for the first time in my life. Don’t know what the hell was happening last night—hard to believe things I saw, but I definitely don’t want to talk about it. Don’t really want to talk about anything with Lyle. Not today.

Maybe they can see it all on my face. Can they see I’ve been awake all night? Can they see the fear? Can they see I’ve lost my best friend to this craziness? Can they see I’m confused, angry, and crushed that I was so teased by a gorgeous stranger who risked his life to save me—a kiss that still makes my lips tremble?

Am I so changed by meeting him that they can see it on my face? Do I look so broken that they pity me?

His face is still in my head. His eyes. Those arms. That body…still in school—still in school. Focus.

Wouldn’t trade those dances with him for anything. Hope I always remember how it felt to move with him. The taunt of it stings, but even a glimpse of the real thing is better than nothing—better than never having a taste of it at all. The hard part is knowing I’ve never felt anything like it and may never know it again. But he—they did things that don’t seem human. Not possible.

Don’t even know if he made it out alive.

 

 

A scent floats in the weak, early autumn breeze. Familiar and revolting. Know it well. Prayed they wouldn’t find her, but they’re near now. I know I should run. Impossible to beat them all. I can smell at least three of them.

 

 

Sound of two feet dropping down behind me.

“Hi there, Bright Eyes.”

My heart leaps. Raspy, the right words, but the tone’s not what I remember. Fear and joy mix. Please let it be him. Turn around.

Awful.

“Disappointed, are we? No, I’m not your lover boy. He only stays around for the party. He has no use for you now.”

Turn and run. Expecting Gray—hoping for Gray. Smacked with blonde-ponytail Roderick. No Gray. No joy. Doom.

Two men stand in the parking lot, arms folded, staring at me—the same two goons from the stage last night. How are they standing after all that happened? No marks on them.

In almost a laughter, Roderick calls from behind me, “Running is pointless, love. No need to run—we don’t want much. Just where Ambrosia is.”

I turn away from the two goons to face him again.

“It’s that simple—tell us where she is, and no one needs to get hurt.”

Mind races. Only half an idea. Hope it works.

“She’s here,” trying to hide the trembling in my voice.

“What? Here—why?”

“In security office,” nodding my head toward the school building I just walked out of a few moments ago, “Figured she’d be safe here with them. I set it up for her.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“My dear, my dear, my dear,” he sighs walking beside me, then sniffing over my shoulder as he begins pacing a circle around me, “Now, you wouldn’t be trying to send us to the security office because it’s the one place around here with trained professionals, would you?” Looking into my eyes, he pushes deeper, “Would you, Miss Ruby?”

My chest runs cold hearing him say my name—I never said my name last night—not even to Gray.

Standing so close to me, his smell fills my nostrils. His odor is like Gray’s wonderful scent if it were left to rot in the sun for weeks and mixed with body odor and urine.

He continues, “Because if we go up there and Ambrosia’s not there, I might get angry. If I get angry, I may feel the need to tear apart some trained professionals. Now, you wouldn’t be sending those innocent, trained guards to their deaths by lying to protect a spoiled, blue-haired party girl who surely wouldn’t risk herself to save them? Or,” he laughs, “for that matter, you don’t believe for a second that she’d be risking herself to save you, do you?”

He chuckles, and it stings through my ears.

“She might.”

“She would never. I know her kind—know her in ways you’ll never know. She only cares for herself—an attention whore. She’d lead us right to you just to be the queen of the hunt. Just because she’d be the center of attention. Just because it’d make us all need her.”

His words are twisted—one side with a sad truth, the other a lie. Wrapped and twirled around—it’s hard to pick the thorny lies out of the mess that spews from his mouth.

Finally I answer, “You’re wrong.”

“Am I? Is that why you hesitated?”

“Only hesitated to keep myself from vomiting from your stench.”

His nose is to mine before the last syllable completely escapes. He raises his upper lip in a snarl, exposing those cobra-like fangs.

“Pretty may be something a girl is born with,” pausing to tap his pointed fingernails that reek of rotten meat on my neck, “but it’s oh…so…easy to take away.”

A gasp escapes without my permission.

“That’s right, Ruby—be afraid. I won’t warn you twice. Now, where is your slut of a friend?”

Anger burns in me. Slut. How dare he?

“Come closer, and I’ll tell you.”

Grinning wickedly as he puts his ear before my mouth.

