"Thanks," he managed.
"That's what friends are for." Brent headed to his room, pausing at the door. "And Charlie? Whatever's really going on, you can tell me. When you're ready."
The door closed with a soft click.
Charlie pulled the blanket over his head, trying to muffle the sound of Brent's pulse through the thin walls. His stomach had gone past cramping into a constant, grinding ache. His fangs had fully descended now that he was alone, pressing against his lower lip.
He closed his eyes and started counting backwards from a thousand, focusing on the numbers instead of the hunger, instead of the sound of blood pumping through living veins just one room away.
Nine hundred ninety-nine. Nine hundred ninety-eight.
His phone vibrated with another message, but Charlie didn't check it.
Nine hundred ninety-seven. Nine hundred ninety-six.
The counting helped, gave his mind something to hold onto as his body tried to shut down, conserving what little energy remained.
Nine hundred ninety-five.
Nine hundred ninety-four.
Nine hundred...
Chapter
Seven
Charlie stood behind the register, gripping the counter hard enough to leave fingerprints in the cheap laminate.
Eight thirty-seven PM. He'd made it thirty-seven whole minutes without incident.
The ceiling lights buzzed overhead, and each flicker sent a fresh spike of pain through his skull. Everything was too bright, too loud, too much. The coffee machine's gurgle sounded like a roaring waterfall. The freezer's hum vibrated through his bones.
He should not have tried to show off to Brent.
A customer approached with a six-pack, and Charlie forced his face into something resembling neutral.
"ID?" His voice came out rough.
The man fumbled for his wallet, and Charlie caught himself zeroing in on the lines on the guy's hands. Thick veins, close to the surface. One paper cut and…
No.
Charlie grabbed a pen and clicked it repeatedly, using the sharp sound to center himself. The customer slid his ID across the counter.
"Thanks." Charlie scanned the beer without looking at the date. The guy could be twelve for all he cared. He just needed him gone.
"You okay, buddy? You look rough."
"Food poisoning," Charlie managed.
"Brutal." The man took his change and left.
Charlie waited until the door chimed shut, then rummaged under the counter where he'd stashed his emergency supplies. Not ketchup—he'd had enough of that.
His fingers closed around a bottle of cherry syrup meant for the slushie machine.
The same kind that had fooled his brain into believing it was blood last night. Maybe it would work again.
