Sunday. Going to be a bloody Sunday.

Sunday is Jazz Night. Can’t think of a better reason to shed some blood than being forced to listen to five hours of goatee-stroking, off-rhythm, snap-inducing, pseudo-intellectual, haughty, self-claimed-superior cacophony.

Seriously, I hate jazz more than Johnny. And if you catch my obscure reference, you belong at ‘80s Night with the rest of us.

All I want to catch is Ruby’s blue-maned, careless friend and get the three of us the hell out of here. Keep Ruby’s hand tight in my own. Haven’t feared anything in half a century, but I fear I’ll lose her. Fear it so much it hurts. Been like that since I brought her back into the city.

Scared to have her here. Scared more to leave her in the woods where I can’t see her. Edgar knows right where Ruby was—has to know by now that the number I gave him was to call upon a dead girl. Roderick probably knows right where she was in the woods by now too. Edgar’ll be all too happy to tell him to get back at me. Be his way to get Roderick off his own back for not returning to him right away—wasted his time on the chase I sent him, searching for veins that were long dry.

We walk into the bar and look around. I don’t see anything blue bopping. Don’t know if I’m happy or sad not to see her. Maybe she wised up. Or, maybe they’ve already found her before she could come out here. That seems more likely.

Still only 10:15. Place doesn’t get hot till 11 or later.

Sounds of a four-piece drum kit solo reach my ears. The awkward stops grate at me. Why can’t it be Tuesday night Burlesque? So glad they have that here—without it there’d be no pyro at the edge of the stage, and this tale would’ve been a whole heck of a lot shorter. A lot sadder too.

A guy across the bar squints his eyes behind his thick-framed glasses and waves one finger in the air—keeping his other hand at the brim of his bebop hat. Have to admit I kind of like the hat. Not my style, but a nice hat.

Ruby squeezes my hand—my eyes slide up her arm, along her shoulder, over the sleek contour of her neck—still unmarked by me, along the slender cheekbone, up her delicate nose, and to the intoxicating green of her eyes. That’s exactly my style.

Every bit of it.

She pulls my hand down, guiding my body toward her own. Her luscious, full lips press into mine, filling me with the warmth and hope that my fear had drained from me.

Knew what I needed without a word. She looked into me, knew what I lacked, and poured it out of herself into me.

Such a small package filled with so much. Even after our time in the wild—our time on the run without shower or refreshing, her hair smells wonderful—her kiss sweet.

Worry what is happening that I can’t see. Don’t want anything to harm her—even while she thrills me.

I slowly back off, fighting a pull to return to her lips as we separate. She smiles and slides her arm around my waist, running her fingers across my lower back.

I scan over the bar, trying to find anything blue or anything menacing. The night would go better if I never saw either of them, but the urge to have this weight off my shoulders—some kind of end to this stress and worry—makes me wish I’d find either of them right now and face fate head on.

I look to the DJ booth. It’s not Mark. He loves jazz about half as much as I do, although I don’t find it all that different from the drum and bass stuff he digs so much.

It’s an older guy named Jeff. Know him but not really friends. I wave and get his attention—not too much else for him to look at in the bar that’s not yet very populated.

I make a gun with my hand, aim it at my forehead, and pull the trigger with my thumb. He smiles. I hold up eight fingers and then just a fist. He mouths the word Sunday down to me. I point at my wrist where a watch would be worn if I were ever concerned about the time. He shrugs his shoulders and fiddles with equipment in front of him.

“Always Something There to Remind Me” starts, its uniquely ‘80s keyboards and chiming bells invading the jazz-only event. Beebop guy doesn’t seem too upset, still waving his lone finger around as conductor.

“How’d you do that?” asks Ruby.

“You know by now—I’m a magic man.”

She dances slowly up to me, brushing against me, “You just get us all out of here tonight—that’s all the magic I need to see for awhile.”

I nod and look around.

Her slim fingers reach up and slide over my chin, “Not that I don’t love the magic you’ve shown me, or the sparks in your fingertips.”

I smile and look at something moving over her head near the stage. It’s the emergency door—it’s not all the way shut.

I pull her around to the other side of me.

“What? What is it?” she asks.

I bang my hand on the bar as I call out, “Angie?”

The bartender shuts the lid of the cooler she was stocking with beer bottles and bops her way over toward me.

“What’s the big dea—” she starts to ask before I interrupt.

“Keep her behind the bar—don’t say a word,” I say grabbing Ruby at her waist and lifting her up onto the bar.

“What? Why should I kee—”

“Please, no questions—someone’s here that wants to hurt her—bad.”

“Okay. Okay. Try to keep things cool. Please.”

“Thanks, Angie.”

I turn to the emergency exit.

“Wait!” calls from behind me.

I look over my shoulder and see Ruby behind the bar now and watching me intently.

“I’ll come back for you,” I say.

She looks slightly relieved.

“Now, down,” I say pointing, “Stay below the bar.”

I look back to the door and rush toward it. Quick hop on the stage, pass up the door, lean on the wall with my ear close to the crack between the door and the sill.

Hear voices, but nothing clear.

I look up to Jeff and see him watching me curiously—again nothing much else to look at in the bar but bebop guy’s soul patch and his finger waving. I motion for him to turn the volume down. He looks pained, but turns the level down for me. Voices become clear.

“…been here three nights in a row—what makes you think she’s ever coming back?”

“Trust me,” this voice is Roderick’s—definitely Roderick’s, “She can’t stay away much longer—this is her drug.”

A third voice chimes in, “Look, I’m starting to get the itch, man—can’t be here all night.”

Third voice is Edgar’s. Those words could be his epitaph. Definitely him.

Roderick again, “You’ll stay as long as I tell you, junkie. She’ll be here: trust me.”

“Not here now—wasting our time. Could be anywhere in the city if she even came back at all. This place ain’t even gonna get going for another hour—playing freakin’ ‘80s music right now—it’s supposed to be stupid jazz night. Ain’t even started yet.”

“All right,” barks Roderick, “We’ll go check out the damn market, and if she ain’t—isn’t—see you’ve got me talking like an imbecile—if she isn’t there we’re coming right back here. She’ll be here all night anyway once she comes.”

The door slams roughly—right beside my ear. Probably kicked by Roderick. Just glad that they didn’t come back inside.

Time. At least we have a little time. Don’t know how much or what good it’ll do, but we’ve got a little. Hope it’s enough to keep her alive.

I see her two defiant and gorgeous eyes peering over the edge of the counter full of concern, and I know I need a way to save her from all this—even though my mind has no idea how to do it.

 

 

Like being trapped in a glass tomb, I press my hand against the clear pane blocking me from the burgeoning life on the other side that I’m not a part of. Dark blue, the color of a dream, and muffled on my side—loud, bouncing, and alive on the other.

It seems that with every new song, the crowd below grows out of itself, people spawning out of people—filling in every tiny bit of available space with another sweaty, dancing body.

Hard to believe so many people would show up for a jazz night at a wild place like this—and on a Sunday at that, but as the night’s progressed, the jazz has gotten funkier and people have started dancing. Some of them seriously over-dancing. Never seen people gyrate to this style of music, but they sure seem to be having a good time.

I recognize a lot of the more flamboyantly dressed people from ‘80s Night. I think this bar’s regulars would show up for a combo Do-Your-Taxes/Root-Canal Night as long as it was here and there was going to be some dancing.

Despite the undying enthusiasm of the usual crowd, I don’t really want to be here. Only here looking for my crazy friend—my crazy, innocent friend who’s gotten herself tangled up with a monster. Until her blue hair bounces into the bar, I’ll be here—hiding behind the upstairs bar, pretending to be a bartender. The girl who is the legitimate bartender is none too thrilled to have another female crowding her workspace, but she smiled and agreed right away when Simon asked her to keep us here.

The upstairs bartender certainly hasn’t minded having Simon within her close quarters, having found countless opportunities to brush up against him while fixing drinks and taking orders—her hands sliding across his back, her hips rubbing against him as she passes.

Simon’s stayed with his eyes to the window all night, taking no notice of her behavior—not even a flinch—as if his body’s lost all feeling.

The lights from the dance floor reflect and flash in the window, falling on his unmoving reflection. He’s like a jagged mountain in the middle of a lightning storm, light explosions and thundering carnage falling all around him, but he remains still and certain.

It all moves in his eyes—all the frantic activity mirrored inside his beautiful blue irises, but his stare moves not. A stillness usually only reserved for the dead.

He’s only taken his sight off the window a few times in the two hours we’ve been up here. He’s blinked as if remembering something, and then he’s turned to me and given me a smile or a kiss. Immediately, he’s turned right back to the window, and the bartender’s given me a sneer.

Whenever I could, I’ve taken a few orders, filled some cups with ice, grabbed some beers out of the iced bins—not so much to help her out, although I wouldn’t mind helping her if she’d keep her hands off my man, but to give me something to do and to keep the illusion that I have some unsuspicious reason for being here behind the bar.

Most times she’s said nothing to me when I’ve helped her; sometimes she’s graced me with a nasally, “I got it, hun.”

Maybe I should just tell everyone the unbelievable truth: I’m hiding up here from bloodthirsty vampires that are after me and my blue-haired friend. No one’d believe me anyway—this place never has a shortage of delusional eccentrics. Then I could just stand here and put my arms around Simon—wouldn’t need to pretend to be a bartender, and I could block her nasty hips from touching his delicious body again…yeah…maybe just push her down the crooked, old stairs. Two rounds of free drinks and everyone up here’d forget all about it…mean, you’re getting mean in all this madness, Ruby…okay, okay…maybe just lock her in the little bathroom all night.

