After Dark (The Vampire Next Door Book 2) (2 page)

“Oh, well, we’ll wait until he shows up, then. “

She lowered her voice. “But that’s not the only reason I asked you to come by.”

“What?” He hoped it wasn’t bad news; her tone seemed serious.

“Someone seems to be watching us, Alex.”

“You’re sure?” And then he realized it was a stupid comment. Of course she was sure. That sort of thing happened a lot.

“She’s been seen several times in the alley that leads to the door down here. Just watching people come in and out. Strange young girl, very delicate and lost looking. I’ve seen her twice. She runs if she realizes she’s been seen.”

“Oh hell. A cop, maybe? They’ve watched the place before, you know. They don’t know when to quit. They can never find anything wrong but they keep it up.”

“No. I asked Martin and he denies it. He said they’ve been leaving us alone, for at least a year. I don’t believe that of course. He says it’s so. Perhaps he’s telling the truth. Perhaps they’ve finally got it into their thick heads that we’re only consuming what’s left over from the slaughterhouses, instead of devouring little children, which is what they’d prefer to find. But he says they’re leaving us alone.”

“They ought to leave us alone, after what I did. Maybe I should never have bothered.” Alex found Detective Martin Atkinson bleeding and half-conscious on the wet and bloodied beach sand with his head at the edge of the incoming ocean tide. He had been with Lina that night, walking their dog, and the cool soft night breeze carried with it the scent of fresh blood, hot and alive and fresh. It could have been an injured animal, if it was another time, another place. But they were not deep within the darkened ancient forests of Eastern Europe, and there were no deer roaming free to take. They were in a populated and busy part of California, in a region filled with out of control crime and violence, drugs and indecency.

As they came in closer they heard Martin moan softly with weakness and pain. Alex carried him to safety. Two days later, Martin’s partner was arrested for attempted murder. Martin had discovered that the man he had worked with for years was dealing crack and heroin, and had been doing so for nearly a decade.

“I remember now. The poor fool woke up on the stretcher with you standing over him.”

“He told you that?” Alex was surprised that he would admit to it.

“‘Don’t eat my face!’ I bet the paramedics thought he was going into a state of shock or something.”

“You don’t still have your eye on him, do you?”

“I should give up, really. He likes to look at me, but he thinks of me as poison.”

“So how about that girl who is lurking about the door?”

“I don’t really think she’s a cop. A cop would know enough not to be seen.”

“Well, we must watch out for her. Have someone watch the alley, maybe?” He rose and stood up. “I’ve got to go. Maybe I’ll trip over the poor child on my way out.” He really did not care. Probably she was a hooker looking for a john and did not realize whom she was dealing with. “Look, Martin does not deserve you. You’re much too good for him.”

He left.

She had been exhausted all day, and wished that she had called in ‘sick’ once again. A piece of chalk struck her head when she turned her back on the children; she spun around and the entire class erupted into laughter. She had no control over them; the students were bored by art class and took every opportunity to entertain themselves by playing with her weakened nerves.

She cried as she rode the bus home. She sat in the back, so no one would look at her moist face and reddened eyes.

She wanted to crawl into bed—or maybe even better, a dark hole—and not do anything for the rest of the day, but she forced herself to shower and put on clean clothes. A silk dress again. She had no blue jeans, no T-shirts, or sneakers. She had only the clothes she brought with her when she left her family’s opulent home, plus a few new things that she purchased when she moved into the apartment. She had not worn jeans or sneakers very often, and wondered if they were wrong for her, if they were for other people to wear? Or if she would be out of place in them? But then, she felt out of place no matter what she did.

She did not have the energy or will to attempt to cook again; she was not really very good at it, and in her old life she never really learned. In fact, in her old life, she never learned to do much for herself at all. There was really not much in her refrigerator. And she did not really want to eat. But she decided to go out and get something anyway. She had not really eaten anything except a donut yesterday. Food did not really interest her anymore. But she needed an excuse to go out.

She would buy a sandwich, wait for nightfall, and then maybe watch again. It was on a warm quiet evening like this when she saw what she saw in the alley…

It was light out yet getting dark swiftly. She had been sketching at the beach that afternoon, and was walking down the darkened twilight street to return to her apartment when she heard the glass shattering violently in the alley that she was passing.

Something had fallen off a truck—several bottles were broken, and thick red fluid was poured over the ground. Too thick to be red wine. And why all the ice?

Whatever it was had to be packed in ice.

“Leave it,” a voice whispered. “We’ll clean it up later.”

“No!” snapped another. “We’ve got to clean this up now! Someone will see this and know what the hell it is! We’ll get the bucket and the mop, come on.”

When the two had drifted down the darkened stairs into the lower level of the old brick building, she approached carefully, bent to put her fingers deep into it. It was blood.

She dropped her sketch pad and ran.

She returned to the alley later that night; she could not sleep thinking about it. She hadn’t slept well in weeks, but at least that night she actually knew why. She rose from bed and dressed, walked several blocks. She did not even know what she was looking for. The street was quiet, finally, after two a.m. But when she came closer she could hear a pleasant sigh. Slowly she moved toward the hushed soft noise; with the help of a streetlight she could see them.

The man leaned against the brick wall; the woman reached up to pull away at his shirt collar, pressed her lips deeply into his throat. And somehow they both seemed to be enjoying themselves.

She ran, loudly knocking down several trashcans as she went.

