Vida Nocturna Part 14

Angie's eyes widened as she threw up her hands. "See? That's it exactly! Where the h.e.l.l's your mom? Anyway let's get out of here."

Sara shrugged. "I don't want to go home. Let's just go to your house, okay?"

Angie pursed her lips together, looking around the room. "f.u.c.k this," she said. She ripped the trophy from Sara's hands and moved over to another table, craning her neck to read the base of the trophy there. She glanced at Sara, then held Sara's trophy next to the larger one, wiggling the fingers of her other hand like Harrison Ford in "Raiders of the Lost Ark." She s.n.a.t.c.hed the first place trophy, leaving Sara's in its place.

She returned, handing it to Sara. "Can we go now?"

Sara smiled. "Uh-huh."

Another hundred dollars. Five twenties folded in half. She stuffs them in her purse. Her profit tonight is easily more than her next paycheck.

She makes a little visit to the bathroom, to check her supply. Too bright, even with the Wayfarers on. No need to check the mirror. She knows how she looks. Her black hair falls straight down, covering most of her back. All her clothes are black, contrasting starkly against her ghostly, alabaster skin. Squinting, she peers into the bag.

Still plenty left to move before she leaves the club tonight. The night's dark energy flows through her as she taps into its incredible power.

She pivots toward the door, nearly knocking over some goody-good chick in a cowl neck angora sweater who was just coming in. Sweater Girl stares, wide-eyed.

"Sara?"

She looks closer. Sweater Girl is Megan Conlon, bearer of the news that Angie had stolen Josh.

Megan recovers, tosses her hair, pastes on a fake smile. "Well, Sara, you're looking-"

Sara's arm shoots out, pinning Megan against the bathroom wall with her bony fingers and their unusually long nails. She tilts Megan's chin toward the ceiling, leaning in to bite. Her teeth touch Megan's neck but she screams and dives away, ducking out the door and running off into the darkened club. Sara laughs loudly as she disappears, then makes her way back to the trading floor.

Something's wrong. She scans the room quickly.

A creature stares into her eyes from next to the bar. It almost looks human: a skinny, ugly black man with a blank expression, leaning against the wall. But the eyes tell the truth. He's a demon on a mission from h.e.l.l. A fire burns in those eyes, buried beneath the sheet of ice where a soul should be.

Sara locks eyes with him, refusing to look away.

You don't know what you're dealing with, pal.

The eyes flare. Something from them reaches out, probing into her brain. She allows something inside herself to expand, repelling the intruding force.

A voice sounds in her ear.

"Oooh. A staring contest with Benny Downer. You're just going to war with everyone in this whole f.u.c.kin' club, ain't you, Princess?"

Neil. Inches from her face. She turns her gaze on him.

You should already know better.

His eyes widen. "Oh, now you're staring at me?" he says. "Wise up, baby. I'm gonna take you out, see? This club is mine."

She nods, cracking half a smile. "Give it your best shot."

He smiles his obnoxious horse smile. "Okay."

Pain. It registers as a sickly yellow flash in the dark as he punches her in the stomach again. And again. And again. She doubles over and he puts his hand on the back of her neck, keeping her down, shoving her through the club with his other hand. People move out of the way as she gasps for breath.

"Little too much to drink," Neil says. "She'll be all right."

Out the back door. Farther into the dark alley. Cameron's feet are barely visible off to the side. Neil's knee comes up into her face. Her nose drips blood and snot. She collapses. He steps on the back of her head, pus.h.i.+ng her bleeding face into the concrete.

"You wanna f.u.c.k with me?" he says. Cameron chuckles. "Huh? I try to warn you and you egg me on?" His foot lifts from her scalp. "Here's my best shot, b.i.t.c.h!"

The blow hits the side of her face just below the cheekbone as he kicks her like a football on a tee. She fights for consciousness, concentrating on her heart, willing it to keep pumping blood up to her brain.

A click. Or maybe a series of little clicks.

"What the f.u.c.k do you want?" Neil backs away as Alexander bends down to her, still pointing his gun at Neil as he helps her up.

"You f.u.c.king idiot!" Neil says. "I'm doing you a favor here, man. You know it. Neither of us needs this-"

Sara exists only for the dark energy of the night. Only the hunger for that energy matters.

Immortality comes from simplicity. Only the need will last forever.

The street is dry. The town is dry. Her own body is just another animated corpse, but it still functions and so she will continue to use it: a tool for feeding her desire.

The craving alone is immortal.

A young man. Walking alone. Not pure anymore, certainly, but with some little blood to offer still. Tainted to some lesser degree than she herself.

She takes him easily to the pavement. He stretches his neck, exposing himself more fully as she takes what she needs. She leaves him writhing and empty, continuing on her search through the dry, barren landscape.

Alexander's hand lifted her up on her tiptoes as he backed her against his car. He must have dragged her when she was out cold.

He pulled her toward him and then shoved her back against the car. "You don't deal in the club, get it? It's ours," he said, breathing through his teeth. "We fought for it. We're still fighting for it. Always. I saved you this time but next time I'll let him kill you. I'll let him kill you!" He turned away, rubbing his eyes, then pushed right back, inches from her face again. "And if he doesn't get you, the others will. Not inside the club, 'cause that'd get too much attention, make it worthless for all of us. But somewhere. They'll get you, Sara. And you don't even know who they are. You'll never see them coming, but they'll get you."

She swallowed, trying to speak.

"From now on, I don't sell to you, and you don't sell to anybody."

Nothing.

Sara scratched at the snort bottle's smooth gla.s.s with the coffee stirrer she'd used to sniff up the few remaining specks an hour ago. She dropped the bottle on the bed. Joe's pill bottles filled a drawer but they were all empty now. Joe's purloined alcohol was gone.