Despite it all, the upstairs bar is a great place to hide. There are no signs letting people know they’re allowed to go upstairs—it’s a narrow, unevenly constructed, wooden staircase that is dilapidated and dimly lit. It turns at 180 degrees in the center, offering no view to those on the bottom floor of what it leads to.

The dark blue upstairs room itself is tiny, about the size of a large bedroom, with a one-person unisex bathroom. Getting to use that closet-sized bathroom, locked in and alone while Simon stood guard outside, has been the only small joy of the day. But, it’s hard to enjoy regaining my feminine mystique that I so crudely lost under the trees and moonlight—because my friend’s in danger, and we could all be killed trying to save her. That kinda sucks all the joy out of reclaiming my dainty appeal. Never been too big on that frou-frou stuff anyway, but the incident in the woods was a bit much even for me.

Most people don’t come up here—most don’t know it exists—and some of the ones that try don’t make it all the way up here on their drunken, creaky stairway climb, crashing to the uneven steps beneath them or onto their annoyed friends who came along on their ill-advised and inebriated expedition.

As crowded as it’s been downstairs, it’s been calm and steady up here all night. Simon found right where to put me. Safest place in the unsafe storm, perched above the raging waters below.

Suddenly Simon’s eyes light up—jolting from complete stillness to furious intensity, shocking me as if a statue has just reached out to grab me.

My eyes follow his stare down to the dance floor—sure enough, it’s Ambrosia, bopping her way up to the bar, smiling and strutting like it’s just another night out—no fear of creatures of the dark on her face, just a mischievous smile welcoming the energy of the night.

Before I can take my eyes off her, Simon’s whispering in my ear.

“Stay here—I’m going to get her.”

“Okay,” I say, filled with fear and relief at the same time.

So close to getting her and us out of here.

So close to being away from the beasts that want to tear us apart.

But so close to being caught.

So far from the exit.

Simon rushes into the crowd to grab the only blue-haired girl in the joint. He stands out like a man among children—a tiger among kittens, and Ambrosia…well, she’s Ambrosia. Can’t be hard to spot—even for the bad guys…if they’re here…

God help him. Crazy dancing people better part a path for him. In the name of love and all that’s good, let us get out of here.

Maybe I should wait at the bottom of the stairs. Makes no sense for him to have to come get me and then go back down the stairs again to the exit. But then I won’t be able to see him. Can see Ambrosia here. Will see him going after her here. Wait till he has her then run to the bottom of the stairs.

He’ll want to kill me for leaving here before he gets back, but I’ve got to help. Only thing I can do.

Always thought Juliet was foolish—immature and infatuated. But now, I feel that wherever Simon is at the end of the night is where I want to be too. I’d rather it be here, but couldn’t live with myself if I knew I let him slip to the next life without fighting alongside him.

Wait. There’s something below. Something awful. Is that…

 

 

Body slams off me—crashes into the wall—and starts to slide toward the ground.

Didn’t see him coming round the turn.

Catch him by his arm with one hand and his bebop hat that has fallen off with the other. Steady him quickly on the stairs—toss his hat on his head—give him a nod but not a word and rush down the second part of the stairs that squeak beneath my boots louder than the booming music flooding from the dance floor and into the narrow stairwell.

Rest of the steps are a blur and then gone.

Feel like I’ve hit a staggering herd of cattle as I smack into the mass of bodies that stumble, some of them to the beat of the song and some to the pounding of the arrhythmic alcohol rushing through their brains.

Push with my hands—a sea of human waves—trying to swim through them. Some spill. Some shout. Most just get the hell out of my way.

Two bouncing strands of blue. Her hand grasps a drink from the bartender—takes a sip—looks around. Can almost see the liquid light up her eyes. Heartbeat races through her—two of them.

See something moving near the stage. Emergency door opens wide.

Ambrosia spots me coming toward her. Pulls cup from her lips. Nervous lips.

Roderick steps off the edge of the stage onto the floor. Followed by goons.

She turns away from me toward the dance floor, with the look of a child swimming away from a parent, not ready to get out of the pool.

By the stage, Edgar is the last one through the door, letting it slam closed behind him—the noise covered completely by the music, unheard even to my ears from this far away.

Unknowing that the four of them are ahead of her in the crowd, Ambrosia bops toward the stage, a wave in the sea of bodies, sliding through them effortlessly, while they crash into me angrily like a rock on the California shore.

I shove through the people, struggling to catch her without hurting anyone.

Someone shouts behind me. Hostile voice. Very. Not familiar—not a vamp. No time to look. Must be someone I pushed out of the way.

She slides through the crowd like she’s truly liquid, keeping ahead of me like an object you can’t catch in a dream.

Crash and splash explode against the back of my head. Bits of brown, beer-bottle glass shatter and fall down the front of my shirt and down my back.

Keep walking. Faster.

Roderick looks in my direction. Grinning. Looking ahead of me in the crowd—he discovers her.

Feel blood drip down my neck onto my shirt.

Rush toward blue hair. People jump out of my way—must be the blood.

Roderick steps closer to her.

Facing the left corner of the stage, Ambrosia starts dancing with a guy, her back turned to us. Oblivious. Death a few dance partners away.

Roderick’s closer than I am. Just a few feet to go.

A red-haired girl stands in front of Roderick and starts jamming her finger into his chest. Looks familiar. Girl from the other night—one he called fire crotch—it’s her. Three tattooed guys stand behind her, one of them bald, tall, and meaty. Seen them at the metal bar down the street before—regulars here—bouncers there.

Roderick shoves the angry and red hundred-and-three pounds out of his way. The group of guys attacks Roderick—largest one grabbing his throat.

Roderick smiles—diving his fangs into his lower lip, striking his own blood. Carvelli rushes to help him. Quint’s nowhere to be seen. Lost sight of him. Damn it. Edgar’s gone too. Not good. Not good at all. Better fly out of here.

At least Ruby’s upstairs.

Reach out and grab Ambrosia’s wrist. Duck down low. Turn my back to her and pull her arm until her torso is across my shoulders. Hook my other arm around her knee—stand up with her draped over my shoulders.

Only two of the tattooed protectors still stand—missed one being knocked down. Carvelli has one staggering from punches he’s just landed.

Ambrosia slaps my face to put her down.

In a fast burst just a few feet away, Roderick slams his hands into the sides of the face of the meaty guy who tried to choke him. His fingernails drive deep into the flesh of both cheeks. Agony is the big man’s face as he falls to his knees. Roderick stares at his victim a moment, absorbing his anguish—savoring it, then quickly dives his fangs into his adversary’s forehead.

Ambrosia stops slapping—must’ve finally seen what’s going on.

Exposing himself again. In front of all these people. Roderick wants something in Ambrosia more than his own life. Never been this reckless. Desperate.

People run to the exit. Jamming the doorway. Not gonna be easy.

Would normally wait my turn, but they’re in no danger—just my blue passenger and Ruby. God, Ruby. Get to her. Shove people out of my way with elbows. No one fights—all push to the door. Force my way in front of them.

Finally the stairs. No one coming down. They may not’ve even seen up there—in their own little world—can’t even see out the window if they’re sitting down. Even if they did see the mayhem, they may think staying up there is the safest place for them to be. Might be right.

No safe place for us.

Three steps at a time. Have to keep at an angle to keep Ambrosia’s head from hitting the wall. Into the dark blue room in a flash. Not here. Scan room again. Gone. She’s gone!

Dashing toward the bar, I scream, “Where the hell is Ruby?”

“Left after you did, Simon—not her babysitter.”

“Mother—”

Don’t finish my cursing. Dash back downstairs. Heart lunging.

“Ruby!” squeals Ambrosia from my shoulders, realizing her friend was here and is now missing.

Eardrums rumble with my pulse, thundering with the storm that’s my fear. Flashing—rumbling—pouring over me.

I look at the area between the stairs and the exit—no sign of her. Maybe missed her in the main room—look fast—deserted. Except for the DJ frantically unhooking some gear up on the balcony.

Outside—she might be outside.

Sprint to the exit. Nudge past the last of the stumbling evacuees.

Outside’s crowded. Sidewalk, street, and opposing sidewalk—all cluttered with people. Looks like a street party—Bourbon after a parade.

People are panicked—terrified as individuals, yet enticed, enjoying sharing the event as a group—somehow gaining coolness points like they’re witnessing Woodstock. Few leave. Stand around. No idea how fast Roderick and his three minions could rip them apart if they felt the urge to.

Madness.

Lucky for them, Roderick is so obsessed with the package on my shoulders that he cares for little else.

Scan the area.

Scan left—nothing.

Scan right—nothing.

Push through people.

“Simon!” shouts Ambrosia over my shoulder, trying hard to wiggle free.

Just as her voice invades my ears, I see Ruby. Above the crowd. Eyes lock. My heart leaps, but then it crashes back in panic—too high—she’s too high above the crowd—she’s not that tall. Terror runs in her eyes.

“Simon!” Ambrosia shouts again over my shoulder.

“Shh! I see her. I see Rub—”

Sting shoots into my shoulder blade—the bottom ridge. Eyes try to roll back. Ambrosia falls from the tops of my shoulders. Sharp pain rushes through my veins.

Sickness.

Spreading.

Struggle turn around. Fall to one knee.

See Carvelli just as he punches my face, syringe still in his hand. Needle jabs into my cheek and tears out as he pulls away.