I say, “She’s in a little place I like to call Go Fu—”

Before I can finish the vulgar statement, a blur of gray and black lunges from the rooftop, crashing a boot into the backside of Roderick’s head, sending him rocketing to the ground. Gray’s arm lands gently on my back, spinning me around toward the goons charging at us.

Gray steps forward—Goon on his left throws a punch. Gray blocks it with a backhanded punch smashing into the Goon’s elbow fiercely, causing a loud crack. The elbow flops backward, and Gray lands a fist square in the nose, sending the attacker to a knee and the vulgar word that I didn’t get to say earlier spewing from his mouth.

The other Goon throws a punch at the back of Gray’s head. Gray sees it coming and dodges enough to make it a glancing blow across his ear and temple. Quickly, Gray kicks at the side of Goon #2’s knee, creating an even louder snap.

As the second Goon falls to the ground, Gray turns to me.

On the dance floor last night, his movements were beautiful, so fast that they were a little scary. While they still may be beautiful in some way and they’re saving my life, his actions are terrifying now.

Passion and adrenaline cover his face.

My veins race with fear of the three that are on the ground, but my heart trembles more at what Gray will say.

Our eyes lock. Just like last night. Peaceful and electrifying at the same time, even at a moment when three thugs are trying to kill me.

In a flash, Gray steps forward and thrusts his hand against my upper chest, shoving me fast but gently to the side. Roderick’s fingernails tear into Gray’s cheek. Fraction of a second later, and those nails would’ve torn into me. Blood. Arms fling in a blur. Gray blur moves faster.

Roderick drops to a knee, and peering around Gray, he shouts, “Get up and fight!”

The two goons struggle to their feet, coming toward us—one of them wincing with every step.

Blue eyes return to me. Pained eyes. Lips tense. A word is coming.

“Run!”

Same word he told me last. The one person I want to run to keeps telling me to run away.

He sends an elbow flying at the first goon. It’s blocked, and the second goon punches him from behind. Gray flings his head backward, nailing the stumbling goon behind him with a headbutt. With a leg sweep, he sends the first goon to the ground.

“I can’t win this. Run! Now!” Gray shouts.

He reaches out, grabs my wrist, and pulls me toward him. He drags me to where he stands, and I run past the goons on the ground toward my car in the parking lot. Look back—Roderick’s fist slams into the fingernail wounds on Gray’s cheek.

“Run,” is the last word I hear out of his bloody mouth.

I see no more of the fight as my legs race as fast as they can. There is a thundering crash, and I hear Roderick cursing.

My legs pump up and down for survival—my tears run for the nameless Gray who faces hell for the second time so I can escape.

 

 

 

 

“You have to come with me now,” says the male dream before me.

He came upon me like a gray breeze, unexpected, origin unknown, and tingling over my body before I knew he was near. He stands at the edge of the wrought iron table, his shadow covering the coffee cup in my hand.

I fled here after escaping the fight—thinking it wasn’t safe to go home. Too crazy to go to the police. A cup of coffee and lots of other people around were the best I could come up with. Forty minutes later—he’s found me again.

His right cheek is torn in the shape of four fingernails, but it no longer bleeds. Faint bruises mark the corner of his left eye and temple. Even battered, he looks stunning.

I desperately try to think of something to say that doesn’t make me sound as hopelessly mesmerized as I am with him and that also doesn’t reveal just how petrified I am by all of this. I hide my shaking hand on my lap, hoping he hasn’t seen it.

Still not coming up with anything witty, I take a sip of my coffee.

He says, “You’re in serious danger—you have to come with me now.”

Pulling my cup away from my mouth, I say, “I know caffeine’s not good for me, but I’d hardly say it’s a life or death thing.”

He looks at me intently like he’s scanning my inner being, “That’s funny, Ruby, and forgive me for being so curt, but what hunts you has no use for humor—and if you want to live, neither can we.”

“How did you know my name?” spills out of my mouth.

For the first time since we’ve crossed paths, he blushes and looks away from me.

I continue, “That Roderick guy knew my name too. What the hell is going on with all of you?”

“He’s dangerous, and he’s after you. We need to leave.”

“How do I know you’re not dangerous? I don’t even know your name.”

“Simon. My name is Simon.”

I fight the smile that begins to form at the sound of his name.

