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Kat stepped out of the shadows as the bus approached, her eyes narrowed against the glare of the streetlamp. The bus stopped and she boarded silently. Unable to find another seat, she squeezed herself in next to a large woman wearing a wooden cross around her neck. She shifted as a spring in the cushion probed her obscenely, and watched through the dusty window as darkness crept over the city. She felt as old and worn down as the abandoned, burnt-out buildings they passed. She hated Harlem, wanted to be out of it before the hungry woke and rose from the gutters and the ruins to feed. At least in Midtown they were willing to pay.
The woman leaned into Kat, staring out the same window as they passed a small group of men standing on a corner in front of a burnt-out bodega. One of the men carried a flamethrower, a bright tongue of blue flame curling up from the nozzle, panting for a target. Kat fought back a wave of nausea and ducked her head, wondering if they were the ones responsible for the drive-by flamings, or the firebombing at CrossRoads that put her in the hospital. Like it was her fault, or Alek’s or Delilah’s or any of theirs, that the dealers couldn’t synthesize Venom.
The woman beside her held her key chain a little tighter, fingering the small lighter that hung beside a cylinder of pepper spray. Kat shook her head mentally, hiding her disdain behind an impassive mask. Aiming that thing at a vampire was like poking a rottweiler with a stick. It would only make him mad, and they were so much more dangerous when they were mad.
“Drug dealers and dracs,” the woman spat, her face contorting as if tasting her own disgust like bile. “I hope they destroy each other. The city’s better off without either of them.”
“Have you ever met a vampire?” Kat asked, taking the middle road. She wouldn’t call a black man a nigger or a homosexual a fag, so she damned sure wouldn’t call a vampire a drac. And as for the PC term, “hemobiont,” she found it too sterile. Nobody but doctors and biologists knew what it really meant anyway.
The woman touched her cross and moved back into her own space. “No. And I hope I never do. Only an idiot would want anything to do with one of those demons.”
Kat knew all too well what someone would want to do with a vampire, why people sold body and soul for the brightness of Venom in their veins, but she kept her reasons to herself, the same way she kept her neck and arms covered by her oversize black turtleneck. This woman would not be sympathetic. This woman would condemn her as quickly and thoughtlessly as she condemned the five million people in the world who needed to ingest blood to live. In this woman’s world, the words “vampire” and “love” could not exist in the same sentence, the same thought, the same breath. It must be a sad existence.
“Idiots and Venomheads, they all are,” the woman continued, rocking in her seat until it creaked, clutching her keys and stroking the cross. Kat considered telling her the cross was useless. The “normal” hookers in Times Square had started wearing large fluorescent crosses in the seventies to distinguish themselves from the Venom whores, but people got confused and thought they were for protection, not identification. She didn’t think the woman would appreciate a history lesson, so she said nothing, and the woman let the subject drop. “You were in the hospital,” she stated almost coyly, as if hoping for a handout of gossip without having to beg.
“Yes.”
The woman seemed to realize she wouldn’t learn more without digging and sat back in her seat to sulk. They fell into silence as the bus moved on past the void of light that during the day was Central Park. At night it was a black hole, sucking light and energy from the world around it until even the stars above seemed more pale. No one went into the park at night, unless they were looking for something most people didn’t want to find. The vampires in the rest of the city were more or less civilized, but in the park., that chunk of wilderness in the middle of a concrete island, they were nothing more than predators, without honor, without humanity. Man-eaters.
The bus chugged along the nearly deserted boulevard, past clubs like Love in Vein and Blood Lust, patronized by hemophiles—vampire “groupies”—and awestruck tourists who liked sanitized, amusement park terror. CrossRoads, where Kat plied her trade—had plied her trade—catered to Venomheads and Venom whores, those who slipped over the line between fantasy and reality and found themselves unable, or unwilling, to get back.
The bus moved around Columbus Circle and onto Central Park South. Kat stood, preparing to leave this ignorant woman with her cross to bear. The woman grabbed her arm, obviously preparing to give her some dire warning about innocent little girls out in the big bad world. Before she could, the pressure of her hand caused Kat’s sleeve to ride up, exposing several pairs of small puncture wounds, like tracks on a junkie’s arm. The woman pulled her hand back as if scalded, and stared at Kat, her expressive face registering horror and disgust.
Rage uncoiled within Kat, overshadowing her mild contempt. This woman was her enemy now. That prejudice, once broad and laughable, was now aimed directly at Kat’s soul. As if she could know Kat, could understand the decisions she’d made. As if she were somehow better because the only Venom she knew was her own.
Kat leaned down in her face, sneering. “What’s the matter, ma’am? Never seen a Venom whore before?”
