Drain You (9 page)

I tried to focus on James to calm myself because, despite everything, he seemed calm. He looked gruesome, but he looked calm. I went and knelt by him.

“How long were you in there?”

“Too long.”

“You heard everything?”

“I don’t know.” I paused. “I think so.”

“Why are you still here?”

“I don’t know.” I wanted to touch him but was scared to.

“I’m not going to hurt you.”

“I know that.”

“But I do hurt people.”

“Like tonight?”

He was quiet. Then, “Yes.”

“Is that girl really dead?”

Again a pause. Again, “Yes.”

“And you killed her for…pills?”

“No.” He sighed and reached for my hand, but I held it away.

“But you’re into drugs?” Everything was a guess.

“No…no.” His voice was rasping. He shook his head. “I can’t say it like this. Let’s not say anything.”

But we’d done that. We’d been doing that.

James slid over, laid his head in my lap, and curled his legs up under him. Cautiously I fingered his hair, touched along the side of his jaw. I tried to steady his breathing but couldn’t, because he didn’t seem to be exhaling.

“So. You kill people.” My head swam. “Is there…a reason?”

“I need them.” His voice swirled.

“Need them how?”

“Quinn.” He put his hand over my hand and guided it down to his shirt. “This isn’t my blood.”

“I…know,” I whispered.

“I need the blood….”

“For what?”

“To go on.”

“Like a vampire?”

I didn’t say the word to mean anything. Vampires needed blood. Like in the movies. Books. Whatever.

James placed my hand inside his thin white T-shirt, over his chest, his heart. I felt nothing. I pressed my hand harder, felt around. Nothing. Stillness. He moved my other hand to the veins on his wrist. More nothing, more stillness. I reached my hand up to his throat, put two fingers there. The same. The same impossible thing.

“Her blood was dirty. I didn’t know.”

But his words didn’t register with me. Nothing did. “You’re not real.” I touched his face once more and then pushed myself out from under him. I said it again, “You aren’t real.”

He leaned to look at me. “I am.”

“So, what? You never age? You live forever, you drink blood? That room is your coffin?” I pointed to nowhere, some white room in the distance I’d never see again. I backed away farther, sliding myself across the kitchen floor.

He just nodded, his head on the tile.

“And Naomi?”

“She’s like you.”

“How? How long?” Everything was shaking: the floor, the room, my body, my voice.

“Not that long.”

“No way.”

“I was coming to see you tonight.” He reached for me. “But then this…”

“No.” No.

I was floating now, up over our bodies, over the blood, over our mess.

“You weren’t ever supposed to know.”

I floated over the Sheetses’ house, the detached garage, the dead end, the Lexus, the street.

“The girl was me,” I said to the cloudless night sky above the canyons. “I was her. You were going to kill me that night on the road. It was so easy. I bled for you.”

I rose higher above Los Angeles, the Hollywood Hills, the 101.

“I didn’t go near you.” His voice was far away from me.

“You’re dead. You’re not here. I’m not here.”

Below me, a hundred miles down, James coughed more blood, and the shape of a girl rose to her feet.

“Libby’s in trouble,” he told me. “She’ll be worse off than me soon.”

“I’m not here.”

Floating keys floated into my floating hands. When I dropped down, I was inches from my mother’s car door, unlocking it, climbing in, starting the engine.

Go home
, I told myself. I looked over at the house, dark and quiet.

Go home now.
I saw James’s old note on the passenger seat, a folded reminder of an earlier life. My face was still wet. I wiped at it. Tears, not blood.

Go home now. Go.

I turned the keys and went.

Miraculously, I made it to my bed. I pulled blankets over my head until everything went black. Soon I was sweating and suffocating. And remembering. I had to recalculate every tiny hint and obscure detail into this new wretched equation. Every joke, every smile, every touch, was now a different thing, something unreal and dead. My memories were all corrupted, in pieces.

I waited for the fear to take hold and disfigure every sweet vision I had of James’s face into something awful and evil. But the fear didn’t flood my mind as much as the loneliness. I felt lonely for James, for Naomi, for Libby, for myself. Loving James was seriously not okay, and I
knew it. His whole life—existence, whatever—wasn’t real. My taste in guys had gone from lame to dystopian.

But I still wanted him any small way I could have him. I tossed and turned under the covers but couldn’t shake it. He’d kill and drink blood instead of Diet Cokes. He’d sleep all day and never see the sun with me. He’d stay twenty forever and I’d age beyond him every year. Weirdly, I almost didn’t care. I felt lonely because after tonight I didn’t know if James would forgive
me
.

