Night Road (2 page)

MITCH
was still there, stretched out in a plush armchair that just about enveloped him. All that could be seen were his long legs extending over the carpet and a shock of red hair. He poked his head up to see who had come in, then waved at Cole and informed him, “Lakers, 52–45, halftime,” before pushing the shock of hair back and fastening his gaze on the TV again.

Three omnis now sat in the overstuffed chairs, shoes kicked off onto the carpet. They were talking quietly and did not see Cole come in. The sliding glass door to the patio was open just a crack. It had been—what, twenty-five, thirty years since he’d seen any of the New York hemes?

Cole walked alone to the door. He did not touch the glass, but paused, looking through at the patio outside.

It was the closest thing to a yard most of Manhattan had to offer: a brick patio edged with flower beds, a strip of grass along the back fence. A dozen or so people sat around, some on cushioned iron furniture, some on wooden dining chairs that had been brought outside. White lanterns hung in a line over the bricks, and low, dim lights lit the edges of the patio.

It looked much as it always had. These people had always been here, every night, making the petty decisions that enabled the Colony to exist, taking care of mundane chores and daily responsibilities.

For all those years Cole had been taking care of only himself.

“…the intricate details.” A languid voice floated in through the open door. “The innuendoes that underlie mezzo-forte—”

That was Frederick, holding forth on the exact same subject he’d been holding forth on a quarter of a century ago. And there was Johnny, thin and small, pale hair buzzed short. And Cole saw the other NYC hemes, the ones who came to the Building almost nightly.

There was Nell, still peering at people through her glasses. Alice, with a stack of papers in her lap—Alice
was Johnny’s go-to girl; she kept track of all the IDs and credit cards, and knew more about Colony business than anyone, perhaps even Johnny himself. Mina, with blonde hair now—hadn’t it been auburn last time?—nodding eagerly, waiting for a chance to add her opinions.

For a moment Cole felt as though he were seeing them as a stranger would, all of them with unlined faces and youthful bodies. If you didn’t look into their eyes, if you didn’t notice the way they moved, not one of them appeared to be more than twenty-one or two.

Of course, some of the omnis really
were
young. There were several of them on the patio. Generally the omnis in the Building were young people who read too much Anne Rice, and once they were here, they usually stayed.

The ones on the patio wouldn’t be out there for long, Cole knew, not after he stepped outside and the discussion got started. Johnny did not allow the omnis to participate in Colony business. All in all, Cole thought they had it pretty good. They weren’t allowed the freedom they’d have had on their own, perhaps—Johnny allowed no alcohol or drugs in the Building, no friends dropping
by—but on the other hand they had everything they needed and most things they wanted, with almost no responsibilities.

And they got the glorious dreams they craved. That was why most of them never wanted to leave.

“Cole?” said a voice behind him.

Cole turned. “Seth!” Seth had finally cut off his ponytail. He’d been loath to part with it since he’d been able to regrow it in the sixties.

They shook hands. “It’s been a while,” Seth said. “When did you get in?”

“Just a bit ago.”

“You been outside yet?”

“Not yet.”

Seth glanced out through the glass. Frederick’s voice came wafting into the apartment. “…the power behind the pianissimo…”

“I don’t blame you,” Seth said.

“…also, I thought the breathing and the phrasing lacked unity…”

“I was wanting to talk to you when you got in anyway,” Seth told Cole. “I wish you’d start carrying a phone.”

“No, thanks.”

“Then at least get a laptop. That way you can keep in touch better.”

“Just one more thing to lug around.”

“No, I’m serious. It’s perfect—I know you like your privacy, but with email you don’t have to talk to anybody, and you can answer in your own sweet time. We never know where you are. If you want, I could look into it and find one—”

Whump!
The swinging door to the kitchen flew open.

Cole and Seth turned to see a boy come in. There was a girl plastered to his side; one of his arms was slung carelessly around her shoulders as he paused awkwardly to still the noisy flap of the door.

The girl was obviously omni. But the boy?

He had the intense gaze of a heme—but his eyes wouldn’t settle on anything long enough to really observe it. He didn’t seem to notice Cole and Seth. And he moved with too much energy.

“Who is that?” Cole asked Seth.

“Gordon.”

