smell my own blood on his breath.
Finally Shane’s grip loosens. He gives a long, slow exhale, then rests his forehead on my chin. “That helps. Thank you.” He rolls off me with what seems like a mixture of reluctance and relief. His fangs have disappeared.
I start to shake. The air conditioner feels like it’s pouring thousands of tiny ice cubes over my skin. I get up, slowly, to search for my clothes, keeping an eye on Shane without looking directly at him. He sits on the other edge of the bed, one hand holding his head as the other blots the blood on his mouth with a tissue. I eschew the tank top and pull a sweatshirt from my closet.
“Well.” I swallow, to wet the desert in my throat. “It’s not like I wasn’t warned.”
“I’m so sorry I hurt you,” he says in a hoarse voice.
“You need to leave now.” Before I pass out.
“I can’t believe I did that.” His breath comes fast. “I lost control. I swear it won’t happen again.”
“No. It won’t.”
With shaky hands, he pulls on his T-shirt. “Let me at least help you clean it up, get you a bandage.”
“I don’t think that’s a very good idea,” I say carefully, though I want to scream, “
Are you fucking kidding me
?!”
He stands, then snatches his flannel shirt from the floor. He hesitates next to the piles of CDs, as if he can’t leave them like that.
“Just go,” I say through gritted teeth, opening the bedroom door wider to hurry him. God knows what happens to people who faint in front of vampires.
As he passes me, he stops, and I wonder with horror if he’s going to ask for a good-night kiss. Instead he pulls a clean tissue out of his pocket and gently wipes the space between my nose and mouth. I see a spot of blood on the tissue before he crumples it in his fist. Our eyes meet, and an unwelcome shiver runs up one edge of my spine, then down the other.
“Forgive me,” he says.
I open my mouth to reply, but he cuts me off.
“Not now.” He shoves the tissue in his pocket. “Later, when I deserve it.”
As he turns to leave, he glances at my left leg, and the sight propels him faster out my front door.
I shut off the music (the concert has arrived at the un-nervingly appropriate “Dumb”), then limp to the bathroomacross the hall. A rivulet of blood runs from thigh to ankle. I swipe it with a scrap of toilet paper before it hits the floor. The wound looks bad, more from the tearing than from the punctures, which means that if I hadn’t shoved him away, I’d be in better shape. But with less blood. Possibly none.
I grab some gauze from underneath the sink, then press it against the wound to stop the bleeding. Once it slows to a trickle, I clean the gash, accompanying myself with a string of “Ow”s.
Maybe I should get stitches, but how to explain my injury? I can barely convince myself it really happened. Even now my mind is forming a wall of denial.
Shane’s fangs were fake. Not plastic, of course, but maybe porcelain. Very sharp porcelain.
I close my eyes and shake my head. The fangs were one thing, but his strength and speed, and the magnetic pull of his eyes—entirely inhuman.
No no no.
Not. Possible
. Except it is.
I quit that stupid job because I thought they were nuts, or making fun of me, or both. But everything in the booklet was true. The DJs aren’t insane, they’re “just” vampires.
I bandage the wound, then return to my room, afraid of what I’ll see. My bed looks like a murder scene, which it almost was.
Or was it? Shane didn’t seem like he wanted to kill me—he could have done it easily enough. Maybe he thought I’d be a willing “source.” My body quakes at the thought, the sudden movement delivering new jolts of pain.
I carry my sheets at arm’s length to the bathroom and place them in the tub, which I fill with cold water. Soonthe water turns pink to match the tile. I feel like crying, but I don’t. They’re just sheets, after all, and my head is so... so...
I
Finally Shane’s grip loosens. He gives a long, slow exhale, then rests his forehead on my chin. “That helps. Thank you.” He rolls off me with what seems like a mixture of reluctance and relief. His fangs have disappeared.
I start to shake. The air conditioner feels like it’s pouring thousands of tiny ice cubes over my skin. I get up, slowly, to search for my clothes, keeping an eye on Shane without looking directly at him. He sits on the other edge of the bed, one hand holding his head as the other blots the blood on his mouth with a tissue. I eschew the tank top and pull a sweatshirt from my closet.
“Well.” I swallow, to wet the desert in my throat. “It’s not like I wasn’t warned.”
“I’m so sorry I hurt you,” he says in a hoarse voice.
“You need to leave now.” Before I pass out.
“I can’t believe I did that.” His breath comes fast. “I lost control. I swear it won’t happen again.”
“No. It won’t.”
With shaky hands, he pulls on his T-shirt. “Let me at least help you clean it up, get you a bandage.”
“I don’t think that’s a very good idea,” I say carefully, though I want to scream, “
Are you fucking kidding me
?!”
He stands, then snatches his flannel shirt from the floor. He hesitates next to the piles of CDs, as if he can’t leave them like that.
“Just go,” I say through gritted teeth, opening the bedroom door wider to hurry him. God knows what happens to people who faint in front of vampires.
As he passes me, he stops, and I wonder with horror if he’s going to ask for a good-night kiss. Instead he pulls a clean tissue out of his pocket and gently wipes the space between my nose and mouth. I see a spot of blood on the tissue before he crumples it in his fist. Our eyes meet, and an unwelcome shiver runs up one edge of my spine, then down the other.
“Forgive me,” he says.
I open my mouth to reply, but he cuts me off.
“Not now.” He shoves the tissue in his pocket. “Later, when I deserve it.”
As he turns to leave, he glances at my left leg, and the sight propels him faster out my front door.
I shut off the music (the concert has arrived at the un-nervingly appropriate “Dumb”), then limp to the bathroomacross the hall. A rivulet of blood runs from thigh to ankle. I swipe it with a scrap of toilet paper before it hits the floor. The wound looks bad, more from the tearing than from the punctures, which means that if I hadn’t shoved him away, I’d be in better shape. But with less blood. Possibly none.
I grab some gauze from underneath the sink, then press it against the wound to stop the bleeding. Once it slows to a trickle, I clean the gash, accompanying myself with a string of “Ow”s.
Maybe I should get stitches, but how to explain my injury? I can barely convince myself it really happened. Even now my mind is forming a wall of denial.
Shane’s fangs were fake. Not plastic, of course, but maybe porcelain. Very sharp porcelain.
I close my eyes and shake my head. The fangs were one thing, but his strength and speed, and the magnetic pull of his eyes—entirely inhuman.
No no no.
Not. Possible
. Except it is.
I quit that stupid job because I thought they were nuts, or making fun of me, or both. But everything in the booklet was true. The DJs aren’t insane, they’re “just” vampires.
I bandage the wound, then return to my room, afraid of what I’ll see. My bed looks like a murder scene, which it almost was.
Or was it? Shane didn’t seem like he wanted to kill me—he could have done it easily enough. Maybe he thought I’d be a willing “source.” My body quakes at the thought, the sudden movement delivering new jolts of pain.
I carry my sheets at arm’s length to the bathroom and place them in the tub, which I fill with cold water. Soonthe water turns pink to match the tile. I feel like crying, but I don’t. They’re just sheets, after all, and my head is so... so...
I
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