Visions of Ruby being dragged away by Roderick send me into a rage. Fling my fist into Carvelli’s groin. He bellows as his breath leaves him. Grab his head—diving my fingernails into it. Slam my knee at full force into his face—feel his nose break and go flat beneath me.

Again and again—slam my knee into his mess of a face. Let him drop to the ground. Hands cover his face, but he doesn’t move except to breathe.

Frantically look around. Ambrosia, holding her hip as she gets to her feet, turns to run away. Crowd has backed away from us.

Rush at Ambrosia, grab her shoulder and yank her to me. Having trouble keeping my balance. Growing dizzy.

Blackness behind eyes becoming heavier.

Bark into her ears, “Get on the ground—crawl upstairs—hide behind bar—wait there! Now!”

Shakes her head—refusing.

“Ruby needs us! Now! Now!”

Half tossing her to the ground, I push her in the direction. On all fours she makes her way to the bar. For once—hope she listens. For all our lives—hope she crawls fast—low to ground. Fast. Low. Or all dead.

Ruby.

Only thought.

Ruby.

Don’t see her face.

Carvelli on ground still breathes—doesn’t move besides that.

Look where I saw Ruby held above crowd. Nothing. Just people. Stumble that way. Still nothing.

Crowd parts out of my way. No doubt why. Blood back of head. Needle hole in cheek. Wish crowd did this earlier. Could’ve saved her.

Ruby. Ruby. Ruby…

There she is. She is! Above crowd again.

Step closer. Those in the middle rush to sidewalk. Path clears a view into hell.

Roderick has Ruby by her waist, hoisting her above his head, making sure that I see her—luring me in.

Sting from shoulder spreads into my lungs—breathing slows. Stinging through head—thoughts sludge. Eyes heavy. Ruby…my poor Ruby…

“Ruby!” my one thought pours from my lips.

“Simon!” she cries, voice cracking, tears glistening down her cheeks, over her lips, and down her neck.

Roderick drops her to her feet to the side of him. Quint grabs both her arms—pins them behind her back, keeping her from falling to the ground.

“Sad thing being separated from what you want, Simon—from what you need. Isn’t it?”

Try to speak, but blackness floods vision, drowns thoughts.

“See what hell you’ve been putting me through, dear boy? Not fun to have someone toy with what you crave, is it?”

“La-let her go, Roderick. Kill you. Swear I-I’ll—” words trail, my body sways.

Blackness.

Voice cuts through the void, “Can’t even say it, you fool, much less do it.”

“Simon!” her voice stings worse than the junk they shot in me.

Try shake head clear. Nothing. Shake again.

Jump at Roderick—kick square in his chest. Falls back step.

Swing at his head. Glances over jaw.

Blackness rises in mind.

Raise hands to swing—block—something—can’t see.

Punches pummel my head. He can’t be moving that fast—mind so slow—numb—just seems fast.

Concrete smacks back of head and neck.

Laughter. Hear it above me.

Shouts. Cursing all ‘round me.

Cursing and laughter fighting.

Hear crash—beer smell—glass and wetness falls on me again.

Roderick snarling now—no laughter.

Ruby. Damnit, get up—Ruby.

Finally see something. Roderick yelling at crowd—beer running down his face—his shirt and head drenched in beer. Fingernails and fangs threatening them. Crowd shouting back—only side of crowd not facing him. Changes when he turns other way. They shout something about nice Halloween costume. Something ‘bout let girl go.

I dive at him. Take him to ground. Pounding his head fast as I can. Dizziness worse with every punch.

Not much left.

Hang on. For her. Hang on.

Sirens. Swirling—coming to my ears. Losing it or police coming.

Heavy hit to back my head. Swirl like hurricane. Quint. Boot. Head.

Blackness floods. Vision—gone.

Roderick curses.

Love cries my name. Sweet voice. Agony. Worse than darkness.

Bottle crashes into my head. Spinning in mind speeds up.

Only New Orleans—flee violent scene—carry drinks out with them.

Ruby………Ruby……………Ruby…

Hands grab at my head—feel like they’re spinning with me.

“Bring me Ambrosia, or I’ll rip into your little lover here, and see how red Ruby is on the inside.”

Can’t see. Feel my fangs dig into my lower lip.

“Bring her, Simon. Bring her to me.”

Sounds fade into darkness. Softer. And softer. Hear her call my name. Stings my heart. Darkness takes ove—

 

 

 

 

Darkness turns to light. The light’s just as hideous as the pitch.

The crowd’s wretched beer runs its sticky path over my face again. Thankful for it reviving me from the abyss—hating with all my being what it’s woken me to.

Would stay in the darkness forever if it would free Ruby from the hell she’s in.

Push off ground with elbow. Stand. Wobble. Crash to ground.

“Woah, take it easy. Take it easy,” says one of the people standing around.

Sirens loud now. Flashing—blue tinting everything.

Force myself up hard again. Start to buckle at knees.

Hands reach out to grab me. None of them in uniform thankfully. Swing my arm, brushing them away. Stumble till I find a streetlight to brace myself—just past the curb.

People step away like I’m the Grim Reaper. No one comes near after swatting their hands away.

Uniform coming at me from side. Damn it.

“Sir! Sir, I’m gonna need you to lie down.”

Hold a pointed finger in his direction. Stare angrily at him like all this is his fault. Easy to do—sickness making me feel vile. Beyond angry. Stops where he is. Paramedic, not police. Good thing.

Make my way toward bar. Stumble gets a little smoother. Focus. Don’t want any more uniforms to take interest in me.

One clear thought—Ruby. Precious Ruby. Get to her.

Two parts to thought:

One: Blue better be upstairs.

Two: Need a car. Fast one. Now.

Look through the opened doors to the bar. First time I’ve ever seen no one at the entrance table. Guess when the party’s been shut down there are no IDs to check.

Head still spins. Wake of the storm still swirling the current of my thoughts. Maybe haven’t even seen the worst of it yet. Can’t think about that now…

Police scattered inside of the bar—some on the street near the entrance. All talking to witnesses. All of them trying not to show they believe the accounts they’re hearing. All trying not to show they’re scared.

Guess they’ve left me alone ‘cause they thought I was for the paramedics lying unconscious in the street—maybe for the morgue—not for questioning—least not tonight.

Hopeless—never get to Ambrosia without them stopping me. Got to try anyway.

Maybe can pretend I’m just drunk.

Put hand to cheek—wound still there—not bleeding anymore but still pretty fresh. Blood on my shirt—down my neck. Never pass off as just drunk—they’ll know I was in the fight. If I have to fight cops to get upstairs to Ambrosia, this’s gonna get ugly. Very ugly.

Arm flings around my left shoulder—same side as my face wound.

“Simon,” the voice irritates my mood just like every other sound around me since Carvelli shot me up with that sickness, but it’s not one of them. Not Ambrosia either.

It’s Danny. Guitar player—local band. Normally be happy to see him. Not much on earth I want to see now but Ruby, blue hair, and a car.

He leans in and whispers, “Let me lead you inside—past cops—get you cleaned up.”

Nod my head, and we’re walking into the bar like a couple of hungry seniors trying to sneak past the principal into freshman lunch.

Red flashes in my mind and not the petite, angry girl who inadvertently helped me keep Roderick from getting Ambrosia tonight. Danny’s got a red, loud Camaro. Could always tell when his band was playing at the metal bar. Couldn’t miss that car parked outside. Think it’s an IROC. Gotta make him give it to me—Ruby’s life depends on it. Hope I don’t have to take it from him—even for a night.

Head swirls—Danny steadies me through the doorway. Try to keep my head down and out of view.

“Upstairs,” I say quietly.

Can see a few pairs of eyes looking in our direction. Keep moving.

“Bar’s closed guys. Gotta go somewhere else tonight,” commands an officer talking to Angie—the downstairs bartender.

Struggle to get a response together.

Danny says, “Gotta close his tab upstairs. Long night—left his card up there.”

Officer’s face looks like he’s about to repeat the same orders at us.

Angie speaks up, “He’s a regular. Let him go—there’s still people drinking up there anyway.”

Officer says, “There’s still people drinking up there?”

Angie says, “Whole city could’ve flooded again, and they’d never know upstairs—as long as there’s another drink.”

Danny takes his first step on the stairs. Not looking back in their direction anymore—hoping not to hear any more from them.

Darker in the stairwell. Head gets a little clearer. Used to love these stairs. Was my escape when the nonsense downstairs got to be too much. Not that there weren’t times when I enjoyed the nonsense. Third time I’m climbing them tonight. Don’t know if I ever want to see them again. Then again, never needed help climbing them before.

That junk my body’s trying to fight off is strong. Don’t even know if I’m only getting a little break here—break might not last long, and this could be as good as I’ll be all night. Could definitely get worse. Don’t know what it is. Know it’s something trying to knock me out—or kill me.

Second time I’ve come up here this evening looking for a girl. Second time the girl’s not where I told her to be. Bar is empty. Angie lied to the cop for me. Thanks, girl.

“Hey, man,” Danny says nodding toward the bathroom, “You better get cleaned up before we try to get out of here, or those cops are going to harass you, man.”

He pulls his arm off my shoulders. Knee shakes on the first step toward the bathroom door.

“Are you gonna be alright, Simon? Need some help, bro?”

“I’ll be alright—just took a beating.”

Hand grabs the handle. Jiggles but won’t turn. Locked. Perfect—right in tune with the rest of the night. Whimpering—coming from behind the door.