“Well, Simon,” my mouth alive as if being kissed at saying his name for the first time, “all I’ve seen is a lot of dancing and some crazy fighting. How do I know you’re not just as dangerous as he is?”

“Because I’m the one who’s been rescuing you.”

“All that means is that you’re after me too. All this could be about you trying to get to Ambrosia. Maybe you’re both fighting each other for her.”

“If I wanted her, I would’ve grabbed her last night. I told her to run, remember?”

Bite my bottom lip and nod.

“Still haven’t answered my question. My name—how do you know it?”

He looks away again. I could swear the bruises by his eye are fading.

“If you want me to believe you, you’ve got to look at me and tell me.”

His eyes quiver nervously, but he aims them at mine and speaks, “The DJ—his name’s Mark. I never gave you your phone back after he tossed it back down to me,” he pauses and exhales heavily, “Knew they’d be after you. Brought the phone to Mark—he thinks he’s some kind of a techno guru. Thinks he’s in The Matrix or something. All of his electronics glow with blue lights. But Mark came through. He traced your name and address from the phone number. Found out where you go to college.”

“So you enlisted a cyberpunk to track me down?”

Embarrassment comes over him, but in a millisecond, he regains composure, “As good as you smelled, it’s a big city to track you down by your fragrance—as sweet as it may be.”

Feeling the blood rushing to my face, I tap his hand, and change the subject, “So, that explains how you found me earlier. How did you find me here?”

“Your car looks like a convertible rabbit. It’s not that hard to find.”

I grin. My white Karmen Ghia. One of my only possessions that makes me smile.

His face drops all signs of amusement, “We need to leave now. Won’t take them long to find you either.”

“Wait a minute—I need some answers.”

“Don’t have time.”

“You seemed to be able to handle them fine last night and today—what’s the hurry? Why would they rush after you to get beat up again?”

“Not that easy. I hit two of them from behind with stools to the back of their heads—fire took care of Roderick.”

“And today?”

“Jumped off the roof and sucker-punched, well sucker-kicked, Roderick to the side of his head to start with. Barely held them off long enough for you to get away.”

“You’ve held them off so far. Why run?”

Shaking his head, “You just don’t get it. It was only three of them, and I got lucky.”

“What do you mean only three of them?”

“If there were three at the high school, there was at least one waiting at your house, another at your college, one everywhere they’ve figured out that you go.”

“Lucky I picked a new coffee shop today.”

“Luckier than you can imagine. Lucky now—lucky last night—lucky at the school.”

“What happened at the school—after I left?”

“I got in some good shots, but they beat me down to a knee and left.”

“They just left?”

“They’re not after me, remember?”

“Ambrosia,” the word whispers out of my mouth.

“No, they’re looking for you to get to Ambrosia. They can’t find her.”

“Of course they can’t; she’s—”

His arm jets across the table and presses a finger over my lips. Shaking his head solemnly, “Don’t even say it.”

Not fond of being shushed and having had it with this crazy, violent game they’re playing that somehow involves me—all the frustration and stress, of the sleepless last night and the violent morning after, well up and flood me, words bursting out like shrapnel from a cannon barrel.

“How the hell do you fight like that and not get hurt? That part of the roof is two stories high! How did you not break your neck?”

He starts to speak, but my verbal barrage continues to bombard him.

“Why did Roderick stick his arm through the flames at us? What kind of psychopath burns himself like that? What are you guys—a bunch of psychiotic wanna-be ninjas?”

“It’s…it’s because…” he pauses and exhales loudly.

I take a sip of my mocha latte.

As soon as I move the oversized mug from my mouth, I see he has leaned across the table with his lips nearly touching my ear.

“It’s because I’m a vampire.”

Coffee gushes out my mouth, shooting across the table and dripping through its wrought iron holes down to the concrete ground that I suddenly can’t look away from.

His words were serious, which prevents me from looking at him. Never look at him the same again.

My heart cracks. He’s gorgeous, he’s into me, and he’s completely nuts. Taking a last look before I leave him forever, I glance over the rigidity of his cheekbone, sliding my gaze down its perfectly carved slope.

“Oh, my God! Your marks are gone! The scratches on your face are gone!”

Before I realize how loud I was just shouting, his extended fingertip pushes against my lips again.

“Shhhh. That’s what I was just trying to tell you.”

He looks around at the many people staring at us. He stares them down one by one—none of them hold their eyes on him for more than a few seconds under his intense watch.