I understood Libby plainly for the first time in weeks. If she thought she loved Stiles—a shiver at the thought—I could imagine her letting him do anything, forgiving him everything. If Stiles was the same…species…as James, then I guess I’d have no right to interfere. But it wasn’t like that. Stiles was twisted, perverted, and I didn’t need James to tell me he was slowly killing my best friend. He was sucking her dry. He was keeping her alive—for now.

Naomi knew all this too.

Stiles and Sanders and Dewey and Cooper. And James. They lived among us. Mythical movie creatures came to my video store, went to parties with me, kissed my neck and tasted the salty sweat there. They threatened me. They protected me. So I had to suspend my disbelief now. Everything was real—angel devils and devil devils—and I had to love and fight them both.

Somehow sleep came easily for me. I left behind the
land of the living—Morgan, my parents, bosses and customers, high school freshmen in party hats—and joined Libby in the world of the undead, where heaven was hell and hell held the immortal boyfriend of my dreams.

Libby spread across the hood of an old Mustang. She sang me Nirvana.

Unfortunately, the new
day meant a new deal—and I could barely deal. Last night’s shock and numbness faded fast as I finally crawled out of bed deep into the afternoon, obliterated, still wearing that stupid vintage rayon dress, looking like the leftovers of the girl formerly known as Quinlan Lacey. Every part of my body ached, but my eyes were the worst. Two bleary, blurry, rubbed-out wells with black rings around them and faint tearstain trails.

I put on whatever—literally, who even knew, my mother’s silk kimono over a tube top and cutoff shorts maybe?—and hunted down the darkest sunglasses in the house: my dad’s Ray-Bans, hidden away in a desk drawer in his office. I was in threads. I would’ve sobbed at a car insurance commercial or screamed at the ding of a microwave timer.

There was my night life, which was my real life—despite being a wrecked life—but there was also this. And this I had to fake.

My parents were both downstairs reading the
Times
when I finally descended the stairs from my crypt.

“Well, well, Wells,” my father said, looking up over his paper. An H. G. Wells joke. Classic Dad.

“Oh, hi, guys.” I grabbed my mother’s coffee mug out of her hand and swigged.

“We’re not guys, we’re Mom and Dad.” My mother took the mug back, threw me a sideways disapproving glance, and turned her attention back to the article she was reading.

“Right, sorry.” I crashed on the couch next to my father and toyed with the fabric on the elbow of his linen sports coat. “Hey, why aren’t you guys at work?”

“There’s been a blackout all night and morning because they’re doing construction. Remember?” My dad knocked on my head to see if anyone was in there. Nope.

“Don’t panic. We won’t be in your way.” My mother pointed to a spread on the kitchen counter: bagels, doughnuts, muffins, fresh fruit, yogurt, all in organized to-go containers. “Impromptu late lunch in Griffith Park with a few friends. Grab what you want before we take off.”

“Not hungry, Mom.”

The food looked alien. I felt ill. I imagined James
having to eat it. I imagined having to eat blood. I swallowed long and hard.

“Quinn, you’re looking a little pasty,” my mother said, frowning.

“So eat a pastry!” My father laughed.

Really, you guys? Not today.

“Oh, Morgan called this morning. Do you have a shift tonight?”

As I stood up at the sound of his name, my mother handed me the phone. When I wouldn’t take it from her, she shoved it at me.

“Don’t play games. You’re a strong woman. He’ll appreciate you for it.”

“Mom, you’re, like, not even in the ballpark with that.”

I knew I should’ve let it go, because then my mother noticed my clothes. “What are you wearing?”

Suddenly both of them focused on my outfit at the same time, an expression of total confusion on their faces.

“Uh, this,” I mumbled.

“Call Morgan.”

“Fine.” I took the phone and walked out the back door into the sunshine. I dialed Morgan’s number. He picked up on the first ring.

“Morgan, I can’t go to work tonight. I’m bailing—can you cover for me?”

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m, like, toaster-caked. Out of it. Cadaverous.”

“Okay, but you might get fired. In Alex’s eyes you’re, like, approaching
Bell Jar
status.”

Fired? Nope, didn’t care. “Whatever.”

“Whatever. Call me when you’re making sense.” He hung up.

Inside my parents were gathering together all the food into canvas bags, getting ready to go.

“Are you driving Dad’s car?” I asked.

“Is there something you want, Quinn?” My mother took her hands off the bagels so she could put them on her hips.

“I was going to go to Libby’s.”

“Fine, take the Lex. Don’t forget to—”

“Double-click the lock. Got it. Love you.”

We blew kisses in the air. My father waved.

I grabbed the keys.

