After Dark (The Vampire Next Door Book 2) (20 page)

“I see,” he mumbled.

“He’s sort of good looking too,” she giggled. “Maybe I shouldn’t say that. Now I feel silly.”

“No, no. Go on and say anything,” he prodded, hoping to manipulate her into saying too much.

“Oh, I don’t know,” she went on dreamily. “Yes. I suppose he is one of the most unique people I’ve ever met, but then, I’m not very worldly.”

“And you say that you trust him?”

“Yes,” and she seemed definite.

He wondered about her. If she wasn’t what he considered a gourmet dessert, then what possible purpose could she serve? She was certainly very attractive, and she seemed to dress very ladylike, very upper class. He looked her over: she was thin, small and delicate, almost frail. He could imagine how easily she could become an easy meal. What kind of game was he playing with her?

“You say you’re only friends?”

“Yes, just friends. “

“Would you lie for him?”

“No! I’m not lying. He’s innocent. I know he is.”

She left, hoping that she had said the right thing. She got into her car and drove home slowly. It was only a very short distance, but she drove because in that short time she realized that she enjoyed driving. She felt as though it made her almost like everyone else, like normal people. Because of the way her father had always treated her, she came to think of herself as not normal somehow, as somehow less than other people. But slowly she was awakening to the fact that she could learn to manage her own life without constant control and interference.

And she realized that maybe she was becoming like everyone else. Before, her clothes were usually chosen for her by a nanny or handed out by the maid. Now, instead, she watched what other young women were wearing, and if she liked something, she would purchase something similar. Money was never the problem for her that it was for most people. She learned to cook, somewhat, after discovering that some packaged foods had recipes and cooking directions right on the back of the box.

And she learned to budget and control her money. Although she did have much of her inheritance left, it was not infinite.

Yes, she almost began to feel as if she could like herself. Rick liked her, and if he liked her, then it might be all right to like herself. Even the way she was. Rick liked himself the way he was, even if other people did not. After talking with the policeman, she was certain of that.

She parked her car in the lot by her apartment building, got out, started walking and looked up at the late afternoon southern California sun. It was hot, and powerfully bright, even late in the day. At least her car and her apartment were air conditioned.

Rick was away safe, in his small dark room with no windows. He would sleep through the hot unbearable days to come. Perhaps he was lucky. Or perhaps not? She wondered. Could it really be a handicap of some sort? He had no extraordinary abilities, he assured her of that. His kind only survived by their wits, courage, and luck. He told her that for much of history they were pursued, hunted and destroyed. The thought disturbed her.

And she realized that he could never eat most things, or even simply walk out in the afternoon sun to get his own mail. Yet they all survived, for thousands of years. How?

Simple, she whispered, as she walked up the stairs to her place. Adapt. Life must be all about adapting. Fighting, struggling, escaping, hunting, and then, finally finding a safe place to rest for the day, to rest and grow stronger for the next desperate fight. That’s what it was really all about. And that was what he was trying to tell her all along. Maybe that was what the story was about, whether it was true or not? But how does it end? She would have to wait to find out.

She opened the door to her apartment after digging her keys out of her small purse.

She had gotten a book on medieval history at the library. She had gone in through the side entrance to avoid stepping where the police had found the body. She tossed her frozen dinner into the microwave and flipped through the book’s illustrations. War. Poverty. Plague. Witch hunts. The Inquisition. All the horrors let loose from Pandora’s terrible little box. The world, she was sadly discovering, was still in the same torment today. All over. Everywhere, everyone. And so she knew she was not alone at all; she was not that different.

She turned on her television and ate her overcooked food while she watched the news. Another bombing in another country far away. She was glad to not be there. An angry employee raged into a corporate office with an assault rifle. In local news armed robbers boldly held up the exclusive jewelry store Chez La Chapelle in broad daylight. She shivered. It was across from her building. She often looked in the windows as she walked to get to the bus. Needles were again discovered on the beaches, no information on their origins. No suspects apprehended yet in the case of the serial killer. Police once again say they have few leads.

She was glad she helped to clear Rick.

It was only a short distance to his place so Martin had decided to walk. He wondered about the girl. She was odd, in a fragile sort of way. She seemed intelligent enough, but then there was her bizarre taste in men.

“Hey, Marty!”

Oh hell.

It was McMurphy, pulling up beside him in his white Ford Bronco.

“Yeah? Hi.”

“Get in, dude.”

Oh hell
, Martin thought,
he’s in one of his strange good moods again
. “Sure, okay,” and he accepted the ride.

“So, how’s it goin’?” It was weird how he seemed concerned about him now.

“Fine.”

“Yeah? Stressed out?”

“Yeah, right, as usual.”

“So, take it easy on yourself.”

Martin closed his eyes and enjoyed the air conditioning in the new white Ford. “Yeah, like I really could these days. The case is going nowhere.”

“So? That’s exactly what I’ve been meaning to talk to you about! Give it up. Forget it. Take on easier stuff. It’s only street people, hookers, people no one really cares about anyway. So forget the whole thing!”

“What?” he mumbled lazily, only half paying attention.

“Yeah! Forget the serial murders. No one, Marty, and I repeat, no one, will catch him anyway! So just let it all go. Gotta learn to let it all hang out. I do! And see how happy I am?”

“How d’ya know no one will get the guy?” Martin was growing irritated. McMurphy was always so self-assured.

“I just know it. So let it go.” He slowed down and stopped to let Martin out. “Hey, take care of that cute little girl of yours.”

