Thrall (A Vampire Romance)(7)

“Some of that I can tell you. Some of it we can work out if you talk to me.”

I sigh.

“We’ll make a deal. You answer my questions, and each time I’ll answer one of yours.”

I smirk, just a little. “Quid pro quo, yes or no?”

His expression brightens for a bare instant, before his face goes neutral again. “I suppose.”

“Fine,” I say. “What do you want to know?”

“The earliest thing you remember. You can lie down if you like.”

I turn on the bed and spread out, propping my head on my hands, but all I can do is shrug. “I can’t really remember. Sometimes I think I remember my first real memory, but there’s always something else.”

“I want you to reach back, as far back as you can.”

“I was in a hole. I dug myself out and I was covered in dirt and there was blood in my mouth. I think somebody buried me.”

“Where?”

“I’m not sure. The desert, maybe.”

“How did you get away from there?”

I shake my head.

“Can’t remember that, either.”

He sighs and shifts in the seat and scribbles down some notes. I can hear the graphite scratching across the paper. It sounds like a bug trapped in a wall.

“You have a peculiar hunting strategy.”

I arch my eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Why bars?”

“I have my reasons.”

“Illuminate me.”

I sigh. “Fine. I only kill people that deserve it.”

“How do you know that?”

“I don’t know how it works,” I say, with a little shrug. “I look people in the eye and things happen. I can feel things, hear things, sometimes see things. If I stare into their eyes they kind of glaze over and just do what I want. I don’t know how or why.”

“So you read your prey’s mind before you take them.”

“I don’t take them. They take me. I give them every chance. They don’t have to drug me or buy me enough booze to get black out drunk. They don’t have to take me home. They don’t have to…” I trail off.

“Do what?”

“One guy was different. He was worse than I thought. Worked in a funeral home. He was planning something. He liked to play with the corpses, but you don’t get very many pretty young corpses, do you? Not fresh, clean, intact ones.” I stifle a little laugh. “Hilarious, isn’t it? The necrophiliac and the vamp… whatever I am. Like a cheesy romance novel.”

“What happened?”

“I gave him a chance even though I caught a glimpse of what he was planning to do. He hit me on the back of the head with a tire iron. I guess he didn’t want to mess up my face.”

“You killed him.”

“Yes. Yes, I killed him. I dragged him into the bathroom,” my voice rises, “and I took the sharp end of the tire iron and I rammed it into his gut, and I did it over and over and over and over again until he stopped screaming. I didn’t even feed off of him. I didn’t want to swallow that. I left the apartment that night. I don’t know what’s worse,” I’m shouting now, “that there are people like that or that none of the neighbors heard or cared about him begging for help. I watch the news, I read newspapers when I can. I never saw any reports about a man stabbed to death with a tire iron in the bathtub. I never saw any sign that anyone even found him. Somebody just disappears from the world, and nobody cares.”

He waits, while I unclench my fists.

“So why the bars?”

“I don’t know. What does it matter?”

“If you’re hunting for predators, you could go lots of places. Parks in the middle of the night. Dark alleys. The bad part of whatever town you’ve been holed up in. You always go to these upscale places, though. Fancy bars in gentrified parts of town.”

I look over at him and narrow my eyes. “You know a lot of details.”

“Yes. I do.”

“How long have you been following me?”

“A long time. I’ve been watching you for a while.”

“Why?”

He sighs softly and scribbles something in that damn notebook. “I’m afraid that’s two questions. You have to tell me more.”

I grit my teeth. “Fine.”

“You always do it the same way. You order a screwdriver and sit at the bar, waiting for a man to approach you. Why?”

“I told you, I don’t know.”

His impatience is palpable. He crosses his leg, resting his ankle across his knee, and his foot inscribes a circle in the air. After a few seconds I realize I’m staring at his foot, like I’m trying to figure it out.

He’s wearing boat shoes and wool socks. I don’t know why I notice the detail, but I do. My eye moves to his hands as he writes in his notebook. There’s something off about that, too. He keeps it pointed so I can’t see the pages. I watch the pencil move, and then it catches my eye. There’s a ring on his left hand. A cheap costume jewelry ring, something a kid might wear.

“Did something happen to you in a bar?”

I’m not really paying attention when he says it. I feel the words, somehow, before I feel them. They sink in past my clammy dead skin and settle inside and I answer him before I even get a chance to think about it.