The shoes waited, neither tapping nor shifting with boredom. Finally they moved again, separating and turning, before a knee clad in grey Italian wool touched the floor.
The monster stretched out alongside the bed, peering into the cavern of her precarious safety. If he could shake off a stake to the chest and find her almost eight hours later, maybe he could pick the bed up and throw it, too? Everyone agreed bloodsuckers were hella strong to begin with, accumulating force with age.
He smiled, propping his cheek on a bent arm. His eyes were just as dark as they had been last night, and the rest of him was the same as well. Sandy-dark hair, over-conservative cut, long nose, a thin mouth, wide cheekbones. Only the suit had changed—now he wore vest and trousers, two out of three pieces, and his dress shirt’s crisp white sleeves were rolled up, exposing forearms corded with muscle. A silver watch gleamed on his left wrist, winking cheerfully at her.
They regarded each other for a few heartbeats. Bea cowered under the bed and tried to think of something, anything practical or useful.
And coming up completely empty.
“Good afternoon,” the monster said. The same pleasant tone as yesterday night—or this morning. Had she been knocked out overnight? What day was it? “Would you like a drink? Alcohol, or fruit juice perhaps?” A small pause, his expression turning grave. “Ah. That might give the wrong impression. Are you hungry? You must be.”
The shudders fused, locking Bea in place. Don swore you could hypnotize chickens, and that’s what she felt like—a bird staring at the cat about to eat it, a rabbit just before the hawk’s claws punctured furry hide and something small was swept, dying, into the sky.
The smile returned, a natural, easy expression. The human camouflage was exceptional, but when he stilled again it was like being slapped in the face. An essential difference was visible in that unmoving, and every fear-soaked nerve Bea possessed knew a predator when it sensed one.
“Your identification says Sarah Monroe, but that is clearly false.” Did he sound cajoling, of all things? “Will you at least grant me your name?”
Why? You don’t remember killing Jare, we humans must all blur together for you bloodsuckers. Bea kept her hand over her mouth. The urge to scream rose to a sharp peak, and she wasn’t sure she could contain it.
“Very well.” The monster’s smile didn’t diminish, but his eyelids went to half-mast. “I do apologize, I had a meeting and thought you would sleep until nightfall. Stubborn, very stubborn. I will wait until you feel like speaking.”
He settled back into that uncanny stillness. Bea tried once more to come up with a response to this turn of events, settled for being grateful she hadn’t peed herself with terror.
Yet.
No clock in this big bare room, no tick-tocks to measure out time’s subjective flow. Only the silence, the faint whooshing of warmed air. Was he breathing? Even with his eyes mostly closed he was clearly watching her, an unblinking catlike gaze tangling with her own.
No sir, this chicken won’t be hypnotized. She hurriedly looked away, but that was a mistake too because the thought that he might suddenly slither under the bed and she would miss the initial warning motion was almost as horrifying as ditty-bopping through a bathroom door to find a monster in her motel room.
It took work to peel her hand away from her mouth. Her vision blurred; why did she fucking cry every time she was scared?
Her teeth wanted to chatter. It took two tries to form recognizable words. “Just kill me,” she croaked. “I staked you, fair enough. Just get it over with.”
His eyes closed fully, then slowly opened. “Why would I do that?”
Bea might have thought he was honestly baffled. His little green henchman had played with her brother for months, though, slowly breaking down Jare’s sanity. So she wasn’t fooled one bit. “You want to torture me? Nothing could be worse than what you’ve already done. Just kill me.”
“I have...wronged you, somehow.” Thoughtfully, as if this was the first he’d heard of a distressing factory accident. He probably used that expression a lot in meetings; ‘Chris Everly’ was known to be exceptionally low-key. Reclusive was the word they used—even the local tabloids had better subjects to lie breathlessly about. “Tell me, so I may make amends.”
Oh, you sonofabitch. Cats played with their food, bloodsuckers were probably the same way. It might even be natural behavior in the ecology of the weird. Sasquatches were sometimes thought to be Neanderthals or ape-related, too; there were some questions whether the aliens abducting folks were extraterrestrial or extradimensional. Her brain kept leaping from question to question, all of life’s imponderables now likely to remain unsolved.
Because she would be dead soon, that much was certain. The plan had completely, utterly, undeniably failed. The worst thing was feeling ridiculous, hiding half-naked under a bed. She couldn’t decide if this was an occupational hazard she should have been aware of, or just a sign of her own ineptitude.
Beatrice Dunlevy did not mind being frightened so much, but humiliation was another thing entirely.
Another long silence. She glared at him, though her heart hammered so hard his shadow swelled and wavered, blocking winter daylight on that side of the bed. Through it all he regarded her somberly, and even had the gall to look expectant.
Fine. Jare swore I could irritate anyone to murder, I’m about to do my level best. “You’d rather hand me over to your little green henchmen, right? Let them dissect me alive. Do you watch, and record it for later? Snuff films—is that how you get your kicks? The internet must be a playground for guys like you.”
His teeth were very white; the smile was broad and apparently genuine. The shape of his jaw had shifted slightly, and the fangs were no cheap special effect or magic dentistry. They looked completely natural, as if blunt human chompers were the deviation.
Oh god, they were true. All the stories are true. She was completely numb, Bea realized, too worn out to be more afraid. Maybe her fear gauge had busted.
“You’re very frightened.” Calm and even, as if discussing the weather, enunciating carefully because those multiple fangs looked extremely sharp. “I do not want to use the quietus again, but I will if I must. Would you prefer that?”
Maybe he’s more into psychological torture? She was probably going completely cuckoo; Bea wouldn’t rule it out. “Am I supposed to know what that means? Why don’t you give me my stake back and we can go for round two, huh? Or maybe you should call a few of your little green baldies to make it even.”
It sounded like whiny, terrified bravado instead of a movie-star prisoner of war daring his captors, not at all what she’d intended.
