Night Road (11 page)

“You aren’t a monster,” Cole said firmly. “What you
did to Jill—we all start off that way. Like animals.”

“You
didn’t start off like an animal.”

“I did. It’s like you said, I got going and nothing else mattered. I wanted to keep going until I’d taken it all.
Exactly
like you said.”

Gordon gave him a quizzical look.

“My first time was controlled, but only because Johnny was there all the way through. If I had been alone, I wouldn’t have stopped. I remember that clearly: It wasn’t enough. We all would have done the same thing you did. We’re
all
one step away from being animals. Every time I feed, I want to keep going till I take it all.
Every single time
. And every time Sandor feeds, he feels the same.” Cole leaned forward. “Gordon,” he said, “what happened to Jill was not your fault. It was not in your control. Do you understand?”

Gordon nodded. He did understand, Cole saw. And he wanted to believe it. Cole wasn’t sure the kid quite
did
believe it yet but hoped he was starting to.

“You had no idea what was happening to you,” Cole went on. “
Now
you are beginning to understand. And you don’t have to deal with it alone. Sandor and I are here, and our job is to keep you safe until you become familiar
with your new limitations. Which, I might add, are the exact same limitations that the rest of us have.”

Gordon was meeting his eyes now. Not a darting omni glance but the steady, penetrating gaze of a heme.

“You’ve already experienced your breaking point,” Cole told him. “You know what it feels like. The object now—and for the rest of your life—is to never get to that point again.
Never.
To always stay in control.” He waited a moment, but Gordon remained silent. “Any other questions?” Cole asked, sincerely hoping there were not. He didn’t want to do any more explaining tonight.

“No. Just…thanks.”

“For what?”

“For…I dunno. When I talk to Sandor, he tries to make everything sound upbeat and better than it is, so, you know, what am I supposed to believe? But you tell how things really are. It makes everything feel more…solid.”

“Good,” Cole said. “That’s what I’m here for.” He rose from his seat. “Shall we go in?”

“Sure.”

They walked together back toward the hotel
entrance. “Hey, listen,” Gordon said, as they approached the metal gate, “you guys should call me Gordo. That’s what my friends call me.”

To Cole it sounded like the label on a can of beans, but he didn’t say so. “Gordo,” he said, trying it out, and to his surprise it seemed to fit the kid.

“We’re friends, right?” Gordo asked him. The heme was gone again, and the boy seemed bashful and needy.

No, they were not friends. Friendship implied equality. Cole was here to teach, Gordo to learn, Cole to give, Gordo to take. But he couldn’t bring himself to deny it, to be so brutal as to throw the kid’s overture back in his face. He just gave Gordo a brief smile, then lifted the latch and held the gate open.

As Gordo walked through, he gave Cole a grateful glance. He’d taken the small gesture to mean yes.

GORDO
fed on the first try the next evening. Cole could tell he was pleased with himself—as was Sandor.

But Cole felt that any success at this point was mostly due to luck, not to intelligently applied skill. Something about the kid’s attitude still hadn’t quite clicked yet.

For one thing, on every single feeding attempt, Gordo had gone after young females exclusively. And if he said anything at all about his feeds, it was in terms of appearance: figure, weight, face, hair. He seemed to see hunting as a type of sexual conquest rather than an issue of nourishment and safety.

For another, the boy did not ask any questions about feeding techniques. He’d asked about the Colony or
where certain people came from—and more than once he asked about heading toward Missouri—but never about anything to do with the process of getting blood out of an omni’s body and into his own. He was brusque and impatient when Cole pressed him about any of the mechanical aspects of feeding.

To Cole, Gordo seemed to be tap dancing around the fact that he now got all his sustenance by latching onto other people’s veins and arteries.

On top of that, the kid’s packing techniques definitely left something to be desired.

Cole was the one who lifted the luggage out of the trunk when they stopped for the day at a motel just outside Philadelphia. As he picked up Gordo’s suitcase, he immediately noticed that it had a strong smell of something like soap or shampoo. Cole handed it over to Gordo with distaste, certain that sloppy packing had taken its toll. And sure enough, once they checked in they discovered that Gordo hadn’t put a cap on tight, or it had worked its way loose—in any case his clothes, which had been crammed in like so much tossed salad, were now coated with a slimy layer of Herbal Essences.