The woman sputtered, finally dumbstruck. The bus lurched to a halt and Kat turned, holding her anger in her fist and walking stiffly out into the city. The wind beat against her like the wings of a bird trying desperately to escape the beast that has it pinned. The dark sky seemed far away, a cloak lain across the tops of sharp, angry buildings that closed in on her from above. She shrugged her shoulders, adjusting to the burden, and as the bus pulled away she turned into the darkness.
The old stone building that had housed CrossRoads for almost a century was still there, a ghost lit by the lights in the parking lot next door. She stared at it for a long, aching moment, slowly summoning the courage to approach. One of the front doors hung drunkenly askew, and she slipped past them silently. Inside, the odor of smoke still hung in the air, the dampness from the fire hoses sunk deep into what was left of the furnishings. Where light shone through the broken windows she could see black fingers reaching up the wall, their destructive touch caressing the ceiling, teasing, promising.
She hadn’t seen the fire, didn’t know who, if anyone, had survived. All she knew was that the bomb that had killed so many of the people milling around outside hadn’t killed her. If she had survived, maybe someone else had, too. She could hope.
Hope. The concept seemed so foreign, a foul taste on lips that knew the pleasures of the present, not thoughts of the future. Hope reeked of a belief that there was something beyond this night, these precious hours. She had given that belief up long ago. Or perhaps not so long. It seemed an eternity, but nothing was forever. If vampires could die, then she could remember.
She walked through the front parlor to the great room, full of echoes and ghosts still dancing to music she could hear in her mind, a haunting harmony of strange and different songs from across the decades. Long before her time people had done the jitterbug and the Charleston and even a waltz or two in this room. This room had been a ballroom and a disco and a different world. She had never danced here but she spent many nights on the balcony above, watching people drunk on life and lust and Venom. This had been the heart of CrossRoads.
She picked her way across the ruined hardwood floor to the massive marble fireplace beside the bar. Not even embers—of course not. She’d been gone so long, nothing would be left of that night, and no one would still be here to light a new fire. She curled herself into a ball against the marble and closed her eyes. It was true. Max was gone. He’d never been a gentleman. If he wasn’t here, he was either dead or five states away, with no intention of returning for her. She almost wished him dead, so she could know he’d loved her, but she knew she wanted him safe. She would’ve died to save him, and everyone would’ve been better off. What was left for her now? She leaned her head back, finally releasing the tears she’d held for so long.
Beneath the muffled sounds of traffic outside she heard footsteps and she raised her head, heart pounding with anticipation. She knew no fear here—this was her home, the closest thing she had now. No one would come here to harm her. Please let it be Max, she prayed, knowing better but unable to stop herself. She stood and took a few uncertain steps towards the door.
Two men appeared in the doorway, and she knew neither was Max. The taller, a lean, handsome man with dark hair and darker eyes, stepped forward when he saw her. Alek. “Kat,” he breathed, moving towards her. She tried to hide her disappointment, but she knew he could tell. He reached out to her and she let him fold her against his chest. He was so cold, colder even than she remembered. “Are you well?”
She nodded against the softness of his shirt, then pulled away, trying to catch his eyes in the light. “But the others—?”
He looked away. “I’m sorry, Kat. Only you, Delilah, and I have survived, and Delilah is not strong.“ He touched her face. ”Max died to protect you. Perhaps he was more noble than any of us believed. He loved you very much.“
Kat began to tremble and shook her head, pulling away from him and trying to swallow her sobs. She’d spent a lifetime in that hospital dreaming about Max, seeing him die, knowing he had died his second death but refusing to believe it. How could he leave her? What would she do without him?
“Is this her?” the other man, a young, unkempt thing trying to hide his fear behind a paper-thin cockiness, asked. “I guess I could let her suck me.”
“No.” Alek said tautly as Kat glared at him through her tears. If she were a vampire, she would tear him to pieces right now just to listen to him scream, insensitive little prick. “Come with me.” Alek looked at Kat and his features softened. “Please.”
Kat and the feeder fish followed Alek through the public areas of the house to the kitchen. The fire hadn’t reached back here, and though nothing had been moved or ruined, it was different from how Kat remembered it, no longer lively and inviting but instead strangely static, old, unused. Like a ghost town. She shivered, following Alek down the stairs to the catacombs because Delilah was down there, and that meant she and Alek were not alone.
Down in the catacombs the lights still shone dimly—the electricity here, like everything else, was stolen from the city to prevent any cutoff in an emergency. Like now. This was their safe house, a place where vampires could hide whenever the world above became too adversarial. But it hadn’t saved them this time, not if Alek and Delilah were the only ones left.
Alek led them down several twisting corridors before reaching a small, Spartan room that was probably just under the kitchen. A bundle of blankets that must be Delilah lay on a simple cot. Alek pointed to a folding chair in the corner and motioned for Kat to sit. When she was settled out of the way he brought the young man forward.
Delilah didn’t stir, and Alek slowly began to unwrap her face.
