No vamps. Even if Garrett would approve a vampire living here—which he wouldn’t, because of safety issues and because of the treaty—they like having houses where they can install subterranean crypts and Fort Knox-level security systems.
I’m thirty-five and blessed—or cursed, depending on how you view it—to look like I’m barely nineteen. It’s one reason I rarely buy alcohol, because I hate getting carded. Not because it’s a pain, but I want few people knowing any name attached to me.
You’d think I’d have settled down by now. That I’d have figured shit out instead of staying on the run.
Except you’d be wrong.
Safely locked in my apartment, I immediately dig out the box of tampons under the bathroom sink, dump the contents, and then carefully remove the fake bottom inside. There, where I have nearly six thousand in cash stored, I tuck another three hundred from my tips and winnings and replace everything. Then I pull out the package of pads and dig out the fake wrapper in the middle, where another growing bundle resides. All but two hundred in cash goes in there.
On my way to the club later, I’ll stop by a convenience store and buy another pre-paid credit card. I have a stash of them hidden in a fake deodorant container in my medicine cabinet, with about eight thousand dollars on them. Those are my bug-out cards. I rotate through them every so often, so they don’t expire. I always keep enough on them that, if I ever have to leave, I have the means to do so without needing a lot of cash. I have two other good burner phones, too, stashed inside the false bottoms of two other boxes of tampons, and five cheap burner phones, flip phones, stashed in shoes in my closet. I’ve had this phone number the longest and really don’t want to change it if I don’t have to, although I can always route it through Google Voice to ring to one of the other burners, once I’m forced to change it.
And I’m always forced to change it sooner or later.
It used to be easier to get around without credit cards and bank accounts, which is why I stick to waitressing and bartending jobs. Vampires and shifters are willing to work with me on a cash basis. I file my taxes every year, under my real name, using a rented box at a UPS Store up in Mesa, which I check every few weeks.
Lucius gives me fake tax forms tied to one of his shell companies. The only reason I do that is so I don’t trip any computer systems in case I have to bug out and leave the country. I don’t want my passport to get flagged because I have a tax evasion warrant out on me or something stupid like that. Plus, it’s getting harder and harder to use fake passports. I have my US one, and my UK one, since I hold dual citizenship. While I can use those, I would prefer to save them as an emergency last resort because it then pins an electronic paper trail to my ass.
Lucius offered to create me an entire new persona that would pass Homeland Security and Interpol computer systems, not just the fake ID, but I declined. Getting that kind of replacement identity, one that will withstand scrutiny with modern global immigration systems, is super-pricey, takes a long time, and is not the kind of indebtedness I want to owe to the “vampire king.”
The shifters can get me one if I need it, but if Lucius hears I did that, it might offend his sensibilities. I might not call Lucius “sire,” but I won’t disrespect the man, either. Not when he’s treated me damned well and has entrusted me with secrets. He’s always insisted I can call him Lucius at work, but in front of customers and staff, I insist on calling him Mr. Frangelico or Mr. F, depending on the circumstances. Sometimes, I’ll refer to him as “sir,” with a lower-cases.
Right now, I’m okay. I still have connections in several areas of the country where I could ask for help, if I was in trouble. The rented box looks like a regular street address, not a PO Box, meaning I can receive deliveries there, if necessary.
I realized about ten years ago that whatever it is doggedly searching for me isn’t…normal. By that I mean it’s not human, or vamp, or shifter.
It’sotherworldly, as stupid as that sounds.
Shivering at the thought, I remove my wig and brush out my hair before I climb into the shower. My whole apartment is flooded with bright early morning light, including the bathroom. It filters through the small, opaque bathroom window as I take my shower and let the water sluice over me and wash away the residual vampiric and human funk from Club Toxic.
Dexter likely has a lot more money than Lucius. I guess if I end up needing to move and I’m really desperate, I could always ask Dexter to allow me to relocate to Atlantic City and work for him there.
As long as he’s not the reason I’m running.
Except I’ve run from New York City, and that’s pretty close. I thought of all the places in the world, that would be the safest city for me to get lost in. Yet one brutally cold December morning, I ended up running for my life. That was a year after I’d fled Toronto.
Almost like I’d summoned my nightmare into being by thinking too hard about my parents. I’d left work early that day because we were dead, and I didn’t have a good excuse to hang around until dawn. Plus, I thought I was being silly. I’d lived in New York for a year at that point, with no sign of problems. So, I’d spent the twilight just before dawn walking along the waterfront as I headed toward my subway station, my breath frosting in the air. I’d paused to look at the Hudson River and think about Mom and Dad and Zuzu and was missing them horribly. The water reminded me of walking along the beach in Cardiff with them. It was close to Christmas, and I’d stopped and fished the ring out from under my shirt, staring at the labradorite stone and how it flashed in the streetlights.
I used to be fascinated by it when Dad was alive. As I remembered his accent, I slipped the ring on my ring finger, where even with it on the chain, it was still large on me.
Then I’d heard a loud chuffing behind me and saw…it.
My nightmare come to life, not twenty yards away, starting to fade into being.
The large, black form, the red eyes, looking around as if trying to home in on me.
Panicked, I yanked the ring off my finger and ran, jumped on a bus, and quickly made my way away from there.
It didn’t follow.
I stayed on the bus until it was full light, then ended up taking the subway to my usual stop and ran home to my tiny efficiency apartment.
I packed and left. Back then, I didn’t have a car, just two large rolling suitcases, a duffle bag, and a backpack. The 4Runner came after I ended up in Alexandria for a year.
I’ve crisscrossed the country since then, before settling here.
Is Dexter a sign I’m where I finally should be? The poor guy spent our entire talk hard as a rock. I could smell his arousal, which is a funny plot twist. Usually, the vamps can easily smell if humans are aroused or not. Kinda part of their whole schtick in Club Toxic, sweetening a human’s blood with their BDSM play.
Unfortunately, I have no idea what it is that pursues me. I only know that if it wasn’t for the witnesses saying it looked like a man who killed Mom, I would’ve assumed that the thing did.