“Ambrosia, is that you?”

“No one’s in here—I mean it’s occupied!” calls out from inside the tiny bathroom.

Eyes close in frustration—did she really just say that? Head swirls. Thought no one outside a cartoon would ever say something as ridiculous as that. Blood feels hot. Nails press against the door—hand shakes, wanting to rip a hole through the wood and pull her out. Gotta get a grip—too angry—overtaking me. Boiling inside me.

“Ambrosia, this is Simon. Do you hear me? They’ve got Ruby—we need to go get her now.”

Whimpering.

“Now, Ambrosia!” I scream, hoping it wasn’t so loud that the police could hear me downstairs. Didn’t mean to be that loud. Hot rage set the volume, not me.

Door squeaks. Face peeks through small crack. Blue eye shadow’s run down her cheeks, mimicking her twin ponytails.

 

 

Twin Goons stand at either side of the door that keeps me contained. Not biological twins, but mirror images of the same violent hatred.

Walls painted dark blue and black. Swirled. Creepy. Don’t know if they painted the sheetrock to look like a dungeon to terrify captives like me or if it’s just what appeals to their savage taste.

Deep inside Roderick’s house. From the outside doesn’t look like much—typical New Orleans white-wooden-siding raised house. A converted apartment complex. One large front porch with white columns—its ceiling a second-floor balcony with wrought iron railing leading to a room I haven’t been to.

They dragged me up the steps, across the porch, through the front door into the main hallway that leads to the stairs and all the former apartments—all three floors of them. Large archway-sized holes have been ripped in the walls where the doors used to be, allowing open access to all the apartments. The tears in the walls are jagged—not cut with tools—probably ripped open by angry vampire claws. The whole thing makes me feel like I’m trapped in a deep cavern instead of a house on St. Charles.

Saw few people in the opened hallway. Men who looked like vamps—four, maybe five of them. Girls who looked human. Thought for a second that I saw Maxine.

Paint peels in many parts of the house—looking diseased. Chandeliers hang dusty, weaved in cobwebs, and offer only dim flickering light. Even the grain of the floor looks menacing and hostile as it’s scuffed, stained, and dirt-covered.

Up the staircase, they brought me to the second floor. Carvelli and Quint lifting me at my elbows off the ground—rough, tight grip—carrying me through the only remaining doorframe I’ve seen inside of this house—into this dark room of blue midnight and pitch black.

Door closed behind them, leaving me in the room that eats away hope. I’ve heard them shuffle and grumble outside the door—certain they’re still out there, making sure I don’t do anything stupid. I’m just the bait for Simon and Ambrosia to come into this horrible house.

Simon.

Have no idea if it’s night or day. Probably only been here an hour or two, but left with nothing to stare at but the deep, absorbing gloom of the walls, every second takes its time upon the nightmare stage in my mind before bowing off and giving way to the next.

Eyes raw. Simon. My eyes can’t forget Simon. He looked so sick when they dragged me away. Worse than when he came back to the woods all dry.

God, let Simon be alright.

Door opens. Something evil steps into the opening between the cruel, twin shoulders of the guards. He’s come for me, and it can’t be good.

 

 

Whatever’s in me is bad.

Really bad.

Must be what they put in Edgar that almost killed him. Might’ve put more in me—might’ve even put something worse in me.

If I’m dead in a few hours, we’ll have the answer.

Every breath makes me angry. Hot, uncomfortable blood surging through me. Keeping my eyes open infuriates. Every sound, even the growl of the engine that I’d normally love, tears into my aching head like jagged claws.

“Why are we driving anyway? Can’t—can’t you guys fly?” a blue-tinted question comes from the passenger seat.

Talk about annoying noises.

“What makes you think we could possibly fly? Do you think there’s some kind of mystical vampire flatulence that propels us gracefully through the air?”

Finding it harder and harder to stop the agitation that this sickness is breeding inside me.

“Well, what about the whole bat thing?” her voice getting higher and shakier, keeping her head aimed at the radio or her shoes—she hasn’t looked at the road once since I got the car up to speed.

“Don’t you go to school, Ambrosia?”

That came out much harsher than I meant. Losing control. How’s this gonna affect me when I get to Roderick? Reckless. Gonna make me reckless. Not good.

She twirls a blue ponytail between her fingers and looks at her feet.

Keeping my eyes focused on the road we’re blazing down over the red, raised, cowl hood, “Look, I weigh 215 pounds. Even if you ignore all the impossible biological problems with turning into a bat, where would all my mass go? Ever see a little bat that weighs over 200 pounds? And if you did, do you think it’d fly?”

Trying to keep level. Rational.

“So, am I going to turn into one of you guys?”

She’s not going to make this easy.

“Turn into one of us guys? Not without a sex change.”

“No,” she says laughing. As annoying as her voice and all other sounds are to my dizzy head right now, there’s something soothing about the childlike tone of her laugh, “I mean—I mean like you.”

“What’d’you mean like me—able to finish a simple question? I hope so.”

“No,” no laughter this time, she whispers, “a vampire.”

“You don’t have to whisper it, Ambrosia. The others can’t hear you this far away, and I already know I’m a vampire.”

Silence.

“Well, am I? Am I going to become like you? Is that why he wants me so bad?”

“No,” I grumble, losing the fight to be pleasant to the infection, “You can’t turn a born lion into a tiger by getting the tiger to bite him. It’s genetics. You have human genes that make you human. We have vampire genes. A little blood and spit can’t change that in you.”

Silence. As good as peace can be with Ruby in trouble. My eardrums relish in the reprieve.

The violation starts again, “Where are we going then?”

“A crack house.”

She chuckles, waits, and asks, “No, really, where are we going?”

Slowly take my eyes off the blazing road, “A crack house.”

“What?” she squawks, “Why are we going to a crack house? Is that where they took Ruby?”

“Look, I need to think. My head’s all jumpy from that crap they injected in me. Need to focus. Need a plan to save Ruby.”

“Why are we going to a crack house? Is she there? Oh my God—is Ruby in a crack house?”

My skull threatens to crack under the strain of her words.

“No, she’s not there. Need to get someone who knows where she is.”

“What-do-you-mean-you-don’t-know-where-she-is?” question flies out of her as if it were one word loaded into the slingshot of her mouth.

While I marvel at how fast such a slow mind can sling words and remind myself to fight the harsh thoughts—fight the malady brewing in me, she flings out another barrage, “Don’t-you-guys-all-sleep-in-the-same-place-for-protection? All-in-coffins? Don’t-you-know-where-they-all-are?”

“No, vampires don’t sleep in coffins. We don’t like to tip off the humans that we’re vampires—it’s the whole mob with pitchforks and torches thing. Best to not let them know about us. Sleeping in a coffin is a big tip off—plus, why make it easy on anyone to bury you alive?”

“But—but you don’t know where they are?”

“No, Roderick and his goons all hang out somewhere. Only Roderick lives there—just a place to party for the others. They move it every few years—haven’t been with them in decades—don’t know where they are now.”

“How do you not know? Aren’t you one of them?”

Vision seems to be tainted in red. An angry red that doesn’t like seeing any blue. Irritation swells.

“Haven’t you been paying attention at all? Did you see us hanging out together, partying, and having a beer last night, or did you see them kicking the hell out of me? Not sure—was a little drugged up—oh yeah, they did that too. ‘Cause I’m pretty sure they were kicking the hell out of me.”

“No, I mean—don’t you guys have a vampire order? A coven or something?”

“No, there’s no order. We don’t get together too often, but Roderick’s been stirring everybody up to hunt me down to get to you.”

She looks like she may cry.

“But no, we don’t get together too often. No covens. It’s hard to wrangle up a bunch of blood junkies. Spread all over the city doing something perverse or recovering from something perverse—we’re not easy to organize. It’d be like making a club of crack addicts—you’d never get anyone to show up for the meetings. Sometimes they’ll show up for a party—guess that’s what Roderick’s doing now to get them together and keep them there—giving them drugs and whatever else they want.”

Shock of frustration shoots through me—body feels so sour. Stomach burns—fever—head pounding. Strain to hold back foul mood. Losing.

“What’d you expect—a vampire picnic—a bunch of vampires all suited up playing a secret game of baseball in the middle of the woods? Come on.”

Don’t want her feelings hurt, but my mind could use the silence. If I just let her be hurt, she’ll stay quiet. Mind could rest—recover. Guilt overtakes the anger for a moment.

“It’s alright, Ambrosia. That stuff’s making me mean—making me feel so sick—need some time to get it under control.”

She still looks like tears are imminent.

“C’mon. Ask me what you want to know. Know you have questions.”

She smiles bashfully, pushing her head down and shoulders forward.

“It’s alright. Ask.”

“Don’t—don’t you guys…shimmer?”

“Only if you shove glitter up our asses.”

She laughs so hard a little stream of mucus shoots out her nose and onto the black vinyl dash.

She puts her hand over her nose.

“You better clean that up. My friend Danny’s a nice guy, but he’ll kill you over this car.”

“Sorry,” she says, still laughing as she wipes it off with her hand and then on the floor mat, “Just what I need: one more person trying to kill me.”

Sudden anguish surges in my head. Pangs—throbs—aches. Feels like my skull is tearing into pieces—every tiny noise is an earthquake ripping it apart further and deeper. Strain with all my might to keep eyes open and on the road.

She sniffles and asks, “So where do vampires come from?”

Led Zeppelin’s “Immigrant Song” plays on the radio—a wailing, beckoning vocal.