Sandor thought the mess was funny, and Gordo
merely held up bits of clothing, saying “Ew” and “Gross.”

It wasn’t that Cole minded having to take time for laundry, because he didn’t. It wasn’t that the suitcase was ruined, because it wasn’t. It was just that he had the feeling he had missed something without meaning to. It might be a small thing, but he’d let the Ziploc situation slide one night too many, because—he had to admit it—bugging the kid about sealing his toiletries just seemed too much like nagging.

But that’s what this trip was for: to teach Gordo the finer points of life on the road. And Gordo had a
lot
to learn; they hadn’t even started on the more aggressive feeding methods, and of course Cole was holding off on the worst-case emergency procedures such as lock-bumping and picking pockets for keys or cash.

Gordo had a long way to go. Cole needed to pay attention and keep up with the details all the way through if he expected his teaching to have the proper outcome.

So he gave Gordo a quick reminder about proper packing, about double-checking the tightness of lids and his Ziploc seal. And early the next evening he found a Laundromat not far from the motel. It was in a tiny
strip mall, with the Laundromat, a dentist’s office, an electronics fix-it shop, and a bar.

“This is fortunate,” Sandor said, as Cole fed dollar bills into the change machine. “We can go next door and feed while we’re waiting for the clothes.”

Cole wasn’t at all sure that a place called The Poop Deck would be teeming with omnis, even if it was a Friday night. “You can’t put that red shirt in with the rest of the load,” he informed Gordo. “It’ll turn all your whites pink.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just what I said. Didn’t you do any laundry at college?”

“No, I went
home
on weekends,” Gordo said with a pointed look. “My
mom
washed my clothes for me.”

Cole ignored the hint. “You should just get rid of that shirt. It’s going to be a pain.”

“I don’t care,” Gordo said, stubborn. “Jill gave it to me, and I’m keeping it.”

The last quarter rang into the tray, and Cole scooped up the handful. “Then don’t waste a whole load on it. Just wash it in the sink later,” he said, walking over to put quarters in the slots. “You forgot the detergent,” he said, as Gordo shut the lid on the filling washer.

“Okay, okay.” Gordo picked up the tiny box and turned it around in his hands, trying to figure out how to open it.

“Pull the—”

“I see.” Gordo sounded annoyed. But he ripped off the top and poured the soap into the machine.

“And now,” said Sandor as Gordo shut the lid again, “shall we away to The Poop Deck?” Sandor thought the name was funny and had worked it into conversation four times already.

So they left Gordo’s clothes agitating and started next door.

“Go put your shirt in the car,” Cole told Gordo, handing him the keys.

Later, Cole reflected that this statement was the defining moment of the evening. His fault: He should have known that the kid needed an escort for a two-second drop-off.

He and Sandor walked on into The Poop Deck. The reason for its name was immediately apparent; the dark-painted walls had a nautical theme, being hung with oars, life rings, and ships’ wheels. The clientele seemed to be mostly blue-collar types, meeting with friends after a hard week’s work.

Sandor went straight to the bar to order. Booths lined the edges of the room; all the tables were in the middle. Cole chose a booth at the back.

Sandor was still at the bar when Gordo slid in opposite Cole, who did not bother to look around. He was already scouting for feeds and had singled out a group of middle-aged ladies in blue jeans. He didn’t say this to Gordo though; he merely asked, “So, what do you think?” meaning that Gordo should look around for himself and suggest a possibility. He had been doing this for several nights, asking Gordo to consider the qualities that might make for a good feeding prospect, to verbalize them and weigh them against one another.

“What do I think about what?” Gordo asked. Then, as Cole gave him an exasperated glance, he added, with great pride, “I already fed.”

Cole focused on him. “You what?”

“I already fed,” Gordo repeated, triumphant. “Outside. Just now. Don’t worry, dude,” he said, seeing Cole brim over with disapproval, “I was totally smooth.”

“Outside? In the
parking lot
?”

“No, on the sidewalk. That chick over there—see, the one that just walked up to that table? She didn’t even
know!” he added with glee, as Sandor came up with three tall glasses. “Hey, guess what, Sandor? I’m already finished for the evening. And I did it all by myself,” he added, with another glance at Cole. “Just grabbed a girl and went for it. And you two haven’t even—”

“You
grabbed
her,” Cole repeated. “On a city sidewalk, you just grabbed someone.”

