Blood Memories

Chapter 11

The next night, I sat in a chair by the fire at Maggie's, watching William dodder around the room. Reflections from orange flames flickered off dark mahogany end tables and danced down the wall beside me.

"I can't help it, William. We have to find someplace else."

"No, no, no. Just got here. Maggie will be home soon."

"Maggie isn't coming home."

"Call Julian. Time to call Julian."

"We can't."

His attitude concerned me. What if I couldn't get him to leave with me? Not that I blamed any of this on him. He'd lived ninety-six years in the same house. I'd dragged him out on a moment's notice and taken him to a strange place, only to tell him we had to move again. It was too much.

And I'd told Wade I would disappear… but now I wasn't sure where to go, even if I could get William out the door.

Would we have to fight it out here?

Maybe not. Could Wade be trusted? Thinking about Maggie, a part of me almost hoped Dominick would come hunting us again.

I got up and walked down the hall into Maggie's bedroom. Her cream lace bed draping smelled softly of floral perfume. Something white lay on her cherrywood nightstand. I picked it up and read a list of things-to-do, written in her perfect script.

"Maggie."

She was gone. I'd led them right to her. Lying down on her satin comforter, I closed my eyes to the sight of Edward jumping off his porch again. How many weeks ago? Edward, Maggie, Dominick, William, Philip, Julian… they all kept spinning around inside me until my stomach tightened in sharp rebellion. And what about Wade? He occupied my thoughts almost as much as William. It amazed me that someone so intelligent couldn't recognize insanity in his own partner. Mortals always use pretty euphemisms like "caught in an obsession" to sugarcoat realities like madness.

"What do I do?"

I didn't know and there was no one to tell me. In a rare moment, Edward had once whispered, "When we die, our maker will feel the pain halfway across the world. The pain of their children will always reach them."

If that was true, Philip already knew about Maggie's death. If I had taken the time to sit down calmly and write out a list of all the reasons for us to flee from this house and get as far away as possible, we might actually have made a decent run for Canada or New Zealand or maybe even China. But I wrote no such list, and I was tired of running. I'd told Wade we would disappear, and yet… if we ran now, we'd never stop. This house was perfect. It had been Maggie's, and now it was mine.

I got up off the bed and walked back out into the living room. William paced back and forth between the fireplace and the dining room, muttering bits and pieces of "Rapunzel," which Maggie had read him almost every night.

"No packing," he said to me suddenly. "No packing."

"No, we don't need to pack. We're staying here."

For the first time, I felt sick at the sight of his aged, senile face. He couldn't help me. Why was he so useless? "Get away from me, William. I'm going out."

Without bothering to wait for an answer, I ran out the front door and down the dark side of the street. Single people and couples moved past me, doing whatever it is mortals do at night in the Emerald City, but I ignored them and headed toward downtown.

Mad Dog 20/20 littered the chipped sidewalks like pebbles in a stream. I hopped easily around them without thinking, and for once didn't stop to give the homeless bums any money.

Moving by a tattoo shop, I stopped at the sound of two raised voices.

"Yeah, yeah, I'll be back by two. You lock that door on me again, and I'll kick your teeth in."

The shop was empty except for a young woman with greasy hair, smoking a cigarette, and a stocky, dark-haired man pulling on a jacket.

"Where're you going?" the woman asked.

"Out."

"What if a customer comes?"

"Tell 'em we're closed. I don't care! Go to bed or something. Just don't lock that goddamn door."

He hurried out, lighting a cigarette, and walked quickly toward a beat-up Ford Pinto parked near the curb.

"Why don't you get a key?" I asked softly.

"Huh?"

He half turned in annoyance, and then stopped sharply at the sight of me leaning up against the building.

"Why don't you get a key for the front door? Then you wouldn't have to worry about being locked out."

"Do you always hang out listening to other people's problems?" he asked.

"Not usually. Why don't you have a key?"

"She chains it from the inside." He had a stocky build, a hard face, dark hair, and china-blue eyes, like Dominick. "What do you want? You need a ride or something?"

For once I didn't fall into my helpless act. He didn't seem to need it. But my recently adopted hooker's pose didn't fit right either. Besides, going out hadn't been on my agenda, and I was wearing a long broomstick skirt with a white tank top, in spite of cool April night air.

