Jesus. I put my head in my hands. Tried to pull up an image of Eddie, and an image of Brother Aleister. I was still attracted to them, even knowing. And somehow it made things seem even better!
Eddie’s cold hands that flared with warmth, the feeling of his roaming tongue between my legs. Brother Aleister’s calm, gentle demeanor, his sonorous smooth voice, the way his mind ticked, his broad view of reality. He was weirdly appealing, too.
What was it one of Tamara’s friends had said? I like Eddie, but it’s like, I feel like my brain turns off when I’m around him. Something like that. Was that some sort of Vampiric charisma? Some mental manipulation? This wasn’t a good road to go down. This whole thing—how close was I to being a victim that night in the alleyway? And hadn’t one of Tamara’s friends said something about missing people?
“Where do I even start?” I asked my ice coffee, and it said nothing back.
Okay. So I had a strong hunch that vampires existed now—or something like vampires. Maybe just a general classification of ‘undead’ was appropriate. There was no need to be reactionary. All three of the men I’d met, Eddie, Aleister, even Sal, seemed like… Well, yes, they were a little weird, including what they ate, but didn’t Brother Aleister just give me a sermon about ethical hunting?
“Ethical hunting,” I said out loud. “Oh, my God.”
Somehow it seemed worse when I thought about what—or who—they hunted. And here, the sticky image of veal brains on the menu came floating back. Well, that explained the beef heart. I could feel my pulse quicken. My heart jumped in my chest, and a pang of horror struck me—was that just a beef heart???
Someone in the community knew I was digging too deep, knew before even I knew, and they’d been trying to warn me away. The idea of it being Sal was a little ludicrous. The last thing he wanted to do was showcase the hidden menu. So that meant it was someone else. Maybe someone I knew? But who? I couldn’t see Eddie sending me veal brains. I couldn’t see Brother Aleister doing that. They just didn’t seem like the type…
What were my ethical responsibilities here? Somebody needed to know about the dangers present. Only problem was, there was no way anyone would believe me. Not without proof. Not without some kind of confession I could record, a blood sample, stool sample, hair sample, something. Some kind of evidence I could send to Tamara, to my father, to the government… If this story broke, it would alter the very nature of reality as everyone experienced it. It would be the scoop of the century—maybe the biggest scoop of all human civilization…
I ordered another iced coffee and came up with a battle plan. I could sneak in through the window I’d cracked that night. Mel—and boy, who knew what Mel was—had given me that vial of ointment. “So they can’t detect you,” she’d said.
Another resounding thud fell into place. They could smell me without the ointment.
Alright, so. Stealth serum. Cameras. Maybe a microphone. I’d have to tell someone where I was going. Have to let them know, in case something happens. Not Gabe—Gabriel would run his mouth before I could find anything, might even be shady enough to take the scoop for his own—and Andy seemed like he’d outright dismiss me. Tell me to quit taking so many drugs. Tamara, though…
I knew this was going to be a hard sell. I could see Tamara’s face already. “Girl, don’t try it,” she would say.
Well, it would have to be Tamara. And she’d have to know everything. Except for the part where I’d used her name. I was already in enough trouble as it was. And she probably needed to know about the actual monsters living in her city, right?
I called Tamara’s phone, tapping my foot and waited for her to pick up.
“Hello?” Tamara sounded like she’d just woke up.
“Hey. It’s me.”
“Hey, me. What’s up?”
“Umm. OK. So here’s the thing. I stumbled onto something big. You’re not going to believe me even when I say it. I mean. I don’t even believe it myself, and I was there. Tamara. I think the Night Market is home to a bunch of undead immigrants.”
There was a silence on the phone.
“Did you say inbred?” Tamara’s voice was patient.
“Undead,” I hissed. “Vampires, Tamara.”
“How much crack have you smoked again?”
“I’m serious, Tamara. Dead serious. You remember the bird?”
Tamara fell silent.
We were little girls when it happened. Small children. Probably ten or eleven. I think Tamara was always the older of the two of us. We had been playing in my backyard once. There was a starling that was playing in the sandbox. I’d liked it a lot—we watched it for at least half an hour. And then when the wind blew, the starling took to flight and made it about five feet in the air.
There it hung. We watched our clocks. It did not flutter or hover—it was as if time itself had frozen in place, irreparably. Tamara had grabbed a stick and poked at it, but she couldn’t nudge it, and neither could I.
Nobody ever believed us when we said what happened. After a minute or two of defying gravity, the bird flapped its wings and shook its head and took off again.
We swore a pact with each other on that day. That if one of us ever saw something like that bird, the other would have to believe them.
“Don’t bring up the bird again,” Tamara said, sighing. “Are you serious, though? You actually believe this?”