“Nobody was around!”

Sandor eyed them both as he passed out the drinks. He sat down next to Gordo.

“Nobody?” Cole asked. “There were no cars passing? No one in a parked car? No one across the street? No one looking out a window?”

“I didn’t see anyone.”

“You are treating this too lightly!”

“I’m sure it’s fine, Cole,” Sandor said. “No harm done.”

“He is
not
ready to—to…” Over Sandor’s shoulder, at the front of the bar, Cole saw someone come in the door, and his voice died off.

It wasn’t an omni at all. It was a heme Cole had never seen before.

HE
was pale, thin, rather small as he stood looking around the room. Blond hair, cut short…and black eyeliner—not good. Dressed too much like the Building omnis—that wasn’t good either: black jeans, black leather jacket over a black shirt.

As Cole looked him over, he saw that the index finger of the heme’s left hand was covered in shiny metal, the tip coming to a sharp point.

Good God.

A finger guard. Hinged at the joints, usually decorated with filigree or sculpted designs, it was worn solely by omnis who enjoyed playing at being “vampires.”

Something was very wrong with this picture.

Cole had not moved; he sat perfectly still, but Sandor knew something was up. He kept his eyes on Cole and
did not move either. Gordo didn’t notice that anything was wrong; he stirred his straw around in his drink, still sulking at the rebuke.

Cole thought quickly. The heme
had
to be a stray—a heme who had been abandoned soon after creation. No sensible heme would use any tool so blatant as a decorative finger guard. No normal heme would dress in such a way.

He had no doubt that this heme had seen Gordo feeding outside and had followed him in. Strays were rare; it was terrible, terrible luck.

Cole’s mind was working like crazy. He must not allow Gordo to interact with any stray. Not now. Gordo hadn’t had a chance to develop a proper and secure view of his place in the world. Strays were not known for their tight grip on reality. Left to shift for themselves without guidance, they tended to build some pretty bizarre explanations for their own nature.

They also generally didn’t last long aboveground.

“Do
not
turn around,” Cole told Sandor quietly. “I think Gordo’s attracted a stray.”

Gordo looked up from his drink. “Don’t move,” Cole said.

Something in his voice or face must have showed his
tension. Gordo didn’t ask why, but obeyed.

Sandor’s attention was sharp on Cole’s face. “You’re kidding, I hope.”

“This guy is dressed like Count Chocula.”

“Are you sure it’s not just one of those omni wannabes?”

Cole gave him a withering look. He’d met lots of wannabes. He’d have to be utterly stupid to mistake one for a real heme.

“All right, all right,” said Sandor. “I’m sorry; of course you’re right. But maybe he’s just from somewhere else, some other country?”

“Transylvania, maybe. Crap, he’s not doing anything; he’s just leaning against the wall by the door staring at us. He’s not even sure what we are.”

“What’s a stray?” Gordo asked.

“Shh. Not now.” They could just leave, Cole thought, walk out and perhaps the stray would
never
know for sure what they were. But what if he followed them? Cole did not want any stray to know where he and Sandor and Gordo were staying. Not until he knew what the heme’s mental state was.

Think, think.
He had to keep Gordo safe—but he also
had a responsibility to the rest of the Colony. He ought to at least find out what kind of person this was. And, perhaps, who had created him?

Cole’s hand was on his drink, and he kept his head turned toward Sandor—but his eyes watched the stray closely. The fellow had a look of age; he was not as new as, say, Gordo.

Maybe he
was
a weird sort of accident; maybe someone hadn’t known that they’d killed. It was unlikely, but possible. The only alternative, as far as Cole could see, was that whoever created him had shirked their responsibility. Had just left him to make it or not on his own.

But who? No one in the Colony would do such a thing. It seemed even less likely than someone not knowing they had killed.

He decided. “I’m going to go over there and talk to him,” he told Sandor. “I don’t want him to approach us.” He turned to Gordo. “But if he
does
end up over here, do
not
mention the Building at all. Say nothing about the Colony. As far as this guy knows, we’re the only other hemes in the universe. Sandor will explain,” he added quickly, seeing Gordo opening his mouth to ask more questions. “Just follow directions for now. Please.”

He slid out of his booth and made his way toward the heme, who watched him approach. Cole could see the stray’s puzzlement. He still wasn’t sure whether Cole was a heme. He’d obviously
seen
Gordo feed, but he was still undecided!