All the sound—even the pleasing sound—too much for my head—don’t respond to her. She still looks down and away from the windows, not noticing the expression on my face.

She repeats, “C’mon, where do you guys come from? Europe—Transylvania?”

Throbbing too bad—can’t talk. Point to the radio, trying to make her think I want her to be quiet so I can hear the song.

The lyrics talk about an exotic, frozen land.

“Oh! Vampires come from Alaska?”

“No,” I shake my head, laughter threatening to take over, even through my dizzying, spiking pain, “I was just trying to shut you up—those were Led Zeppelin lyrics—and they’re not talking about Alask—”

“The drummer only has one arm?”

“No, that’s Def Leppard.”

“The guys who sing ‘The Boys Are Back in Town?’”

“No, that’s Thin Lizzy.”

Putting her hands at her hips, twisting playfully in the bucket seat, and batting her eyelashes, she asks, “Sexy, Thin little Lizzy, like me?”

“No, that would be Little Dizzy.”

“Hey, my head’s full of all kinds of useful things—I’m no ditz.”

“You are truly a fountain of misinformation.”

“Thanks…I think.”

“Keep thinking, Ambrosia—the answer will come.”

She smiles.

Pat her shoulder and slow the car down to double digits. The crack house comes into view. Tires scream as I bring the car to a stop. Hope it’s the last screaming I’ll hear tonight, but I doubt it.

 

 

“Now, what would make you think such a terrible person is coming for you?” Roderick asks—the two of us alone in the blue and black room with the two guards still outside the door in the hallway.

“Don’t say that about Simon—you’d never talk about him like that if he were here.”

Three raw rips on Roderick’s cheek—jagged and red. So raw they look as if hatred hisses out of them. One is much deeper—the other two look like they only skimmed him—leaving dotted marks. Odd. All of the vampire fingernail wounds I’ve seen so far have been deeper—more precise—and always in a set of four. These look different.

“I’m sure he will come, Ruby. Come blazing in here like an action hero and be killed before he has a chance to see you again.”

The thought of it steals the words from my throat.

He reaches out to touch my cheek—scratch wound on the back of his hand similar to the one on his face—this one with two deep grooves and two skim marks.

Pull my head away, and he stops his hand—holding it in the air not far from me.

He says, “What made you think I was talking about him, dear thing? Is it that you’re afraid he won’t come? Is that why you immediately thought I was talking about Simon?”

Pull my head further away from him, looking at the blue and black walls.

“No, Ruby, I was talking about your little blue-haired friend.”

“What about Ambrosia?”

“She’ll run and hide—a coward. She’ll never try to save you. She’ll run from us—run from Simon. Never cared about anyone more than herself—why would she rush here to take your place? Where was she when we grabbed you at the bar?”

I don’t answer, still looking into the blue-black.

“Tell me, Ruby—why didn’t she come take your place then? She was there—we saw her—lost her in the chaos, but she was there. She knew we were after her, but she let us take you. Why is that?”

“Maybe she didn’t have a choice. What was she going to do—beat up you and your two goons all by herself?”

Grumbling in the hallway.

“I’d bite my tongue if I were you, little one. They’re told to guard you only—not to hurt you unless you try to escape. But, I can’t watch them every second. Best for you to not make them angry. ‘Course, once I have what I want, I don’t care what they do to you.”

Those words bring horrible images to my mind—seem so close to reality—could happen between these same ghastly walls—they’re just outside the room right now.

“That’s right, Ruby, worry about it. Worry about all of it. It’ll all be soon upon you.”

“We’ll see.”

“Yes, we will. Very soon,” pausing, “But back to your pig-tailed playmate, do you know what she says about you?”

“Don’t care.”

“Do you?”

“Not if the words come from you.”

“Well, let’s just find out. Few weeks ago, met her at ‘80s Night—came back with me to one of Edgar’s filthy hangouts. Did she tell you that?”

“Yeah,” I answer before I can remind myself to keep quiet and not play his game.

“Well, late in the night we got on the topic of you. Care to guess what she had to say?”

“Wish my friend Ruby were here so we could both strangle this filthy vampire in his sleep.”

Flashes his fangs for a moment and then turns his mouth back into a storyteller’s smile, “How about ‘I only keep her around as man-bait. She’s pretty enough to bring the men in, but she’s so boring that they all end up with me instead.’”

Nights flash before my eyes where that situation did happen. Many times I was sitting at the bar or a booth—somewhere out of the action. Guys would introduce themselves, sit down, talk awhile. Eventually they all danced. They all drank more. I sat. They did end up with Ambrosia. Me with my pillow.

“You were nothing more than a pretty toy for her to wave in front of the boys—she knew you weren’t interesting enough to keep any of them for yourself—knew she’d have no trouble taking anyone she wanted from you by the end of the night. Used you for your beauty—knew she could abuse your plain, boring personality to steal any man from you.”

“Shut up.”

“Whether I’m silent or loud, it’s true. My silence won’t change it.”

“Liar.”

“Well, if I am, you have nothing to worry about, but the troubled look on your face tells me you know it’s true—know she never really cared about you—just a party favor to make her own night better—never caring about you or your night or you meeting someone. It was all for her. Coming here tonight would be all for you. She’d have everything to lose—nothing to gain. Doesn’t sound like Ambrosia—you know it. She’ll never come for you.”

“Maybe Simon will just grab her then. Maybe he’ll pick her up and bring her here. He won’t let her get away.”

“Maybe, not on purpose anyway. But, she’ll run at every chance she gets. Eventually he’ll put his guard down for a second—thinking about you, worrying about what we’re doing to his precious. Even if he makes it all the way here with her, he’ll have to deal with us when he shows. She’ll run then. He’ll never be able to handle us, but he’d have even less chance of fighting us and keeping a hold on her at the same time. Never going to happen. Never pull it off. Never.”

The trouble must show on my face, because he is delighted. Glowing—pleased with himself. Eyes as thrilled as if he’s feeding on blood through my pain. Bleeding my emotions and drinking them.

“You know he’s dying?”

Shake my head—don’t want to hear what he has to say, but too worried not to listen.

“The injections. The first little concoction was a nasty mixture of viruses and bacteria collected from our romps with the dregs of Decatur. Only got a little of that one in him, but it had an effect.”

Roderick bends down to make eye contact. Try to look at the floor, but he’s unavoidable.

“The second injection’s special—stronger—enough to make you wish you were dead.”

“He’ll come. He’ll come for me no matter what you did to him.”

“He’ll try, but dead men can’t walk very far. And, sadly for you, dead vampires can’t walk any farther.”

His pointed smile can’t get any wider, and he rises to his feet, turning away from me and toward the door. He stops with a hand on the doorknob and looks to me over his shoulder.

“You know, Ruby, if Simon dies before he can get to you, I’ll give you a little taste—a little shot of what we put into him. I know you young lovers want to experience everything together; it’d be only fitting to send you through the same hell that killed him.”

 

 

Two-story, 10-foot-ceilinged building constructed like a child’s boxy, rectangular popsicle-stick house. Lopsided and leaning, waterline still visible on the side—it’s a stained reminder of the devastation the city’s suffered and a glaring warning that no one who ventures through its rotting doorway ever recovers from their afflictions.

Hard to believe such a giant, rotting mess doesn’t topple over sitting on nothing but cinder blocks.

Ambrosia sits huddled, tucked as far beneath the car dashboard as possible. Doors locked—alarm on. She shouldn’t be in there long. This is definitely going to be messy. Painful. But fast.

The crooked steps creak, bending under my boots. The porch is uneven from one board to the next—rotting and leaving the trespasser feeling like he may crash through its sagging floorboards with every step.

Door handle is missing—just a hole—dim light leaking through it into the night. Hand slides over the door—different layers—paint peeling like a snake shedding its skin. Shove it open. Door chirps loudly as it squeezes out of its warped frame, sounding a warning like a raven foretelling doom.

Long, narrow room. Couches enclose two sides of a coffee table at the far right corner. Stairwell is off to the left of them. If I know Edgar, he’ll be upstairs.

A large man with a girl sitting at each of his sides stares at me. One other man sits on the other couch, too focused on inhaling what burns in his hand to look away from it.

Large one gets to his feet. Dark sunglasses reflecting the dim light of the lone, hanging bulb in the center of the room.

“Whatchyou want here?” he asks.

“Looking for someone.”

“We don’t do dat here. This’s a invitation-only kinda party, son.”

“I don’t need an invitation, and I didn’t ask you if I could come in—just came in.”

“Can’t come in here like dat, boy—all busted up. How we know you ain’t dripping the hiv everywhere?”

Almost forgot my wounds haven’t healed yet—still look pretty raw.

Walking toward me, stepping over the coffee table, “Don’t want none a dat in here. Nah, you turn yoself round and get right out dat door before sumtin’ bad happens to ya.”

“Don’t want to hurt you, big boy, just need to find someone.”

“Ain’t nobody in here wanna be found.”

“Coming in anyway.”

“Looks like you already been beat down tonight. Sure you wanna go again, punk?”

“Never judge the wounded until you see what they’ve walked away from.”

“It’s yo ass, white boy.”

Hard to resist the urge to point out he’s white too—almost as white as a vamp—almost.

He barrels toward me. Taller than me by about six inches. Heavier. Much. He throws his punch. Slow. Sloppy. But powerful.

Crack him hard in his jaw before his punch is halfway to me. Pain stings through my fist. His arm drops to his side—he falls back toward the floor. Blood runs out his mouth. Must’ve bit his tongue.