“Guerdon?” Cole echoed, confused. He’d had a brother named Guerdon.

“Gordon,” Seth told Cole. “Our most recent accident.”

“Oh.” An accident. Someone had lost control and killed without meaning to. It didn’t happen often. “It’s been a while.”

“Yes. I think Mitch was the last. Fifty-six or fifty-seven, I believe.”

“Who, um…?” Cole asked, curious.

“Sandor.”

“Sandor?” It was impossible that anyone as experienced as Sandor could make a mistake like killing in the feed. Something out of the ordinary had to have caused it—but what? “Is he here now?”

“He stepped out for a feed,” Seth said. “He should be back anytime.”

Cole nodded. Honest, good-hearted Sandor. It would be worth this trip to see his old friend.

Gordon the Accident stood looking around the living room. Cole hadn’t even thought about his brother, Guerdon, in many years, but now as he stared at the boy, a sudden stab of faceless memory came to him: a quick flash of a grin; long, dark hair with one rebel lock that refused to stay tied back.

He had no idea why, at this moment, his brain would choose to spit up such an archaic memory. The names
were similar, but Cole had met plenty of people named Gordon before. And this kid looked nothing like Guerdon. He wasn’t smiling, and his hair was the color of ripe wheat, and it was short.

Gordon was merely glancing at faces, omni and heme alike, without taking the time to read them. Everything about him added up to proclaim that he was overly eager, clumsy, thoughtless. That wouldn’t be his fault, though—he wouldn’t have had much opportunity to develop a knack for observation and deduction, and no reason to, here in the Building.

“Sandor was on the road when this happened?” Cole asked.

“Yes. Terrible things can happen on the road,” Seth said. “But we all should try to stay sharp, I suppose. Bertha just went out to travel a bit, did you know that?”

“No,” Cole said. But he kept his eyes on Gordon; it was weird that his mind had flashed on that one bit of hair that always slipped loose and fell over Guerdon’s forehead, getting in his eyes. “Where is she?”

“She’s in Florence right now. I just had an email from her a few days ago….”

Seth began to tell about the contents of Bertha’s
email. Cole watched Gordon flop down onto the couch. The girl stood in front of him, hands on hips. She had waist-length hair, black leather pants, and a black bustier. As Gordon spoke to her earnestly—looking like a very large puppy, Cole thought—she sat
on
him, straddling his lap, taking his face in both hands and kissing him.

The omnis of the Colony were obedient, but they certainly weren’t reserved.

Gordon wasn’t exactly fighting her off, though. Their bodies were pressed full against each other.

“Does he do this often?” Cole interrupted Seth with a nod at the couple. It was not usual for someone—especially anyone so new—to behave in such an overtly sexual manner with an omni.

Seth turned to look. “Not that I’ve noticed,” he said, casually enough, but he did not turn back to Cole, and he did not say anything else about email or Bertha. Instead, they both watched as the girl slid her hands to the back of Gordon’s head and pulled his face to her neck. It disappeared under the curtain of her hair.

“How long has he been heme?” Cole asked.

“Two weeks.” Seth sounded a little worried.

They both waited for Gordon to let go. After all, he had used his teeth, not a tool, and the flow of blood would be both heavy and swift.

But the girl remained absolutely still, and Gordon’s face remained unseen under her long hair.

“Maybe he’s just playing with her,” Seth said, uneasy.

“I’m not so sure,” Cole said.

And sure enough, the next moment, the girl slowly crumpled and fell to the side, unconscious.

“Shit,” said Seth, stunned.

Cole was already halfway around the couch. “Get Johnny,” he called to Seth.

Seth pulled the door open and stuck his head outside. Cole heard him calling to Johnny as Cole bent over the girl and gently rolled her onto her back. He pressed his fingers to her neck, feeling for a pulse. There was no blood anywhere, just a redness deep in the twin marks, like parentheses, that Gordon’s teeth had made. Her pulse was faint but steady, and not too fast. He brushed her hair out of her face. She was quite pale.

Then Seth was back, and Johnny was with him.

“Hello, lad.” That was all, just two words and a nod from Johnny—but it was more than enough. When
Johnny looked at you, it was a welcome as well as an appraisal. It didn’t really need words.