And he was staring openly. He didn’t even know enough to be wary.

Damn, damn, damn.

The heme tensed as he approached.

“May I have a word with you?” Cole said quietly.

The heme stared at him. His eyes were round and blue—they would appear innocent, even childlike, to an omni, but Cole saw the depth of years in them, as well as that piercing quality unique to hemes. And there was something else, too, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

The stray inclined his head. “You may speak,” he said, as if granting permission.

Cole made a deliberate sweeping glance around The Poop Deck. “This isn’t a good place,” he said.

The stray hesitated. Then he gave that odd little bow of his head again, an almost courtly gesture. “Would you care to accompany me to my lair?”

Cole felt a sudden desire to laugh.
Lair?
he thought, but he let his face show nothing. “Where?” he asked.

“Not far.”

“How far?”

“Across the street.” The heme raised one hand in a languid pointing gesture that was useless, because The Poop Deck had no windows.

Cole saw now that the guard on his index finger was a shining metal claw, clear up to the knuckle, that bore an animal head of some kind, a wolf or a boar. Cole had been right; the point was filed needle sharp.

He didn’t agree to go to the “lair,” and he didn’t move. He’d met strays before, but it had been a while—the last one had been living off rats and squirrels and pigeons. The one before that was in…Las Vegas? Somewhere in Nevada—that one had set herself up as the goddess of a love dungeon.

He did not want to go to this guy’s home. But he didn’t want to talk to the stray here in plain view and within earshot of omnis. Nor did he want to take him anywhere—he didn’t want this heme to get into his car.

“I won’t harm you,” the heme said. “I don’t foul my own nest.”

So he didn’t know that he
couldn’t
harm Cole. But he knew enough not to feed where he slept.

That was promising, wasn’t it?

And if he was managing to survive alone—that said something too.

But the look in his eyes—it was
off
somehow. Sly, or…or…something.

This was such a strange situation—and no time to think. No plan for this.

“You have nothing to fear,” the heme added with a slight frown, “unless you’re human. And you’re not, are you?”

Of course I’m human, you nitwit,
Cole thought. “Very well,” he said. “Let me just tell my friends I’ll be stepping out.”

“They may come, too, if they wish.”

“Thank you, no.” He went back to where Sandor and Gordo were sitting. “I’m going to accompany our friend to his
lair.
He says it’s across the street. Will you come to the door after a moment and make sure you see where we go?”

“Of course,” Sandor said.

Cole nodded. “If I’m not back in forty-five minutes,
you might come looking.”

Sandor checked his watch. “It’s one thirty. I have to say,” he added, “I’m rather hoping I’ll get to see a
lair.
I never have before, you know.”

“I’ll tell you all about it,” Cole said.

He returned to the heme, who turned without a word and walked out the door.

Cole followed. Now he must find out as much as he could, then choose what to do. He would have to decide: Should he offer this stray the option of meeting the others, of learning from them? Offer to take him to New York?

He had a sudden mental picture of the four of them making their way back to the East Coast in his car.

Two uncouth, untutored hemes in his care.

The thought made him feel sick.

The heme’s “lair” was in an apartment building across the street—visible from The Poop Deck’s front door, Cole was glad to see—a long two-story with lines of doors top and bottom like holes punched in a shoe box.

The lair itself was on the second floor, up a metal staircase—an efficiency with an ancient, muddy-colored
carpet. The only furniture was a mattress with a brown sleeping bag heaped at its foot.

Poor and dirty—just like it used to be in the early years, before the Colony. Cole had spent too many days shivering in his sleep in places like this.

If the guy wasn’t a total loony, it would be nice to show him that there were other ways to live.

Once inside, the heme removed his jacket with a flourish. “What’s your name?” he asked, dropping the jacket onto the counter that opened into the kitchen area. At first glance an omni might think that his arms were a little thin, but Cole saw muscles flex under the skin and knew that they were absolutely toned and fit.

The stray slowly pulled off his finger guard. Cole noticed that the fingernail on his right thumb was filed to a point. Perfect for grabbing a throat and piercing its jugular.

“You can call me Zeke,” Cole said. Just a precaution.

The heme did not introduce himself. “Where do you come from?” he demanded. He set his finger guard carefully on top of his jacket, but he never took his eyes off Cole.