The NyQuil bottle by the bed was empty, too. She'd even rinsed it and drunk the rinse water.

Nothing, nothing, nothing.

Alexander had been gone for days. He'd said he wouldn't sell her anything anymore, and he'd proven it the last few times she'd asked. But now he was gone. And it had been a long time.

He's probably in some Dumpster.

Something inside her tightened as she curled up on the bed: maybe stomach muscles, or back, or chest. Whatever it was that straightened your spine when you were looking over the edge and afraid you'd fall.

Death would be better. A real death. Better than forever in h.e.l.l.

She shook her head, wrapping her arms tighter around her knees.

But a real death means no more high time.

And then she was in Alexander's room, the coffee stirrer still clenched in one fist. There. A baggie in Alexander's trash can. She sniffed and snorted all around the inside with the stirrer, getting nothing. She sc.r.a.ped its inside surface with a razor blade but it looked like Alexander had already done it.

She went through the room, drawer-by-drawer, careful not to mess up the clothes in case he ever did come back. She pulled each drawer out, feeling around the empty socket and knocking all around in search of false bottoms and sides. She felt the blanket, the sheets and pillows. She traced a hand around the mattress and the box spring, looking for cuts or tears. She pulled the dresser away from the wall. She got a dime and unscrewed the covers for the light switches and the outlets. She went through every single item in the closet, carefully replacing each one back the way it was found.

At the back of the closet on a tiny nail was a key ring with two keys. One was oval, one square. Both said "GM."

Spare keys to the 442. He probably keeps his stuff in the car. She pocketed the keys and kept searching.

She stood on the bed and unscrewed the little k.n.o.b on the light fixture, then unscrewed the rest of the fixture so that the bulbs hung down, still lit, from their wires. She stuck her fingers up inside the hole in the ceiling.

Nothing. But there had to be something. Just a little. Alexander had said so when they'd dumped Joe's body: "There's probably traces of it everywhere. In the furniture, stuck to the walls, in the fabric of the clothes in the closets ... everywhere."

She made sure to search the top of his dresser and nightstand, just in case it was hidden in plain sight, but still there was nothing. Then she was on her knees in the middle of the living room, running a blade around the cracks of the coffee table in hopes that it would produce something. She sc.r.a.ped up a little bit of dust and snorted it. Then she was back in his room, sniffing clothes he'd worn when he was cutting.

Nothing else to do. Only one way.

She shuddered, swallowing. She couldn't do it. She couldn't.

A store. She could do that. A bottle of Beam and some more NyQuil. And then one more step after that, and then I'll be able to do it. It has to work. It's the only way.

"Sara!" Josh's voice sounded desperate. Sara kept walking. His footsteps slapped on the sidewalk as he ran, trying to catch up.

"Sara?" he called, out of breath as he came up. "What's wrong?"

She spun on him, catching him off guard. "I saw you with her! I saw you!"

"Who, Laurie?"

"Of course, Laurie. Why? Is there another I don't know about?"

"That's why you ran out when you saw me talking to her? You think I'm doing something with Laurie? She came to take pictures of the Fellows.h.i.+p of the Book club for the yearbook. I was talking with her as we came out. That's all!"

"I should've known you'd do this," she said. "I don't know why I ever thought you cared. Why would I ever have expected anything better from you?" She realized she was screaming.

He deserves screaming. He deserves to be punished, hurt. Twisted up into a little package so he can be kept somewhere safe ...

She stormed off down the sidewalk with him following and trying to tell her some stupid story.

She moves, cloaked in the cold embrace of the night, approaching the building in complete silence. She is one with the night, using its power to get what she needs.

Only desperation keeps her senses sharp now. The sickness threatens to take over completely, crippling her and leaving her vulnerable. There is no other way. She slips through the back yard and up onto the deck. The house is dark. Mummy is probably out with a boyfriend.

The key still works in the back door.

Open window shades admit harsh streetlight rays that make patterns on the living room floor. Flipping a light switch would put her on stage for all the neighbors to see. The place is bright enough now. Too bright, even.

The kitchen cupboard.

Yes! Two bottles! The labels will tell: Downers treat "anxiety." Can't try for the upper until you read the label in the car- don't want to pa.s.s out here.

She moves quietly back toward the back door.

She is knocked to the floor. The dining room chandelier blazes on and she recoils in pain, her eyes burning. A weight crushes her. Her ribs bow under the pressure, on the verge of snapping. The man on top of her is wearing only jockey shorts.

"Sara!"

Her mother's voice. By the dining room light switch, clad only in a silk robe. The new man rolls off Sara. She catches her breath.

"What are you doing here, Sara?" Accusation in the voice, already.

Her body tries to vomit but she holds it in, the back of her throat filling with liquid courage- Beam and NyQuil.

The boyfriend tries peeling the pill bottles from her hand. She clutches them desperately, they are the rope holding her suspended over the well. He tries again. She beats at him with her purse and he collapses, not out cold but stunned by the blows. The purse is too heavy, too hard.

Of course! Her eyes are unable to focus in the light but she finds the zipper by feel. Boyfriend tries to stand but stays down when she pulls back the hammer. Mummy gasps. Yes, b.i.t.c.h. It's real.

Her mother stares. She shakes her head at Sara, her mouth silently open. Her red eyes drip tears.

"Playing the victim again, Mummy? Like always? You're pathetic."

Sara slinks sideways, not toward the door but toward the bookshelf. She reaches, finding the ceramic bowl on its wooden base, but the light is too bright for her read the bra.s.s tag saying "First Place." She takes it and the pill bottles with her, running out the back door.

CHAPTER 11.