Heavy body slams against the wooden floor—causing it to flex and creak. Glasses flop off and land high on his forehead. Eyes shut.

Look to the three on the couch. Girl moves across the space where the big guy was just a moment ago, sitting herself next to the girl on the other end. She extends her hands, waiting for her turn in what they’re passing around. Other guy still hasn’t looked in my direction.

Start up the unlit staircase. Don’t know what horrors lie in the darkness—what twisted souls that might want to harm me—cut me—shoot me—tear into my veins. Don’t really care as long as the one I’ve come for is here. Polluted veins, harsh fangs, and all.

 

 

Staring at the blacklit ceiling fan, glowing tape on the tips of its blades, spinning and swirling as a thin glowing ring in the darkness. The last orb of light in the pitch.

All of it is suddenly blacked out by shoulders like mountains wrapped in a thin gray shirt. Its edges glow, illuminated by the black light behind. The shirt is spattered with crimson, a bleak, bloody sky rained down upon by the battered moon of his head—bruised, busted, and bleeding. An angry sky dripping onto a helpless earth.

In a flash, as if an earthquake threw this mountain range of flesh into motion, arms fly at my throat, hands grab my collar and yank me to my feet with the incredible speed of having my name called at judgment day.

The junk that I smoked makes my arms heavy and my knees buckle. Takes all my strength to hold my head up, but those two burning eyes that pierce me demand my attention.

“Too gone to help Roderick jump me tonight?”

Try to talk—my mouth doesn’t cooperate.

“Saw you there earlier—heard you in the alley. Where’d you go?”

“Needed a fix—taking too damn long to take care of you.”

“Thought Roderick gave you your fix. He’s not supplying you anymore?”

Some of his words register meaning as they’re spoken, but it takes a moment to put them all together. He shakes me—trying to knock the words into the right order in my mind. A needle drops out of my elbow and falls to the floor. Don’t remember sticking it in.

Finally the words line up, “Roderick has the good stuff—the new breed. Was gonna give it to me when we had the girl. Was already mad at me because I didn’t report back to him when you sent me after that dead girl—real sweet of you, Simon. Real sweet to screw me like that.”

“Just trying to keep you out of trouble, Edgar. At least for a few hours.”

“Found it anyway—just off Bourbon.”

Hands squeeze tighter on my shirt, stretching fabric—he crisscrosses his hands—digging the collar into my throat.

“Where were you going to take the girl? He has Ruby now—where are they?”

“If—if I tell you, Roderick’ll kill me—you know that.”

“What makes you think I won’t kill you now?”

“Too soft, Simon. Always been too tender. Shame—you coulda been one of us—if you’d only toughened up. You could’ve been the greatest of us all—so much potential, but you’ve turned your back on what you are—what you were destined to be—and instead you’ve become the opposite of your true nature: the anti-vampire. So hung up on Eleni all those years—ruined you. Ruined yourself over some silly girl.”

Hands like lightning at my throat—lifts and throws. My body flings through the air about to crash into the wall above the mattress that lies on the floor—the mattress that I was comfortable on before he came in here.

Head smacks a stud, body cracks into the sheetrock. The dust it stirs up from the wall smells like moldy disease.

Before body hits the mattress below, he’s already struck blood—running from the back of my head.

Speaks in my ear before I even know he’s over me, “That’s right, junkie. All those years. All those years over one girl. One that was taken away from me—one that was gone. I spent all those years in misery over her memory. Imagine what I’ll do now for one that I can still save.”

“What would you do, golden boy?”

“I’d dim the sun to keep it from scorching her, leaving the whole world in the coolness of an eternal autumn. I’d scar the whole earth for her.”

“Do things you’d never dream of just to get another taste of her—would you?”

“You might find out tonight.”

“Slave to it.”

“What?” he asks, his impatient hands grabbing my collar again and yanking me to my feet.

“Slave to love—you’re a slave to her. Are we all that different, Simon? You’re a slave to your emotions—I’m a slave to my chemicals. Is one any better than the other?”

“Mine fills me. Makes me feel alive when all hope should be gone. Makes me know all of this is worth it. What does yours leave you with? What but misery? What but some selfish obsession that helps no one but yourself—reducing you to cowering in the shadows of a falling-apart building filled with the horrors of people ruining their lives and the stench of walls rotting with the diseased fungus of a storm that passed years ago?”

“And what does yours leave you with but sad poetry?”

“Fulfillment, Edgar. Happiness that doesn’t fade. Fire that doesn’t go out. You should try it sometime—if you could keep your veins clean long enough to feel it.”

I try to laugh derisively but choke on blood and the sting of truth.

He pulls me nose to nose, my feet just leaving the floor, “You’re going to help me, Edgar. You fought Roderick once—for a minute you were real—a real person. You know how ugly he is—what he wants to do.”

“He gives me what I need. No one else knows where it comes from—this new breed—you just don’t understand,” not liking the sound of my own voice as it hits the eerie air, glowing with the black light reflected and spinning in the fan blades above.

“One way or another—you will help me,” holding me entirely in the air with just his palms pressed into the base of my neck, his fingernails tap against my throat, threatening my flesh, the black light reflecting in his exposed fangs making them look otherworldly and ferocious, “Starting with where they are now.”

“I’ll take you there. I’ll take you into their little hell, but I can’t get you back out again.”

“Maybe there’s hope for you, Edgar, but if you betray me before I have Ruby, I swear I’ll kill you. I swear it.”

Maybe I can be free of this. Maybe I can have a life—my life, unchained from this craving. I could lead Simon into the house—help him save the girl, bring him to Roderick’s room on the second floor—let them fight it out. Just above—the third floor. Ooh, the things that are on the third floor—the good stuff. Maybe I can find the secret to the new junk—the new breed—have it for myself forever. The girl has something to do with this. I’ll make her tell me. Never need anyone else—just the stuff.

By terror or tooth, I’ll make her tell me…Make her tell me everything…

 

 

 

 

Ear-splitting, wailing cry.

As I step out the doorway onto the creaky porch with the large sunglasses-wearing gatekeeper knocked out a second time on the floor and Edgar’s arm grasped tightly in my fist, I think how wrong the sound is.

Always heard of the hounds of hell—the three-headed Cerberus, Lovecraft’s Hound, and Gytrash—fangs hungry for human flesh—equally lusting for those that attempt to leave the underworld and those foolish enough to try to enter. As I walk out of one layer of hell, getting this pathetic creature—Edgar—to lead me into an even deeper level of the fiery hive to rescue Ruby, I expect to hear the howl of devil dogs. Their growling and barking would fit—would make sense here. But, this is no dog. Possibly not a natural animal at all.

Its shriek is definitely feline. Unmistakable and chilling—spine-startling—slicing through the late night air.

Ambrosia sits up in the front seat, peering backwards over

the headrest, clasping it in her hands, out the hatch window at something down the street. Told her to stay tucked under the dash. Not a good neighborhood to leave a young, petite thing in an unattended sports car late into the night. Fast car and a girl built to go fast are a tempting combination on this street. Hell, a urine-soaked one dollar bill would be an irresistible temptation to the inhabitants of this street.

Ambrosia was all too eager to tuck herself under the dash before I left her—inside the locked doors with the alarm on. She’s been trembling since I found her in the upstairs bathroom, but her shakes increased when we turned into this neighborhood.

The cat-like wailing has proven too much for her to ignore—even stronger than her fear. Or maybe she just wanted to get a look at what monster might be coming for her.

Press a button and disarm the alarm. Lights flash. Reach for the handle—keeping Edgar’s arm in the other hand.

The shrieking comes again. It is from down the street where Ambrosia stares, but it’s coming closer. Long black gown, skimming the sidewalk at the figure’s feet. Like many New Orleans sidewalks, this one ruptures—rising and falling over the powerful oak roots beneath it, and elsewhere sinking down with the swamp mud below it. The sad figure rises and falls with the terrain—paying it no mind—while its spirit stays low, wounded, and loud—wailing into the night.

Gray and black hair braids begin to come undone underneath frantic fingers trying to hold the remaining sanity inside the figure’s head.

Katrianna—it’s Katrianna. What on earth has driven her out of her house?

“Katrianna!” I call out.

She responds with nothing but wail—doesn’t even seem to look at me. Looks like she watches a nightmare in the air just in front of her face.

I feel Edgar wiggle in my grip.

“Karianna!” I call again—this time getting her name right.

“Katrianna,” she replies, “Call me what I am—the crazy cat lady.” The sobbing shakes her body.

Let his arm slip away. Rush toward her.

Put my arms at her shoulders. She shakes them away. Her hair hangs in her face, covering most of her eyes that gush beneath them—all of it looking like branches dangling over a moonlit lake.

A quiet, high pitch continuously emanates from her mouth—sounding like her soul leaking out of her. She moves her lips to talk—no words come, but the sound stays constant.

Footsteps behind me. Stumbling and walking away from us down the sidewalk. Point my finger at the sound.

“Stay right there, Edgar. Will be nasty if I have to chase you down again.”

Footsteps stop.

Car door opens and slams.

Point my finger at that sound.

“Ambrosia, stay where you are. Only be a few minutes.”

This sound is disobedient—continues to walk right up to me.

“Simon,” trembles the voice beneath the gray and black dangling strands, “Killed them, Simon—all of them.”

“No,” comes out my mouth with all the breath from my lungs.

“Killed who?” asks Ambrosia, now stopping at my side, “Who got killed? Ruby! Did you kill, Ruby, you witch?”