Off to the Blocks’ house to not find Libby, press Stella for info, and make the most of the sunlight hours before eight o’clock hit and the rest of the canyons woke up.

I knocked four times on the front door before I heard Stella Block’s voice shouting at me from the backyard to come find her. I walked around through the side gate into the large Japanese garden, where she was sprawled out
on a hammock. In one hand she was holding an airport-style gothic romance novel and in the other a tall glass of something on ice. She smiled when she saw me, waved, took off her big sunglasses, and lifted the brim of her huge wide-brimmed hat.

“Look at you, Miss Diva.” She tugged on my silk kimono and winked. Stella spoke slowly, the sun in her voice, a real L.A. babe. She was more than twice my age and looked better in a one-piece bathing suit than I could ever hope to. When she was Libby’s and my age, she was a glam queen who drew lightning bolts on her face with eyeliner and wore ripped-up leotards with military boots.

“Hey, Stella. Is Libby here?”

“Libby who?” She smiled and leaned back into the hammock, closing her eyes against the bright sun. “Oh, my teenage daughter who doesn’t love me enough to come home from her boyfriend’s house for dinner every once in awhile? That Libby?”

“I think that’s her.”

“Nope, not home. Sorry, sister.” Stella reached out and squeezed my hand. “But stay awhile, pretend I gave birth to you.” She patted a big stone next to her for me to sit on.

My list was still in order, and Libby was high on that list. But I felt bad for Stella because she didn’t know that her only daughter was some zombie squeeze-toy. And I knew Libby would comfort my mom if the tables were
turned. Of course, in a certain way the tables already were turned, since I was semi-in-love with my own Stoker. What a mess. Whatever, my plans could spare half an hour with Stella Block.

Besides, the sun was still out. I wouldn’t find anyone I was looking for until sunset anyway. And after dusk I probably wouldn’t be the only one looking.

“So. Have you met Stiles?” I hid behind the dark sunglasses.

“He seems fine. He’s polite.” Stella sounded bored. “Well dressed. I think he irons his shoes.” She laughed at her joke.

“You should see his brother.”

“Really?”

“You have no idea.”

“Do you like Stiles?” Stella said, sipping her beverage.

“I don’t know. No. I think he’s weird.” Right now the faking felt real, and it wasn’t so hard to act calm about it. “Doesn’t his and Libby’s relationship seem…intense to you?”

“Well, of course it does, Quinlan, but they’re seventeen-year-olds. It’s normal to be too intense at that age. I’d prefer her to come home
once
in a while, but Stiles and her like to stay up late, doing their thing. Which is fine. It’s summer!” She toasted her glass up in the air. “To staying young.”

“Yeah.”

I tried to remember my list:
Save Libby
.
Save her and bring her back.

Finally Stella noticed my mood. “People change when they’re in love.” She paused and gave me a soft look, and I worried maybe Stella was faking too. “You know?”

“I guess.”

“Is everything okay?”

“No, not really.” I turned away from her gaze. “But I’m going to fix it. I’ll fix it and it’ll be fine.”

Stella reached her arms up in the air for a big stretch and yawned. Then she curled back on to the swaying hammock. “Good. I can’t have my girls fighting.” She smiled at the sun and closed her eyes.

Later on Stella made me a small snack—crackers, peanut butter, a cup of tea—and we gossiped about more mundane topics than best friends and their captors. We tanned out together and she told me some A-list rumors she’d heard while wardrobing a recent
Vanity Fair
shoot. Finally, at about seven thirty, the sun started to slip behind the house and the L.A. smog turned the skyline to purple haze.

Stella kept chatting, wandering lazily around the garden to water a few extra-parched plants and sip slowly at a Pellegrino she’d grabbed from the fridge. I nodded and smiled but only half listened because my brain was in Libby mode, and since I knew where to find her now, I had to go save her. Because I loved her. It was the only
love I could focus on.

During a pause in one of Stella’s stories, I stood up and interrupted. “This has been really great.”

“Do you need to leave?”

“Yeah. Dinner with the parents.” I fake-frowned.

Stella put down the watering can and came over and took my hands in hers and held them tightly for a second. “When you see Libby, tell her to give her old mom a call. Okay?”

“Sure.”

“And hey…don’t worry about Stiles. He’s just a high school boyfriend.” She swatted her hand toward me like she was shooing a fly. “You know those don’t last.”

“Right.” I turned and waved good-bye and headed for the gate.

“Oh, and Quinn,” Stella called out. “I didn’t even ask. How’s
your
boyfriend?”

He’s totally dead, just like Libby’s. Thanks for asking.

“You mean Morgan?”

Stella nodded.