Looking back to me and slowly sitting down in the chair across from me, he says in the strongest of whispers, “Didn’t you notice Roderick’s arm was almost completely healed this morning? He burned the flesh pretty bad last night.”

“Didn’t notice—was kinda focused on trying to not be killed actually,” my voice shaking.

A dessert plate falls off a nearby table and crashes to the concrete patio floor. At the sound, Simon jumps to his feet, knocking his chair over backward and flinging his fingers out like the serrated paw of a startled tiger.

Turning back to me, he leans over the table, ignoring the bewildered stares that are upon him once again. His glorious azure eyes line up with my own—his tender lips mere inches away from where I’d still love them to be.

“We need to leave—now,” his voice powerful and certain.

“Where?” squeaks from my mouth, my mind still struggling to take in the unreal situation that surrounds me.

Shaking his head, “Don’t have time for this. We walk out together right now, or I throw you over my shoulder and leave that way.”

He sees my repulsed expression.

“Sorry, but I’d rather have you hate me alive than like me dead.”

“Who says I like you?”

“Your lips did.”

“When?”

“Last night. Assumed you’re not the type to touch your lips to just anyone.”

“Care to read what they’re saying now?”

 

 

 

 

They say every story has three sides. Two are the sides of the people fighting or loving each other, and the third side is the truth. The third voice is the one people hate more than anything because it shows the lies in the first two sides, and most people have already picked their favorite of the first two—the one they want to believe, and they hate hearing that they were wrong—they despise hearing anything different than what they want to be true.

The third point of view puts an end to the discussion—the fight they’ve been enjoying over and over again—whether the hero will live, whether the good guy gets the girl, or what suitor the fickle heroine will choose. The third voice ends it all—no more imagining how things will turn out, no more arguing with other fans about how it should all end, no more teams rooting for their chosen character to be the winner.

The third p.o.v. declares a clear victor, making all their cleverly-worded phrases and insults at the other side worthless and outdated. Even the wittiest snarky comment attacking the winner is worthless because, if it held any truth, the winner would not have won. If someone says something will happen and it doesn’t, that someone is wrong. Period. No amount of nasty criticisms will ever change that. All of their claims at coolness and all of their weapons against their opposition are made obsolete.

My name is Edgar. I am the outside point of view, and there’s no shortage of people I’ve made hate me.

Pulled into this by Roderick. His angry voice waking me this morning from the deep sleep at the end of a rowdy night. My bloodshot eyes were angry as they opened to see his furious face peering down on me, but I knew I had to obey.

Was impossible to look past him to the yellow, smoke-stained, sagging motel ceiling. Hard to look past him at anything else. His form demands attention.

Roderick’s presence is a magnetic darkness. No matter where he goes, eyes follow, imaginations race to keep up, and courage flees the viewer’s chest.

If I summoned the sun amazingly close to the earth, right at the edge of the horizon—a giant fireball singeing and melting all that we hold dear, and if I placed Roderick in front of it, his shadow would be all you’d notice. Were he standing between the jaws of a monstrous shark the size of a shopping center—tearing through the water toward you at terrifying speed, you’d look past the raw pink gums, razor-like triangular teeth, and emotionless black eyes to the man standing in the ghastly mouth staring into you as if he knows all of your secrets and all the good things you wish you could do while he smirks at how little he cares about any of it or about what he is going to do to you.

I hate Roderick like the addict hates his dealer. Just as dependent on the decadence he brings me. My body aches, waiting for the terrible hit to fill the hole inside of me, feeling as though I’ll die the worst, sweaty, shaky death ever experienced—until I see his unholy form with my relief.

He’ll supply the hit I need. For a moment I’ll feel euphoric, but at the peak of the relief I’ll turn sour, knowing the next urge will be all the stronger, knowing with every fix that I’m sliding deeper from the light of freedom, feeding the withdrawal that grows wider as it devours me more every day. Every time I quench the need, it only makes the next need stronger—demanding more juice to fill it.

I hate the narrowing light of hope for reminding me that I could climb out, I hate Roderick for giving me the poison that I begged him for, and I hate myself for not thinking I’m worth the fight to quit.

I’ve done terrible things to fill a terrible need. Time and again.

I don’t know what Simon’s done to bring on the wrath of Roderick, but I’ll bring Roderick what he wants, even if it means I’ll do terrible things to Simon.