Putting my hand against her shoulder and pushing her back, “No, Ambrosia, she didn’t kill anyone.”

Katrianna stirs at the sound of Ambrosia’s name. Her hands rising to her hair, parting it in the middle like a curtain opening.

Ambrosia stares at Katrianna’s face—surprised to see such a young-looking woman beneath hair that’s seen so much trouble. Bruises mark her face—already fading, but still there.

Staring Katrianna in the eyes, Ambrosia asks, “What about Ruby? If you didn’t kill her, did anyone else hurt her? Tell me!”

“No, young one—young foolish one. She wasn’t there when they came, but they keep her as ransom to get you. As long as you live, so will she.”

“Roderick—he came to your house?” I ask.

Eyes gloss over—misty, shiny blue, “He came. He brought others—‘bout eight—ten of them—lost count.”

“Why?”

“Must’ve figured you came to me. Maybe they were following you. Thought I might know where the girl was—thought you might’ve sent her to hide at my house when they took Ruby from you,” pausing to look at Ambrosia, “All my cats—all my pretties died for you—slaughtered, and here you are—right where any of them can find you,” suddenly she jumps toward Ambrosia, “Why are you here! Why aren’t you far away hiding from them before they slaughter you too?”

Stepping between them. I hold an arm against both of their shoulders.

Ambrosia looks back toward the car, unable to keep her eyes on Katrianna.

“Answer me!” screams Katrianna, “Tell me why you’re here. Why did you come back? Don’t you see what you’ve done? Dead—all of them—dead.”

Ambrosia bites her lip and starts to cry, still staring at the car, wishing it would take her away.

“Look at me!”

Ambrosia obeys, slowly bringing her eyes to meet those of the woman in front of her, “I was bored. Just bored.”

Katrianna’s eyes dart back and forth, wide—bewildered.

“I know it’s shallow—pathetic. True. I have nothing else. Just going out—putting on a show, hoping something happens to me—hoping to find something.”

Slowing the wild movement of her eyes, Katrianna says, “I’d say you’ve found something—found something you can’t get away from.”

Katrianna’s eyes catch something over my shoulder. They grow wide again—electrified with passion, “You!”

I step to the side to see who she is talking about. Edgar. He looks worried—his fingernails sticking out, hands ready at his sides.

Pointing one, lone, tense finger in his direction, aimed to tear into his head, Katrianna says, “He—he was there! I can smell their blood on him.”

“You’re upset, cat lady. You’re smelling them everywhere. It’s just the linger in your senses.”

“Junkie liar!”

I say, “Kat, he may be right. He was almost in a coma when I found him here.”

“He stands now, doesn’t he?”

“Not a few minutes ago, he wasn’t. I promise you he wasn’t standing then.”

“Well, he—he would’ve been there if he were coherent. Been there with the rest of them!”

His face holds steady—no emotion, “That’s true.”

She lunges at him, hair moving to the sides of her face, nails extended, fangs unleashed.

I dive and grab at her waist. She moves with such force that she drags me a few inches before we stop. Her arms and legs fling at Edgar, but can’t reach—hitting me in a barrage of elbows and heels on her backstrokes.

“Listen, Katrianna—listen! He’s leading us into their lair.”

“What?” she asks, huffing—heavy breaths.

“He’s taking us to where they are—where Ruby is. Have to get to her. Have to get to her now—before anything happens to her.”

“They won’t hurt her as long as the silly one is with you.”

“Not true, Kat. They won’t kill her as long as Ambrosia’s with me. They can still hurt her a whole lot.”

My voice breaks at the end. Kat doesn’t seem to notice, but Edgar’s eyebrows rise at the sound.

“How can you trust this savage? This ungrateful beast—healed him—fed him—and he told them right where to find me—to find my babies.”

“Better to let this one lead us to the rest of them than to take him out. Use the one to get to them all.”

Try to give Edgar a wink to let him know I’m just trying to calm her down, but he’s looked away, shaking his head and grinning a wicked grin. He seems to be regaining more and more control of his mind and body, the drugs’ effects fading, making him more dangerous all the time.

“And the one you have to bring you to the others isn’t worth much to begin with,” Katrianna says.

Edgar responds, “You may be right, cat lady. You may be right, but right now, I’m all you’ve got. Great lot of chance you have.”

“You get me back in front of the ones that did this to me tonight, and I’ll worry about chance,” she says.

“Edgar, you just lead us down there,” I say.

Words come from his red-bearded mouth slowly and steadily, “Oh, I’ll lead you down there—don’t you worry—I’ll take you there. Take you where you’ll wish you’ve never been. Question is—who’s going to lead you back out?”

 

 

 

 

An insignificant voice. Always made myself an insignificant voice. I’ve always taken away the chance for anyone to think any more of me.

Suddenly, Ruby’s life is in my hands.

Poor girl.

Fled the woods before the sun was full in the sky. Couldn’t bear to see them in the forest in the sunlight—together. Golden and hand-in-hand. Too much. Just too much.

Came here to get away—a little distraction. Poison the system—numb it with alcohol, occupy mind with whatever was here—always something here. Typical Maxine bender—no one’d think anything was up. Acting like I’ve acted for as long as any of them can remember. In the least, it’s how I’ve acted the only times they’ve given me some attention. They don’t notice me much when I’m quiet.

Don’t know if there’s much to notice about me when I’m quiet.

Came here—into the playpen of Roderick—everyone knows how much I hate him. Been here before though—few desperate evenings. He kept his distance—I kept mine. But came here—near the one person I hate most in the world to be away from her green eyes looking at me—knowing she has the one man I want. Came all this way, and they bring her in here, kicking and screaming, dropping her in the blue room with Quint and Carvelli at the door.

Guess they don’t know I know her. No reason for them to even think I’ve ever seen her. None of them have said a word to me about what’s going on. Hate Roderick so much—he may not want me to know. Might think I’m dangerous. Definitely might think I’d help Simon—but could never think I’d help the girl. Never been one to have female friends—not even vampire girls. Women see me and hate me. Don’t blame them—wouldn’t like me either—too much competition.

When someone meets me, they see me putting on a show. Trying to be exciting—and not just for other people to see me—it’s for me too. I do wish I could be exciting. But, I perform—I act this way when I’m happy, I do it when I feel like crying, I do it when I feel blah, and I do it when I’m pining over Simon. I do it no matter how I feel—the performance is me smiling—me drinking, me dancing—wild, crazy me. What I feel like doesn’t matter.

Do it because I don’t know what else to do. Know it’s a show—it’s not really me. But a show that never ends isn’t really a show at all—it becomes your reality. Even if it’s not one that you like—even if it’s not one that fits your soul—playing the game makes you become something that you weren’t meant to be.

It’s sad. Know it’s my fault—no one makes me act this way—fault’s all mine. But no matter, it is sad that by trying to be what I thought I wanted to be has made me lose myself—almost all of me gone, just leaving a show that people are growing tired of seeing. People might like a performance, but they only love other people. Love’s for the real thing, not a spectacle. I’m not sure where I’ve lost my real self, but I’ve definitely become a spectacle.

Silly of me to think it’d work on Simon. Never works on anyone for more than a night or two anyway. Easy to be the most watched girl in the bar. Just wind me up and watch me go. Harder to be the most watched in someone’s heart.

Temporary attention I’ve gotten in abundance, but never with any staying power. Sure I’ve been the #1 wildest night of some of their lives, but I’ve never been the #1 love of anyone’s life, never even been in anyone’s top 3, never placing. But, I’ve made a damn sexy 4^th.

Now, that Simon’s returned, it all seems so empty.

Been waiting for Simon to come back to normal for decades. That mess with Eleni really twisted him up. A lot of us thought he’d eventually dry up—didn’t want to live anymore.

Then one evening he comes walking into ‘80s Night—his eyes as electric as if he’d been storing up all his energy for decades and suddenly releasing it. We danced. Been waiting for him for so long—not waiting with my body, but waiting with my heart. Things might’ve worked better if I had done that in reverse. Would’ve saved myself an ongoing hurt-party-hurt-party marathon that lasted for years and left me hollow, and I would’ve had something more to give him than a show—more than an insignificant voice.

At least he liked me as much as anyone else. Told myself he was just the male version of me, but I knew he wasn’t. No matter how much I wanted to believe we were two of a kind, I knew he was different. Even at his worst, there was something sincere about him. Lots of excitement—but no show.

In just the last six months since he changed from reclusive wallflower to sexy vampire, he’s met his share of girls. But, he never lied—he was never mean. All the girls adored him—he was more than just hot. He made each one of them feel special. Just standing next to him shot sparks into you. Don’t think I’ve ever made anyone feel anything like that.

Maybe each one felt so special around him because he is so wonderful, yet humble, and he chose to spend time with her, even if just for a dance. Dripping in confidence, but never treated anyone like he was better than them. Don’t know if there’s a sexier combination than that.

I guess there’s not much wonderful about me. I’m about the opposite of humble, and my time comes cheap—just have to wait your turn.

Until now, my voice has never mattered before. But, at this moment, everything’s fallen into my lap. Life or death in my hands.

It may seem so shallow to think Ruby is disposable—to even think of letting her die. Just have to see things our way. How hard would you work on setting up the man you love with the girl he likes if you knew she’d be dead by the weekend? Her whole life to us is just a flash, only here for a brief moment and then gone—like last night’s dream in the daylight, fading until there’s no memory left of it at all. She’ll be long gone, and I’ll still be here…hurting.