She had returned many times to look down into the alley. In the day the doorway leading to some unknown darkness was tightly locked, the curtains were drawn. In the evening people—always the same people—came and went. Sometimes she heard soft music whispering out into the night when the door was opened.

Perhaps what she found could bring her an easy end.

She finished her sandwich and diet coke on a park bench and again waited for darkness. From across the street, she watched.

The same familiar people were slowly beginning to arrive, to drift in with the approaching dusk. A few remained out on the street by the alley and talked casually; she could not hear any of what was said. She wished she could.

They acted, moved, and dressed, and seemed like everyone else.
Even more like everyone else than me
, she thought. She felt she could never fit in, not with anyone.

She remained there for hours.

Late in the night she saw some of them leave. The alley quieted down again, emptied out slightly, and the activity slowed. She heard a few good-byes when the door closed behind another one who was leaving.

And she watched the single lone figure cross the dark empty street to go into his home above the small art gallery where she often stopped to look into the front display windows.

She was surprised. She never imagined any one of them would live over there. It was a beautiful gallery, such lovely work. And it was only open nightly, she remembered. Apparently he lived in the same building, on the floor above.

She followed carefully. When she crossed the street she looked up into the sky and saw that it was slowly brightening.

A window was open behind the old Victorian age building, on the second floor. It was the window by the fire escape. She had only to find a way in and wait for it all to end.

It was all she really wanted now.

No one saw her go through the window; she did not think anyone did. Once in, her eyes needed to adjust to the darkness. Many of the shades were eerily drawn tightly shut. There was no sound in the house. When she was able to see better she noticed the place was basically clean, no cobwebs.

It was not only cleaned, it was comfortable. The furniture was somewhat old, pleasantly mismatched, but in decent condition. There were pictures on the wall, similar to the artwork she saw in the display windows below. They were excellent; she wondered who could have done them. She slowly drifted into the kitchen—did he even use the kitchen? Probably not. She imagined there would be terrible things found in there if he did. She inspected the top of the stove. No grease, as if he never cooked. She opened the cabinets. The first one she opened had a telephone book, and a set of keys. The second had a few rolls of paper towels, glass cleaner, dish detergent. The third had drinking glasses, cups, and ceramic mugs—large ones. There were no plates anywhere to be found. There was a small table, a few chairs. And a refrigerator. But it had to be empty if he was what she thought he was. Then he didn’t eat.

But it was filled with bottles of... “Oh my God,” she gasped.

She shut it hastily. “He is.” She began to quietly panic. “He really, really is.”

And what could she do about it? If she stayed long enough, then he could do what she lacked the courage to do for herself.

She shivered internally at the thought of it and forced herself to weakly continue searching about the house.

The bathroom seemed normal. It was clean, unlike her own. In the cabinet behind the mirror—
did he use a mirror?
—There were just the usual common items.

Despite what she saw in the refrigerator he seemed almost human. But that didn’t really matter to her.

At the end of the hallway was a closed door. Could it be locked? She hesitated, but after a few minutes she tried it. It was unlocked and she opened it carefully. She searched the wall for a light switch.

What she saw next caused her to gasp in shock.

It was him.

Not in a coffin surrounded by candles, but flat on an ordinary bed. She watched for signs of movement. None. He did not even seem to be breathing.

Lifeless.

The way she wanted to be.

Yes. He appeared to be wonderfully lifeless. Flesh nearly as pale as the white sheets under him, motionless like Death itself. Beautiful, cold and painless death.

She thought about it.

Would she wake him?

Or wait?

If she woke him now he would be angry, and the end might not be the easy painless death she longed for.

She would wait until nightfall, and hope it would just come easy.

She fell asleep on the couch after another hour of searching about the house and finding very little out of the ordinary. And she awakened into darkness. She had slept through the day. Yet she did not feel rested; she never felt rested.

“Hey.”

“Wha— ?”

“Not every night I wake up and find a pretty girl on my couch.”

“What?” She sat up quickly.

“Like, are you here for a reason? Or did you just party too damn hard and get yourself spaced out and totally damn lost? If you did, that’s okay. ’Cause the vast majority of people are mostly lost anyway.”

“Oh.” She sighed nervously. “Yes, I’m here for a reason. Please, it’s awfully dark. Can I see you? Can I just have a light on, please?” Apparently he could see her quite well without any light.

He agreed and snapped on a feeble small lamp. “Now. Can I know what’s going on?”

She looked at him and found him almost attractive. No, she corrected herself, not almost. He was attractive—dangerously so. His hair was slightly wet from the shower; he wore a black T-shirt and faded jeans. His feet were bare. She almost wanted to just say nothing and keep looking at him, but she had to finish what she came for. “I just thought we could be of help to one another.” She wondered if her attraction would make it easier.

“What do you mean? Look, just tell me what you want, okay?” He grew impatient.

“Well, I suppose I figured out who you are, and, well, I just thought—”

“Yeah? So what’s the damn point? Look, okay, maybe you’re one of those New Age types who says she can heal all the world with a mere thought, right? Because if you are, I don’t give a damn. I’m just fine the way I am, and—”

A tear streamed steadily down her face.

“You okay?”

“You don’t understand. I’m here because I need your help. I’m tired of living. I want to end it all. And I’m too much of a coward to do it myself. I’ve tried. Oh God, I have tried. But I can’t!” she sobbed.

He came closer. “What are you saying?”