The slightly rusted Toyota nearly stalled out again as Keisha rounded the corner, but somehow she made it into the driveway. It was nearly dark, and she did not want to be there alone. But she had to go back.

She got slowly out of the car, keeping her keys in her hand in case she needed to quickly leave. She had to get back to be sure the place wasn’t burnt to the ground, or fire bombed, or somehow damaged far worse than before. But no. It was still all the same. Nothing had changed.

No new damage.

She was still living the same in nightmare. And it was all too real.

She turned to slowly leave.

But then she saw it. A police car.

She froze, watched its ghostly slow approach from down the quiet dark road. She rushed to the small gray rusted economy car, prayed the engine would start.

She backed out of the driveway swiftly and was gone.

She found he was up early; or perhaps he awakened late in the afternoon and simply remained indoors until the sky darkened. He looked over in her direction and smiled as he dealt with a customer, finally selling a painting.

The elderly lady seemed happy with it, but complained bitterly that the shop was closed in the afternoon when she saw it in the window. She left, walking out with a slow shuffle. “Thought I’d never get rid of her.”

“She was cute.”

“No. She was a pain.”

“I drove here all by myself.” She smiled, and almost laughed at being proud of it.

“And you probably did it very well.”

“I don’t know.” She continued to look through the painted canvases that leaned against the wall. “I mean, no one arrested me. Not yet, anyway.”

“Do you like that one?”

“What?” She was only half paying attention.

“The painting of the flowers. You keep looking at it.”

“Oh. Well.”

“Keep it. It’s yours.”

“I really don’t know if he believes me,” she said as she sipped her tea and listened to the constant swift whispering rhythm of the pencil on the sketchpad. “I think the detective thinks I am crazy, or something.”

“No.” He did not lift his head up to look at her while he spoke; instead he kept drawing. “He knows we’re here.”

“He knows we’re—?”

“He knows we exist. That’s the only real reason he suspects us.”

“No. It’s not about that. I mean, I believe he must feel that I am quite strange to socialize with you, or something.”

“Yeah? Martin himself is damn strange, Laura. And that’s a fact. Only he doesn’t know it.”

“Really?” her back was feeling cramped, but she remained still for him.

“The man has troubles. The other night, we had a little disagreement. I might have been too hard on him. I should maybe apologize. But then, he was drunk, not me.”

“A policeman? Drunk?”

“They’re only human. And yes, he was drunk and raving like a lunatic.”

“I know, but...Oh, how awful,” and then she was reminded once again of her unworldliness. She naively thought of the childlike image of the friendly policeman who helped get kittens out of trees. And then she wondered out loud, “I often do worry if something could be not right about me for socializing with you, I mean.”

“For socializing? With me?” He did not quite understand.

She heard the pencil cease its constant rhythm on the paper. He stopped drawing; she could feel the silence. “Oh, there is nothing wrong with you. I mean, with me. For liking you.”

He laughed quietly and slowly resumed drawing. “Why not? Why not like someone who’s relatively decent? Most of us are. We’re not like what you see on TV, you know.” He shrugged and kept working.

“I know, but...” She had grown up believing that she was destined to fall for someone who was tall, muscled, and passionate. Yet while she was alone she found herself mysteriously longing for someone whose flesh was nearly milk white, who was built like an agile greyhound. And he was quiet, restrained, and polite. He could almost be described as gentle, if not for his cold dark sense of humor. “It’s not that, really. I mean, it’s me. I always believed I would meet and make friends with, you know, more common types of people. But I never really met any common people before getting out into the real world. I suppose I had preconceived notions about life, and what kinds of people I would be meeting.”

“Such as?” he was now looking at the sketch with a critical eye, staring at fine details.

“Perhaps I read too many foolish novels when I was a schoolgirl. I expected life to be a certain way, and maybe I was sheltered. In fact, you know I was. I’m beginning to realize there is a world I know nothing about. I didn’t know people like you existed, until, well, quite recently. Now I know something that most people, including my father, who claims to know everything, does not know.”

He closed the sketchbook. “Life is about struggle. If you make friends along the way, you’re lucky. That’s all.”

The horses were quickly saddled. Mikhail took what little money he could find. Katarina, his sister, brought her jewels. He insisted on waking her; she dressed hurriedly and followed him silently. He could not leave her at his uncle’s mercy.

Mikhail helped her mount her small horse, and she got on without speaking. She watched Pavel with wariness as he mounted his own horse and led the mare that once carried the princess. They moved out of the stable quietly, knowing they may need to fight their way out.

“Take me with you, my lord,” it was Dmitri. He had been hiding in a darkened corner of the barn, hiding from the men who would come only to beat him once again. “Take me with you. Please.”

“Gather what you will take with you,” Pavel whispered.

“I have only but the shirt you have given me, my lord.”

“Then get on this mare, and be quick about it. We leave now.”

As time went on Pavel noticed that the young woman, Mikhail’s sister, did not speak a word. She rode silently by her brother’s side. She was exhausted from being awakened so early. And so was Mikhail, yet he spoke quietly with Pavel as they rode through the forest in the darkness before dawn. Dmitri followed them from behind.

A wolf cried in the distance, then another answered from across the forest. Katarina cringed when she heard it.

Pavel and Mikhail continued to discuss hunting, war, and especially the wretched place they had just escaped from. Mikhail would talk of any subject to keep himself awake. He complained that Pavel was the only one among them who seemed strong and alert. Pavel replied that he would urge them all to continue until they reached a safe place to stay throughout the day—he would bring them to the house of the beautiful maiden that Mikhail visited winters ago and longed for ever since.