She was alive, or still undead, but barely. Kat couldn’t believe a human would be able to survive burns like that, let alone a vampire. Most of her hair had burned away, and her face, what was left of it, was almost too much to bear. Kat turned away.
The feeder fish was more vocal. “No fucking way, man. Ain’t no fucking Phantom of the Opera gonna suck me, asshole.” He backed up into Kat, almost knocking her and the chair over, then broke and ran for the door. Alek let him go, although Kat doubted the kid would ever find his way out.
She watched the muscles in his shoulders tense and she touched him, wishing he didn’t have to feel this pain, that somehow she could make him feel better. “It’ll be okay, Alek. We’ll find someone else. Or she can use me.” A feeling of liquid warmth ran down her spine, pooling in her groin. It had been so long since she’d felt that ambrosia in her veins. If she could save Delilah and feel that way again, how could she refuse?
He turned to face her, the anguish on his face plain. “You don’t understand, Kat. If she is to heal she must… she must drain whoever I bring to her. If you offer yourself to her, then you will die.”
“You love her, don’t you?” she asked, coming to sit on the edge of the bed.
“With every fiber of my being.” He raised his hand towards Delilah’s face but stopped as if fearing he would hurt her. “She made me remember what it was to be human. She saw the good in me. When Max stole her… you know how I was. I felt like an animal. To lose her so soon after getting her back—I don’t think I could stand it.”
Kat kneeled beside the bed and removed the turtleneck to reveal the strapless bustier she wore beneath. Scar tissue from her own bums twisted and undulated across her back like waves on the ocean, and bite marks ran up and down her arms, around her neck like a choker. She felt tears and closed her eyes, trying to stop them before she lost control. But she couldn’t. Something tore open deep within her, pouring out a pain she couldn’t bear. Sobs tore from her throat and she leaned forward, resting her forehead on the cold floor. Alek came over to wrap his arms around her, pulling her back up and cradling her.
“Sometimes it is worse to be left behind than it is to face the light,” he said, stroking her hair. He rocked her back and forth, his cool hand running lightly over the ridges on her back.
“Let me do it,” she said suddenly, pulling away from him and wiping her eyes. “Let me save her, Alek.”
“I can’t. I need you to help me find someone, and quickly, but I can’t let you make that decision. You’re still torn up over Max.”
She shook her head. “I had to live without Max, you know, same as you had to live without Delilah. I don’t want to do that again, ever. And even if I did, there’s nothing for me here, now.” Should I go back to whoring, when I only did it for Max in the first place? she asked herself, unable to put the thoughts into speech. Should I go back to school, get some meaningless degree, live my whole life trying to forget what he made me feel, what no mortal man could ever make me feel? She took a deep breath and found her voice again. “Don’t leave me to slit my wrists in some filthy bathroom, Alek. Let my death mean something.”
He raised her chin until she was staring into those deep, chocolate eyes of his. “I can Convert you,” he said. “You don’t have to die. You can travel with Delilah and me, and you will understand why eternity is such a gift.”
She laughed harshly. “If I can’t stand the thought of a mortal lifetime, how could I possibly want what you offer? No. I want death. If there is a God, maybe he will be merciful and allow me and Max to be together in Hell.”
“There are no angels in Hell,” he told her, taking her hand. He stared deep into her eyes and she could feel him giving in. He had no choice; they both knew it. She saw sadness in his eyes as he turned her wrist, tracing her veins with a feathery touch as he raised it to his mouth. “He is waiting for you,” he whispered against the tender flesh of her wrist.
“Then let me go to him,” she replied, lowering herself to the floor and closing her eyes. She felt the sharp prick as his Venom flowed into her veins, numbing the pain so quickly she almost didn’t feel it, and her breathing grew ragged. She heard him moving, felt him raising her until she lay cradled in his lap as he sat on the chair. And then he placed her wrist against Delilah’s mouth and none of it mattered anymore. When he bit her other wrist she cried out, the need and desire building so painfully within her that the experiences of her past faded and curled in on themselves like paper in the blaze she felt now, burning her alive from the inside out. The blood was draining faster now, and as she felt a mouth on her throat she reached up and let her hand tangle in long, silken hair.
“Let me see you,” she whispered, opening her eyes. Delilah pulled away and stared at her with eyes as dark a blue as Kat imagined midnight on the bayou must be. She was beautiful again, smooth and soft and achingly beautiful.
“Thank you for my life,” Delilah whispered. She pressed her lips to Kat’s, let her taste her own blood. I did that, Kat thought with a serenity that her body did not feel, and when Delilah slid her mouth back down to Kat’s throat, Kat pulled her closer, wanting more, ever more fire in her veins. Delilah gave it to her and Kat gasped her final breath, back arching like a bow as she reached a frenzied climax, her heart exploding in a storm of pleasure.
Max stood with Death beyond the shadows and beckoned. Kat went to him willingly.