The girl needs to be taken alive. Simon can be dragged back either way.

 

 

 

 

The sunlight turns a strained orange color, almost looking burned, as it reaches through the tree branches down onto the ground all around me.

When I started this day, I surely didn’t think it’d end up with my butt in the dirt, watching my shirtless protector sweat as he sharpens the points of branches into spears with his fingernails. Heck, when I woke this morning, I had no idea I’d ever see him again, much less learn his name, have him save my life a second time, and lastly whisk me away into the middle of the woods.

Thus far, my twentieth year is either the most bizarre I’ve ever known, or it has become so dull that I’ve lost my mind and decided to live in a fantasy world. Scary to think I’m only two days into it. As I watch him with all of his attention on tearing into the branches to make sharp points, as little notice of me as a caterpillar climbing up a nearby tree trunk, I know this is no delusional fantasy of mine. I’d have him focused on me. Sad that this is the only proof that I haven’t gone insane: the boy ignores me.

Somewhere along the high-velocity, hour-long drive out here, he grew silent. Brushing off my questions with one-word answers or none at all. Every time his eyes began to look warm again, he’d shake it off, resurrecting his cold and focused facade.

It’s like he’s the jaded twin brother of the man I met last night. He seems so far from the guy who jumped from a rooftop to save me from three beasts. He doesn’t even resemble the boy who convinced me to leave my half-full mocha latte sitting on a table to run away with him.

All of those things vex me to my core, but the one that stings the most is he seems to have nothing left of the smooth Casanova who danced with me, made my body glisten from his heat, and kissed me with more passion than I’ve ever felt.

The few glimmers of his past self that have broken his stone persona have come when I’ve called him by his name. In those moments, the effect was only fleeting, but they were the highlights of our hours in the woods. Simon—the name still seems so special to me—the last connection I have to the beau in my heart, a picture locket to a widow.

Can’t understand how he’s grown so cold. All of a sudden I’m repulsive to him—he becomes annoyed every time I make him acknowledge me.

Was he just drunk last night, and the infatuation’s worn off? Am I ugly to his sober eyes?

He moved too well to be that drunk. Threw stools across the dance floor and exactly onto the thugs’ backs that he was aiming for way up on the stage.

Am I such an odd girl that I was just a different flavor for him to taste? A freak to try out?

The last glow of the twilight begins to give way to the blanketing night.

I can’t take it anymore.

“Why are you ignoring me?”

Doesn’t look away from the point he is sharpening.

“Did I do something wrong?”

Still no response.

Shaking, “If you won’t talk to me about what the hell is going on, I swear I’ll walk out of these woods and leave you here to be nasty and mean all by yourself,” deep breath, “I swear it, Simon.”

Without budging his head or slowing the stroke of his nails into the branch, he says, “If you have any desire to live, I can’t leave your side.”

His voice sounds so flat—drained of emotion.

“Doesn’t sound like you’d care anyway.”

“Doesn’t matter if I care. It’s a fact. You leave—you die.”

Sniffling becomes involuntary, “Well, what if you’re killing me now?”

“I haven’t done anything to you.”

“You haven’t?”

“Don’t be dramatic. Haven’t laid a hand on you.”

“Yes, you did. Your hands were on me last night, and they protected me today.”

“Never laid a hand on you in anger. Never hurt you.”

Silence except for the faint drone of grasshoppers and my sniffling.

Giving up on getting through to him, letting my heart tear itself freely, I whisper to myself, “Yes, you did hurt me.”

He still carves. Shutting me out.

A whimper squeals out from me, pushing past the lips I try to hold tightly together.

The whittling stops. He turns and looks at me.

“How?” he asks.

“What?”

“How did I hurt you?”

Stunned, I say nothing. How could he have possibly heard me? It was barely a whisper, and he sits far away from me. Finally, I say, “You got my hopes up. Made me think you liked me—only to crush me now.”

He sighs, “I never promised you anything. Has it occurred to you that I might have nothing good to offer? That everything inside me is bad for you?”

“Isn’t it up to me what’s good for me?”

“You have no idea what’s good for you. Can’t be twenty years old yet, and you think you know what’s good for you,” he snickers—a cruel, forced chuckle with no joy in his voice.

“You promised me even though the world tries to pull us apart they won’t win.”