Cole stood and moved aside to let him kneel next to the girl.

“Christine,” Johnny said firmly, and her eyelids fluttered.

“She’s been breathing the whole time,” Cole told him.

“Good.”

Mitch, still in his armchair, had sat up to watch.

Gordon the Accident sprawled at the end of the couch. He was even paler than the girl. His forehead had a sheen of sweat on it.

This place could seduce anyone into sloppiness, Cole felt. It was no place for a new heme to be allowed to indulge himself without supervision. “Sandor should be here,” he told Johnny. “This is his responsibility.”

“He’ll be back soon,” Johnny said. “She
is
all right. She’s not in shock; she’s just fainted. Seth, if you carry her, we’ll put her in the back bedroom. Then if you bring some juice from the kitchen, we’ll see if we can perk her up a bit. Cole, can you take care of Gordon?”

Cole eyed Gordon the Accident, whose eyes were shut, head lolling on the back of the couch, hands limp beside him.

Can I? Yes. Do I want to? No.
That sudden flash of memory had made him uncomfortable; it had felt like a warning signal, even though it had disappeared in an instant.

But all he said was “Yes.” Feelings were no basis for judgment. He himself hadn’t overindulged in a very long time. But he remembered how it felt, and he knew what to do.

“Gordon,” he said, firm and clear, “I’m Cole. Can you stand up?”

Gordon didn’t answer, but his eyes opened. In them Cole read surprise, confusion, and more than a little alarm.

“Come on,” Cole told him. “Time to go to the bathroom.”

The boy didn’t move.

Cole took him by the arm and tried to pull him to sit up. It was like tugging at a sack of wet sand. “Get up!” he said sharply, his discomfort sliding into annoyance. “Don’t be a baby.”

At that Gordon feebly let Cole hoist him to his feet. He listed so heavily that Cole had to tug one of Gordon’s arms over his own shoulder to keep the boy up.

Together, they trudged to the bathroom.

Cole maneuvered Gordon close to the toilet, then unloaded him onto the floor. He opened the lid and stood back. “Stick your finger down your throat.”

Gordon shook his head, miserable.

“It’ll make you feel better,” Cole explained, leaning against the sink. “You can lie around and be bloated, sick, vulnerable, and useless for the rest of the night, or you can take charge of yourself this moment.”

Gordon’s eyes had been closed, but now they opened just a slit. He didn’t look at Cole, so whether he was feeling exhaustion, nausea, or hatred, Cole couldn’t say.

It didn’t really matter anyway. “Just do it,” Cole said impatiently.

Gordon leaned over the toilet and obeyed.

Cole kept his head turned away. He thought about the cabdriver whose upholstery he had ruined. He was starting to feel a little sick himself.

Gordon, once started, didn’t seem able to stop. “Shut your eyes,” Cole ordered without looking. “Don’t look down.”

Soon after that everything grew quiet. Gordon flushed the toilet, and Cole handed him a dampened towel to wipe his face with.

“God,” Gordon said, draped exhaustedly over the toilet, “I just want to go home.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll get you there. Where are you staying? Here with Johnny, or in one of the apartments?”

“I want to go to my
real
home.”

His real home? Hadn’t Sandor told this boy how things were? That he could never go home again? That he was cut off from his former life just as surely as if he were a newborn whose umbilical cord had been severed?

If not, Cole ought to tell him.

“You’ve got to feed now,” he said instead. Better to stick to practical matters—let Sandor handle the messy emotional nuances of the kid’s upheaval.

Number one problem: The kid was now empty, and soon Thirst would begin to thread its way through his body. He needed to feed quickly—not much, just enough to prevent need.

But Gordon sat there unmoving, evidently still nauseated. So Cole slipped out quietly, shutting the bathroom door behind him. Within a minute he was back with one of the omnis from the living room in tow. “Sit up,” he told Gordon.

Gordon groaned.

“You don’t have to take much,” Cole said, “just a bit. Everything will be all right once you get back in balance.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can. You have to.”

Gordon opened his eyes and saw the omni boy. Cole noted the way his gaze went eagerly to the boy’s neck, darting over the exposed bits of skin. Yes. Now instinct would take over.

But Gordon shook his head. “That’s a
dude,
” he said from the floor.