So hard to justify helping her.

So easy to do nothing and let things happen.

Let the beast kill the princess and have a chance at Simon—save the girl and finally have said something significant.

 

 

 

 

Know he’s coming any second. He is lies, and lies are him—impossible to separate the two. He can take a tiny bit of truth and weave it through miles of lies—hooking you with the lure of the one small fact—snaring you—trapping you—then dragging you down his long path of deceit.

Still…I believe his promise of injecting me with that sickness.

My veins feel tense and irritated just from the fear of it. It made Simon so sick—Simon whose immune system is nearly indestructible—did all that to him—would destroy me in no time. No chance.

Poor Simon. My sweet, strong Simon. God, I hope he’s healed.

Despite what Roderick’s said, he must believe Simon’s recovered. If not, he’d be out there now hunting Ambrosia down. Instead he waits here, confident Simon will bring him Ambrosia to free me. Working so hard to use me against them—messing with my mind. Not sure what he wants from me—hasn’t made that clear, but he’s definitely been working me over—trying to turn me against Ambrosia, trying to make me think Simon can’t save me. Maybe it’s so ingrained in his personality that it’s just what he does—toying with people’s psyches—sending passive-aggressive half-truths out all the time. Maybe it’s just how he keeps order—keeping everyone around him insecure and dependent on him.

Hard to fight. I know what he’s up to—not what his goal is, but know that he’s messing with my head—feeding me lies to get to me. I know it, and it’s still working. So hard to fend off.

A loud thud booms from the hallway. Followed by groaning. Another heavy thud. Heart races.

 

 

Heart races almost as fast as the car. Needle buried on the speedometer—only goes up to 145—good old Danny put in an add-on gear to overdrive the overdrive. I’d wonder if he’s ever gone this fast in his own car, but I know him too well to doubt it.

Cars we pass look like they’re standing still—like specks of dust motionless in the sky getting blown past by a speeding, fiery meteor—a blazing superbolide.

Long-fanged junkie, Edgar, sits in the passenger seat beside me. He runs his tongue over the sharp edges of his fingernails one at a time. Not sure if he’s playing a masochistic little game, seeing how hard he can press—how close he can come without slicing into his tongue, or if he’s trying to get another taste of whatever they were into last.

Crazed cat lady who’s lost everything she loves in the world—desperate and enraged—sits directly behind me. Eccentric and unpredictable. Sanity was questionable before her furry ones were slaughtered.

Ambrosia sits behind Edgar and holds her head in her hands, elbows on her legs, eyes covered. As wild as she is, she hasn’t handled the speed well.

Set them up this way on purpose. Katrianna behind me to still Edgar if he tries anything stupid while I’m driving. She can lean forward and get right between the two front bucket seats. Also wanted Edgar where I could see him. Having his nasty fangs and nails behind me is not something I wanted on my mind while testing the top speed integrity of these tires. Not thrilled about having Ambrosia next to Katrianna. Had Roderick not been looking for Ambrosia, I would’ve never been to Katrianna’s house and neither would have Roderick. Her cats would still be alive if Ambrosia never existed.

“You know they’re going to kill you as soon as they see the girl’s with you,” Edgar grumbles between sliding his tongue over one nail and moving to the next.

“They can try.”

“Simon, get real. There’re many of them, and then there’s just you. You don’t stand a chance.”

A long-fingernail-ed hand reaches from the back seat to his shoulder, “He’s not alone, Edgar.”

“Won’t make a difference, old woman. You’ve already seen what they can do—what they did to your cats. Two of you won’t matter.”

Her nails dig into his shoulder. He doesn’t move.

I say, “Katrianna, please let him go. My friend’s very particular about this car. I’m gonna owe him a lot to fix what we’ve already stained in here. Don’t make it worse.”

She doesn’t let up, digging in deeper. Edgar’s face starts to grow angry, revealing the tips of his fangs. Ambrosia looks up, gasps, and buries her head back down in her hands.

“Katrianna, we’re also going way past 150 miles per hour here. Having a melee in the car right now wouldn’t be the smartest idea.”

Grip the wheel tighter with my left hand. Brace my left foot hard against the floorboard—my right still presses the gas pedal to the floor. Bring my right hand to her wrist on his shoulder.

“If you ever want to get at the people who killed—who did this to your cats, you better let him lead us to them.”

Her face stays angry.

Edgar’s expression grows angrier, lips sliding back, fangs fully out.

Ambrosia squeals from behind her hands.

Brace myself for high-speed warfare.

Slowly, Katrianna slides her nails out of him. Could swear I hear her hiss as she eases back in her seat.

A little spit flies out Edgar’s mouth and lands on the dash as he brings his lips back down, eclipsing his fangs.

“You better wipe that up, junkie—my friend’s very particular about this car. Very particular.”

 

 

Blonde hair in ponytail walks through the doorway. Fingers grasp something in its right hand—looks like the top of someone’s head—brown hair ripped completely off them. Poor soul.

My shoulder blades are pressed flat against the wall, standing on top the ancient, dusty dresser next to the door. Hold my breath—strain at my knees trying to stay still to keep the old, aged furniture from creaking beneath me and sealing my death. Blonde head moves deeper into the room just ahead of the dresser. I jump, swinging the sharpened stake like a club.

It cracks the back of the golden-haired head with a thud. Sways. Drops to a knee. Then topples to the cruddy hardwood floor.

Black corset strings dangling—makeup showing through the spaces between the hair covering her face. Not Roderick. Not man at all. It’s Maxine.

Quick look to the hallway through the opened door. Carvelli and Quint lie on the floor. Not moving.

“Been waiting to do that a long time, have you, Ruby?”

Her voice is the only I’ve ever heard to sound so soothing and cryptic at the same time, like a poisoned breeze. She’s already rolled to her side on the floor, hand to the back of her head, the pain visible on her brow, but her smile as unaffected as ever. Her corset is unlaced and hanging loosely on her chest.

“Wha—what—Oh my God!—What are you doing here, Maxine?”

“Shut up, and get naked.”

 

 

“Turn here,” says Edgar pointing as the next exit on the interstate grows near.

“If—” starts Ambrosia from the backseat, her first words since cowering her head down when we reached 100 miles per hour, possibly the longest she’s stayed quiet in her life, “If they have to keep Ruby alive as long as they don’t have me, then why are you bringing me? Why not leave me off somewhere, so they can’t get me and keep Ruby safe?”

“Because if I show up without you, Roderick’s going to punish whoever he can get his hands on—he’s already got Ruby. If we don’t show up at all, you can bet he’ll think of bad things to do to her.”

Feel my voice tremble at the end. Edgar looks at me with a knowing sneer.

“Wh-why does he want me so bad anyway?” she asks.

“You mean you don’t know?” Edgar asks, turning his face to watch her reaction.

“Of course not. Had one night with a sketchy guy with long teeth—then he’s after me like a psycho. Know I’m cute but can’t be that hot.”

“It’s the new breed—he needs you for it.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“The new breed—the stuff—you know, the good stuff?”

“You mean the stuff you guys did before I met up with him that night?”

“Yeah, that stuff—he said you know how to make it—that’s why he wants you.”

“He said, ‘I know how to make it?’ I don’t know what the hell it is. I didn’t even try it—don’t do needles.”

“Lie to me all you want, blue. He’ll get it out of you when he sees you. Gets whatever he wants from everybody.”

“No, I don’t know what that crap is—got no idea what’s in it—no clue how to make it.”

“Then what does he want you for, sweetheart? Stunning conversation? A sweet kiss?”

“I don’t know what he wants me for—that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, jackass.”

I say, “Ambrosia, it’s got something to do with your baby.”

“What? What are you talking about?” tears running from her eyes before she finishes.

“You have two heartbeats. Saw them the first time I saw you on the dance floor.”

Sniffling, “Been late. Few weeks. Been late before—never been too regular. I can’t be…just can’t.”

“It is. I saw it beating.”

She sniffles and says, “Knew it…just didn’t want to believe it...could feel something different...”

Edgar’s face looks panicked, “No, it’s about the stuff—I promise you all this is about the stuff. Roderick doesn’t care about any kid—never has.”

“It’s the same thing, Edgar. The kid is the new breed.”

 

 

As I tighten her corset around my waist, I marvel at how different Maxine looks wearing the brown wig that she had in her hand when she walked in. She truly looks like an entirely different person. I guess it’s easy to mold beauty into different shapes.

Since Maxine is so much taller than me, my clothes are tiny on her—all stretched out and doing a terrible job at covering her body.

Looking to the opened doorway and the unconscious Carvelli and Quint, she whispers to me, “Better hurry up, princess, and get yourself out of here before they wake up and see both of us in your room.”

“I don’t understand. Why are you dressing up like me?”

“I’m staying here, lying on the floor with my back to them, pretending to be you. Hopefully fool them just long enough for you to get yourself out of here.”

“They’re knocked out. Why are you staying? Why don’t we just run out of here—now?”

“There’s more vamps here than just them—they all need to think you’re still locked up in this room or you won’t have a chance.”

“But, I’ll look nothing like you.”

“You don’t have to—you just have to look enough like one of us for none of the others to notice you on your way out. There are always strangers here—girls the guys have picked up, but they all pretty much look like us, and none of them look like you. Those clothes make you look different, but not much like a vampire. Pray it’ll be enough to get you past them.”

“How’d you knock the guards out?”

“They were distracted.”

“Why was your corset undone when you came in?”

“That was the distraction.”