Looking away from me and toward the jagged spikes he’s piled up at his feet, “You shouldn’t believe everything a guy tells you in a bar.”

The exhaustion, the emotional strain, and the fear have taken their toll on me, but it’s the hurt that obliterates. Tears fall. All strength is gone.

His face is stone. Beautiful and cold. Can’t tell if his eyes are welling up like my own—tears blur my vision.

Magnificent.

Handsome.

Monster.

 

 

The saddest sound to touch my worn ears still eats at my soul two hours after it’s been silenced. I’ve heard junkies beg for a hit, promising disgusting favors, having sold all their dignity for that temporary rush. I’ve heard young widows wail at the loss of their husbands in war. I’ve even heard my own wretched cries when Eleni was taken from me.

None of them tore at me so violently as hearing her cry herself to sleep. Hunted. Endangered. Betrayed.

Maybe her cries hurt me most because I caused them. All the others were the result of tragedy. Cruel fate. Her cries were given birth by my harsh words. Her pain is my spawn. Inflicted upon her against her will.

Her sweet voice asking what she had done—assuming she had failed me in some way. It echoes in my head. Cutting deeper every time it repeats.

Her sad, green eyes on fire beneath her silky brown hair, melting from my words. Breaks my heart to think some of her sweetness may have been burned away forever. Hopefully, all of this will save what’s left of her. Even if it kills all that’s still tender in me.

 

 

She still sleeps.

Her slumber has grown deep, blanketed in the heavy peace of the moonlight filtering through the night air.

The same moonlight offers a dim illumination of her body. Staring at her closely for so long, the light seems to sparkle over every contour, especially along the slope of her neck as she lies on her side—her hands tucked sweetly under head—her hair spread out on the ground around her as beautiful as freshly-fallen, golden brown autumn leaves.

Voices scream in my head. I’ve fought them my whole life except for the past six months. Finally gave into the bloodlust and fed carefully on select girls, never damaging any of them more than leaving them a little lightheaded and lonely the next morning.

Fought it for so long. Decades. A marathon fasting that left me broken and bitter. Was strong for so many years, but not like this. Not like some psycho standing over her while she sleeps, staring at her, absorbing her beauty like a predator in the shadows, letting her dainty scent tantalize my senses and make my fangs ache.

Never had to stand guard like this. Taunting myself with an aroma I can only smell as a tease, never allowing myself to taste. It’d be one thing to shut her out, avoid her like hell, and try to keep my mind free of her body’s temptation. That would be torture enough. It’s quite another thing to have her before me, glistening in the moonlight, smelling as delicious as a fantasy, filling me with desire.

Her image is more than any pheromone. Her hot body rising and falling with each breath, throbbing with every heartbeat. She is more than a feast to a ravenous man, more than Aphrodite appearing to a shipwrecked sailor—lost and achingly alone on a deserted island.

It doesn’t help that I haven’t fed in days—it was two nights before I met Ruby when I last satisfied the craving. The healing has taxed my body—the fights have left my muscles sore. Fighting off whatever the hell they put into me with that needle has eaten away nearly everything left in me. Every part of me screams to be rejuvenated. Just a little taste would relieve so much anguish. Just a quick embrace at her neck would silence the grinding voices in my head.

She twitches in her sleep—I can see the blood pulsing under delicate human flesh like a scarlet ghost beneath a thin sheet of glorious skin. It’s like I can see another version of her just beneath the surface, shimmering and otherworldly, calling me over with a beckoning finger.

I quietly step toward her, until I can lean down and put my face the closest distance from her cheek. The temptation rages inside me. Mind races for any excuse to dive into her. It’s some insane irony that my desire for her as a person only adds to the need to taste her as a prey.

Even in sleep, she makes my body ache in agony.

I can’t take it. Losing control. Her wiles fill my mind clouding everything else. Stumble away from her—eyes closed.

Arch my back at the night sky that illuminates beyond the treetops, throw my hands to my head, and scream, “No, I won’t do it!”

Her flesh jumps. Her eyes flutter. I’m still not free.

Shut my eyes and scream again, “Never! Won’t do it!”

When I finally let my eyes open, Ruby sits, legs crossed in front of her and her arms wrapped tightly across her chest.

“Wh-what was that about?” her chin shakes as she speaks.

“Bad dream,” I say.

She looks entirely unconvinced and uncomforted.