I walked out to him slowly. He was about five foot six, and I had to look up to see his face. My small size had always been a turn-on for short men. Julian did a good job choosing me as William's caretaker.

"Yeah," I said. "Some friends are waiting for me down on the pier."

He motioned with his head toward the car door. Loose ashes from his Marlboro scattered lightly on the pavement. "Get in."

Soiled McDonald's and Burger King bags covered the passenger seat. He gathered most of them up and threw them in the back without apologizing. It took him five tries to get the engine started.

"Where on the pier?" he asked.

"Just down by the aquarium. Where are you going?"

"No place. I just had to get out of there. Couldn't breathe."

"Do you actually put tattoos on people?"

He glanced over. "No, I bake doughnuts, and the tattoo sign just lures hungry people in. What do you think?"

"Do you have any?"

"Any what?"

"Tattoos."

"Yeah."

"Can I see them?"

This time he slowed the car down slightly. "How old are you?"

"Twenty-one."

"Bullshit."

"Want to see my license?"

He stayed quiet for a minute, and then said, "You want to blow off your friends and go have a drink someplace?"

"Why don't we just get a bottle and drive to Union Park?"

For the first time, he smiled at me. "Look in the glove box."

I popped it open and found a half-empty fifth of Black Velvet. "Nice. You shouldn't keep it there, though. That's the first place cops look."

"I never speed."

His teeth were yellow and the stench of three-day-old perspiration drifted over to my side of the car.

"What's your name?" he asked.

"Does it matter?"

Mortals never cease to surprise me. He looked about as bright as an antique fire hose, but he suddenly realized this situation was a bit out of the ordinary.

"Hey, what are you doing with me?"

"I was bored. You looked bored."

He still seemed uncertain, as if he thought maybe I was going to get him off and then ask for a hundred bucks.

He pulled into Union Park, grabbed the bottle out of my hand, and stepped outside. The lights on the water were beautiful at night. Black, cold water so polluted no one could swim in it, but tugboats drifted gently across the surface, in and out of the harbor, at all hours. I loved it.

My companion walked halfway up a grassy hill and sat down. The place was deserted. We could hear cars and distant voices, but couldn't see anyone. I sat down next to him and took a shallow drink from the bottle, even though warm, straight Black Velvet didn't appeal to me.

He reached out for another drink and grabbed my wrist instead. His hand surprised me. The bottle fell and shattered on a jagged rock. Instinctively, I tried to pull away, and he pinned me down beneath his chest. Bile rose in my throat as I tasted warm whiskey and stale French fries on his mouth. He was too strong to push off, and panic set in. He ripped the back of my tank top, and I managed to pull my face away.

"Don't."

"What's wrong?" he breathed without letting me up.

His eyes looked like Dominick's, cruel and flat. This must be the way Dominick made love, too. I pretended he was Dominick and felt my own control returning.

When he kissed me again, I didn't struggle. Memories of watching Maggie flooded past me, and I kissed him back the way she would have, openmouthed, with no pressure at all. His tongue pressed in violently.

The grass felt soft, and his body felt hard. Running my hands lightly up his chest, I listened to a sharp intake of breath. He rolled over with a groan and let my lips move down his unshaven cheek.

Touching him made me sick, but I just kept seeing him as Dominick. As my face buried itself in the crook of his neck, I reached up with one hand, grabbed his hair and bit down so hard that hot liquid spurted out in a tiny, pulsing fountain on the first strike.

His body bucked once, but I ripped upward with my teeth and bit down again so fast he went into shock. The blood tasted good, sweet. I tried to shut out all the ugly, shabby images of his life flowing through my mind. The faster I drained him, the fainter he got. With each swallow his arms grew weaker until they stopped pushing at me altogether.

Even when I couldn't take in any more, his heart thumped in his chest. I dragged him down the hill and rolled him into the bay, watching him sink, glad he was dying.

It was an unexpected experience, standing over the black water, blood all over my face and arms, rejoicing in someone else's death. So far I'd always hated killing. Tonight was a first.

Was the world changing or was it just me?