“I’m a traveler.” Cole kept his voice carefully neutral.
This guy obviously felt himself to be superior, and Cole was not about to disabuse him by demanding any answers of his own. Not yet, anyway. He would play the meek supplicant as much as possible. And he would lie through his teeth about anything to do with his current task. If lying turned out not to be necessary, he would clear it up later.

“How did you come to be a vampire?”

Cole didn’t even blink at the word. “I was walking at night,” he told the heme, taking Gordo’s story as his own. “And somebody jumped on me, knocked me out. When I woke up, I was like this. May I ask, what is
your
name?” he added, as humbly as he could.

The heme did not answer. “And when did this happen to you?”

“A little over a month ago.”

“Yes,” the heme said with a slight look of disgust. “You still dress like a human. And what of your friends?”

“I created them,” Cole said. “I did not mean to. I no longer feed to the death.”

“So no one has taught you anything.”

“No. I’m on my own.”

The heme leaned back against the counter and folded his arms. No plopping down on the floor for this guy, Cole thought—that would be undignified. “You may call me Royal,” he said, and gave a solemn nod in the direction of the mattress. The meaning was clear: Sit down.

Uh-huh,
thought Cole.
At his feet.

He lowered himself onto the mattress—not too close. A clear shot at the door, in case…what?

This guy was stronger than he seemed, Cole could tell—but Cole was strong, too.

And what could he do to Cole anyway? Nothing. Really, there was nothing to fear. It was just that the look in his eyes was a little creepy. A little…unhinged?

“I do not create others of our kind either,” Royal said. “I take only what sustenance I need.”

Cole nodded. That was good. He wanted to ask some questions now. He just hoped he could appear submissive while doing it. “May I ask,” he said, “how
you
came to be?”

“I was chosen.”

“By whom?”

“By the powers of darkness.”

“Did the…powers of darkness go by any other names, by chance?”

Royal just stared haughtily down at him.

“Were they male? Female?”

Royal did not answer. Finally, Cole understood: This was a staring contest, and Royal wanted him to look away first.

So he did. He bowed his head and focused his gaze on Royal’s feet. Black boots, of course, with black laces that had silver tips with some kind of design on them.

“The powers of darkness have no physical being,” he heard Royal say. He didn’t look up, and Royal added, “I am their master,
and
their servant.”

Huh?

“You are the master of the powers of darkness,
and
their servant?” Cole repeated.

“That is correct.”

“How do you serve them?” Cole asked. Still careful not to engage Royal’s eyes, still careful to tinge his voice with respect.

“I offer them gifts.”

“What kinds of gifts?”

“The lives of humans.”

Oo-
kay,
Cole thought. “You kill?” he asked calmly, wanting to be sure.

“Yes. You don’t?”

“I have.” Cole didn’t mention that he’d only done it once. “But I thought you said you don’t feed to the death.”

“I don’t. Their behavior gets too erratic when they die like that. I prefer other methods.”

Cole glanced up. Royal’s eyes were gleaming.

Surely he was lying.

Cole must not miss a step. He must take care with every word. “What methods?” he asked, looking down at the carpet again. It was dark brown, and matted with age.

“There are many methods.” Cole could feel how avidly Royal was watching him. Hoping for a reaction. “For example, if you put your fingers on their throats and press down, you can observe their faces as they die.”

I won’t be taking him back to New York,
Cole decided.

Beyond that, though, he didn’t know what to do. He’d only been talking to the guy for a few minutes. He shouldn’t rush. Shouldn’t take it at face value,
or
take it too lightly.

“Why do you want to watch them die?” he asked,
looking up again. His own face, he knew, showed nothing.

“When you have lived as long as I have, you will understand.”

Cole didn’t know what to say to that, so he just nodded.

Royal seemed to take the nod as a sign of interest, if not approval. “It’s amazing,” he went on, warming to his subject, “to watch the spark go out of them. The eyes go glassy of course, as if they can’t see. But if you watch a few moments longer, the pupils will go, too. It’s like two little black flowers blossoming. Just like little flowers,” he repeated, almost to himself. “Here’s what I think,” he said in a confiding tone. “I think they’re not really dead until the pupils dilate. That’s one or two minutes between the time their body dies and the time they are really gone. And I wonder, What do they think during that time?
Can
they think? Can they hear? What do they see, inside their heads?”