I continue, “Forget it. Lots going on lately. Took a beating today—of course, I’m going to have bad dreams. Don’t worry about it. I’ll be fine.”

Her face looks troubled, and she squirms.

“I told you I’d be fine. Don’t worry about it and go back to sleep.”

I can see her blood pulsing through her exposed arms and neck. Every pulse of her heart makes the shape of her lovely body glow in my eyes, like she’s wiggling every part of herself before me. Her neck a hot, illuminated crescent. I slam my eyes shut, trying to shake the temptation off. Straining to block it all out of my mind.

Leaves and twigs crackle close to me.

Panic flings my eyes wide open. She’s within an arm’s reach.

“I told you to go back to sleep,” I say roughly. Correcting my tone to something softer, I add, “You need to rest after what you’ve been through. We may need to run at any time.”

“I—I, uh,” she says looking everywhere but my face.

“You need to go to sleep.”

“Okay, alright, I will,” she hesitates, “After.”

“After what?”

“After I take care of something.”

“What? We’re out in the middle of nowhere—what could you possibly have to do?”

“I—I just need to do things.”

“What things, Ruby?”

“Private things.”

“Look, I know I hurt your feelings earlier, and I’m sorry that that’s just the way it’s gotta be, but you have no idea how much danger you’re in. They could’ve followed us. Could be waiting out there—right in the darkness. Looking for the one moment that I fall asleep or let you out of my sight. You need to take this very serious—”

“Shut up! Shut up!”

Her voice is so urgent that I obey instantly.

“Personal things! Things most girls like to pretend they never do.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh. You jerk. Sure know how to embarrass a girl.” She looks so wounded. So humiliated. I feel miserable.

“I—I didn’t know.”

“What’d you think? We’ve been gone for twelve hours or more, and you haven’t let me outta your sight? What’d you expect?”

“Fine,” I say a lot more harshly than intended, “Head a few trees into the woods, and I’ll turn around.”

“No way, buddy. I need my space—maybe 100 feet or so.”

“Can’t do it. Not safe.”

“Look, this is happening whether you like it or not, and you need to get a grip.” Lowering her voice softly, “God knows I wish it weren’t happening.”

I look down at my boots, shake my head, and sigh.

 

 

Squatting down in a dark forest, I try to think of all the words to “Voices Carry.” I like the song and all—loved hearing it last night, but it’s not so much a subject that enthralls me as it’s something to keep my mind from imagining bugs crawling up my legs or a snake nipping at my bare butt.

Why is it that every other girl living some kind of a romantic fantasy gets to be “La Bella Principessa,” the perfect and adored swan among gangly geese, and I’m out here crouching in the bushes just forty feet from my dream guy desperately hoping I’m far enough away from him, and the only Bella I feel like is a Béla Lugosi monster? What could be more feminine and dainty than poppin’ a squat in the middle of the woods on the first date?

I guess this would be a first date—can’t count when you meet. First date is the first time together after that. Guess he should be at least talking to me to consider this a da—

Bushes sway and rustle to my left. Something’s moving. Fast.

Tearing through the rough in a blur is Simon rushing toward the thing coming at me. I can see the eyes of the thing glowing as I fall down yanking my jeans over my hips. Its hands reach out in front of it. So fast. Nasty fingernails like claws waiting to tear into me. Just a few feet away. A foot. Inches. Simon crashes into it in a loud collision, plowing into it, continuing to drive the attacker further away from me into the wild.

Obscured in the darkness and the brush, I can see arms and legs flying. So quick, hard to make out what is coming from where and whom is getting struck by who.

The clouds shift allowing more moonlight, and I see Simon’s gray shirt stretched at the sleeves in the clutches of the pale, redheaded man standing over him.

On his knees, Simon just looks up at the other vampire, staring at him—challenging the eyes past the thin, red-bearded face. A screech cuts through the night air, emanating from the mouth of the attacker.

Simon flings his hands out of the attacker’s stomach, blood running from his fingernails. Simon pulls the man to the ground, and I can no longer see either of them.

Two of the longest minutes of my life pass—my body threatening cardiac arrest at every second of it.

Simon stands, shirtless. He flings the body of the attacker on his shoulders, back first—his stomach wound visible to me now. I see the beast breathing. In a blur, Simon runs through the trees in the direction of the road where we hid my car beneath branches and piles of pine needles.