“Right,” I said, smiling like everything was normal. “He’s killer.” Then I waved my keys over my shoulder and went to go find my best friend.

I realized while on the way to Stiles and Sanders’s guesthouse slash evil lair that I actually had no plan. This
morning it’d seemed so clear—go there, throw Libby in a duffel bag, drive home—but as dusk settled and the streetlights turned on, it hit me that this was going to be a lot, lot harder.

I turned down Topanga Canyon and scanned for the side street they lived on. All the houses looked the same in the shadows. Maybe everyone in this whole canyon was evil and eighteen and drank blood.

Then I came to the street and cruised along it and saw the narrow driveway on the side of the property that led back to the guesthouse. There were two cars parked in front. I thought about slashing the tires or opening up the hoods and banging on stuff or even just ripping off all the stereo knobs. They’d probably be more pissed about that than losing Libby.

The guesthouse was totally dark except for a single light in the front room facing the yard. I knocked on the door and one of the twins cracked it open half an inch, stared at me with one narrowed eye, then swung it all the way open. Sanders. A huge, cold, satisfied smile lit up his face. He leaned against the door frame suavely, one arm up. His skin was porcelain—ridiculously white and smooth and waiting for a good smashing.

“It’s my lucky night,” he said.

I tried to look past him into the living room. “Libby!” I shouted over his shoulder. “Libby, it’s Quinn. I’m here!”

Sanders exhaled with fake exhaustion and waved his hand as if to let me go on screaming all night.

“Libby!” I shifted to meet his eyes. “Where’s Libby? I’m not kidding, Sanders.”

“You don’t look like you’re kidding.”

I pushed past him into the house, feeling his eyes on my back.

“Libby,” I called out again, and again, “Libby, where are you?”

“Please keep it down.” He held a finger up to his magenta lips, then moved it to mine like,
Shhh
. “People are sleeping.”

“Look,” I said, turning around. “I know what you are.”

“A Sagittarius?”

“
Right.
And I know what your brother’s doing to Libby. So why don’t you tell him to get some other girl for his pacifier? It’s L.A. Shouldn’t be too hard.”

“Nothing’s too hard anymore,” Sanders said, stepping closer. “If Stiles wanted someone else he’d take someone else, wouldn’t he?”

Then he stepped even closer, only inches away, and slipped a hand beneath my mother’s kimono, touching a finger to my bare leg. He traced an S shape along the side of my thigh. “She’s way into it. And honestly,” he said, dripping more evil, “you would be too.”

“Wildest dreams, you freak.”

“I’m sure your boyfriend’s sleeping well these days.”

He wasn’t talking about Morgan.

“But if he doesn’t suck your blood, then what”—Sanders stopped, breaking into light laughter before composing himself—“
does
he suck?”

“You’re a perv.” I swung a clumsy fist at him, but he caught it and leaned in all the way.

He pushed my hair to one side and slowly put his tongue to my earlobe.

He was sucking my earlobe.

Then I heard, “Quinny?” Libby’s voice floated out from down the hall. At the sound of it Sanders stepped back, crossed the room, and slouched down on the couch like he’d been there all along.

“Quinny!” Libby said again, skipping toward me. She was still in the same nightgown I’d seen her in…how many days ago? And she was still barefoot, paler even than before, her hair frizzy and dry, sticking out in every direction.

“Well, hello.” Stiles was right behind her, grinning.

I ignored him. “Libby!” I cried back, reaching out my arms for her and hugging her tightly. “We have to go, okay? Please?”

“I’m soooo haaappy you’re heeeere.” She stretched out each word, singing them to me.

I pulled Libby off, squeezed her hard around the wrists. “Get lucid for me, we’re leaving.”

“But you just got here.” Her eyes clouded. Then she slipped her hands free and began gliding around the floor like the ghost of Ginger Rogers.

Stiles and Sanders shared a gross smile.

“Sorry, Quinny,” Stiles said, stepping casually in my direction. “But we’re in the middle of something. You should stay”—he paused, reaching out a hand to brush my bangs—“and watch.”

My will was weakening. They were too calm, too collected, spoke softly, had good manners, good haircuts, perfect skin; these were smooth criminals. The seduction felt so natural it was like it wasn’t even happening.

Then Stiles and Sanders went tense.

“Someone’s here,” Sanders said. He tilted his head as if listening to some impossibly quiet sound.

Stiles looked at me. “Are you alone?”

“Of course I’m alone. You think I brought my mom?”

Sanders went to the window and peered through the blinds into the yard. “I know I heard something.”

Someone said, “You did,” and we all turned to the front door. It was James.

“Followed you,” he said to me.