Bea wasn’t shown at all, because she’d come from the house’s side door instead of the front, momentarily confused at the one wan electric bulb high over stable stalls shining through the opening, illuminating a faint slice of weed-starred gravel. If not for a chance configuration of farm junk at the one miraculously unbroken and hence unboarded window providing a hole to peer through, she might not have seen the monster crouched over her brother’s broken body, head slightly tilted as it was now.
He contemplated the traffic before the silver BMW just as he had her brother’s corpse, with the same politely interested expression. “I don’t understand the reference.”
The camera near the stable kept rolling for two days after that, but nothing showed up, not even raccoons. And by then Bea had been long gone, barely daring to sign in, download the footage, and never touching a scrap of her previous identity again. No phone, no log-ins, no calls to anyone saying she was still alive, showing up on Don’s doorstep shivering and barely coherent…
How did he get out of the stable? If he left without going past you, could the henchmen get in without you seeing?
In other words, was this ‘Everly’ guy actually telling the truth? Had she tried to kill an innocent monster—or at least, a monster who hadn’t torn someone she loved into chunks?
“I think I’m going to throw up.” For a moment she was in college again, jammed into a car with six laughing girls, barely sober and immortal because they were all young and nobody’s brother had been discovered as a pulped mass on manure-laden dirt.
The monster gave a slight nod, his mouth turning down briefly at both corners. “Understandable.”
“No car.” She finally blurted it out. “There was no car, how did you get out to his place if you didn’t drive?”
“If not for you, I would not be driving now.” As if explaining to a toddler, the sky’s blue because of refracted light or the wind is trees sneezing. “I can move over most terrain at reasonable speed, but it’s a chilly night. You are still mortal.”
Well, thank God for that. “I’ll end up a vampire unless you’re killed before I drink human blood, right? Is that how it works?”
“No,” the monster said, softly but with utter conviction. “That is not how it works at all, Beatrice. You will learn soon enough.”
Which seemed to close off further conversational avenues, or maybe Bea’s brain-mouth filters decided to re-engage since she wasn’t staring down the barrel of her own demise in the next sixty seconds. She tried not to luxuriate in the warmth, the smooth ride, the feeling of gliding further into grateful insanity.
If I’m convinced I’m mad, does it make me sane? All the kicking around of philosophical or ontological footballs with Don couldn’t help her now. Was he still alive, or had the monster done something to him?
Could she ask without risking Don and Callie’s safety, if the monster didn’t already know about them? Her battered brain was not up to any decisions at the moment, no matter how minor—except maybe watching for another chance to escape.
The monster was silent as he drove. He didn’t even turn on the fancy satellite radio.
North Bluffs loomed at the end of the Causeway, a dark bulk traced with scattered streetlights along steep winding roads. It was expensive real estate, private gated communities and bougie organic shopping centers plus a few tracts of ‘public’ wilderness mostly used by jogging housewives. There were a couple semi-rural slices resisting the winds of gentrification, but by and large it was the suburb to settle in if you couldn’t afford old-money Rhodeshill and Laurel Row neighborhoods or wanted more space than squeezed-together Victorians with postage-stamp yards.
Once they were off the Causeway and free of traffic he let the BMW open up, taking two-lane curves far too fast, barely touching the brakes. Were they being followed, or did he simply enjoy driving bank-robber style?
A twisting, overgrown road swallowed the car, tangled underbrush leaning over the ditches to either side. Bea flinched, but the monster was only reaching into a pocket, fishing out a sleek silver phone in a heavy waterproof casing. “Wrong one,” he muttered, dropping it into the empty cupholder—did he ever put a latte there? The car was pristine as if freshly detailed, though it lacked the soupy chemical smell of a brand-new vehicle.
He found what he wanted in his jacket’s breast pocket and made a small satisfied sound, very much like a human male.
“How many of those do you carry?” Bea’s mouth was back for Round Two. If she somehow got out of this, she was going to have so much good firsthand monster knowledge—but nobody normal would believe her. And she might come down with some kind of weird monster STD, since he hadn’t used any protection.
Do NOT think about that. But it was too late. Her brain started wobbling again, wondering about monster babies.
“Tremendously useful little things. Addictive, too, though not nearly so much as…” A glance in her direction, his face ghostly in dashboard light. “As a leman.”
What, you like lemon with your blood? Blood lemonade? Is that what you usually put in the cupholder? Her imagination just worked too goddamn well—which was great for planning out a murder during a Roaring Twenties costume party, but sucked ass when you were trapped in small spaces with a fast, strong, apparently unkillable bloodsucker.
Not unkillable. You just didn’t get the stake going fast enough. Don was right, should have rigged up a crossbow.
But how could she carry that in? The stake was difficult enough, tucked down the back of her dress and held tight with athletic tape. She’d hoped her quarry would take her somewhere private, guessing she could get to fire stairs on the correct side of the building by a couple different routes; she’d expected to attack on one of the lower floors. Nobody would expect her to go up and change clothes before coming back down, taking advantage of a few dead spots in the security cameras before vanishing into the night.
She was Monday-morning quarterbacking her own monster murder. Getting defensive over the failure, as well.
And apparently even bloodsuckers texted while driving. Bea couldn’t close her eyes, just watched in silent horror as the car took a few hairpin curves far too quickly while he stared at the phone, now occasionally feathering the brakes, tires clinging with only a faint chirp at the crux of the sharpest bend.
Could he survive a fiery wreck? Was he going to ditch her and the car in one flaming mass, walking away without looking at the explosion, action-movie style?
“There.” He tucked both phones away, finally returning his right hand to the wheel—which was comforting, she supposed, if only for the moment. “We’ll arrive soon. I should warn you of a few necessities.”
Like what? Bea’s fingers bit her arms; she was hugging herself tight enough to bruise. It would add to all of her other contusions; she’d be a painted horse before long.