I stare between the trees, hoping I’ll see him coming back to me. My mind plays frantic games, convincing myself I see him coming in the distance—the wind blowing a branch far off must be him returning safely—the moonlight on a tree branch must be his body peeking out the rough as it sprints back to me. Each false sighting increases my fear. The greater the fear, the more I imagine. Thoughts and fears spiral—feeding each other.

I hear the snap of twigs behind me. I can hear someone breathing heavily before I can turn around.

Shirtless, glistening in a thin layer of sweat, his heart races—pumping his veins rapidly through his muscular torso. Even the muscle lines in his stomach pulse. Girl, look up. Look at his face.

He has a small fingernail wound on his left shoulder that already has stopped bleeding and is beginning to heal.

He is drenched from head to toe—his long hair soaked and dripping. Far too wet for sweat. Did he go swimming?

Finally my words come, “Are you alright? Where did you go? You almost killed me—didn’t know if you were alright or—”

“Dead? No, not tonight.”

“Why are you wet?”

“I—uh, had to rinse off. There’s a stream not far behind us.”

Thinking back to him nabbing the attacking vampire just inches away from where I was squatting, blood rushes to my face. My stomach feels flooded with humiliation, and my chest feels like the wind has been knocked out of me.

“Are you alright?” he asks. Touching my shoulders, “I was sure I got to him before he reached you. Are you okay?”

The intensity of his voice touches me. I swore just a few hours ago to shut this jerk out of these parts of me—now he’s back in there, awakening my emotions again, making me feel so alive—so special—so aware of how badly I’ll feel if he turns on me again.

Suddenly feeling appalled, “If you weren’t supposed to be looking at me, how’d you know he was coming? Were you watching me? Did you come closer after I told you to stay put?”

“No, I stayed where you told me, but I had to watch the area around you. If I had spotted him a second later, Edgar would’ve been on you before I could stop him.”

“Edgar? You know his name? Was he a friend of yours?” I ask in a shout.

“No, no. Edgar’s no one’s friend. He’s a miserable blood junkie. More than the rest of us. Can’t be trusted with anything.”

“Then why’d you let him get away? Why’d you bring him back to the road?”

“Because I need to get some information from him tomorrow night.”

“You just said you couldn’t trust him—that he’s nobody’s friend. What makes you think he’s not going to bring all of them here right now?”

“I promised him something. He won’t say a word until he has it.”

“What did you promise him?”

“Just something that he can’t live without,” he looks into my eyes, “Trust me. You won’t see him back here tonight.”

Feeling scared. How can Simon be so sure? Something about what he said bothers me. Oh, see him back here tonight. It’s the seeing that’s bothering me.

“You shouldn’t have seen me out there tonight,” pointing back to the place where I was squatting. “I know you were trying to protect me, and thank God that you were watching because that’s when that monster came at me, but it’s just…you know…it’s… horrible…”

The crying starts. Don’t know how much more I can take. People trying to kill me. My love rejecting me coldly. The humiliation. Too much. Has to come out. Tears flow.

His voice has a soothing tone that I haven’t heard from him in hours, “Look, look, listen to me.”

He shakes my shoulders gently to try to get me to look up at him. He leans down and puts his forehead against the top of my head. Can’t bring myself to look at him. My eyes are on his defined stomach, but my thoughts are hanging on his words.

“Not to make you feel self-conscious, Ruby,” the sound of him saying my name comforts, “but I do have heightened senses—hearing and scent way beyond what you know.”

All comfort slips away from me. Humiliation is about enough to knock me down.

He continues, “You’d’ve had to walk twice as far as you did to really be away from me, and then I couldn’t have protected you.”

I feel like a seventh grader who has laughed so hard she peed her pants in front of the whole class.

He says, “Look, it’s not as bad as dying, right? If you’d have gone further away, you wouldn’t be here at all now.”

I shake my head slowly in agreement, the top of my head against his forehead, my chin against his chest.

“Hey, I’ve been this way my whole life—I’m used to it. It’s nothing new—can’t shut my senses off.”

“So, what? You’re a life-long perv? Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“No,” he says, leaning down to look into my eyes, “Just trying to say there’s nothing wrong with you.”

I raise my head halfway to look back at him.

Unfair. Moonlight filters through the trees and lands on his face. He opens his lips to speak. His fangs shimmer, speaking to me before his words come.