Frayed Page 4

  I turned my head so that our noses touched.

  "You smell like Leah’s imitation perfume."

  His stare tried to scald me but failed. Instead, he kissed me. It was sensual and unforgettable, like a hundred butterflies brushing their wings across the canvas of my body. Then Blaire’s roiling purr slipped between our lips to part that moment from the dream I swore I was in.

  "You and your pet bloodsucker need to be at the home of Dominick Menendez tomorrow at nightfall. His sister is missing. And there’s something else."

  "What?"

  "Be there to find out."

  He slipped out the front door quieter than a vampire. Royally frazzled, all I could do was yell, "Fuck!" at the top of my lungs and toss a backpack at the closed door.

  Splinters and briers.

  Chapter Six

  Nash sat opposite Dominick Menendez and his sister, Rose, in a grossly floral armchair. What a juxtaposition, the chalky dead thing and the dainty pattern masquerading as earthly, living matter when both were imposters. Though, I could have been over thinking it to mask my own discomfort.

  I stood by the front door, daring not one foot in the direction of the Menendez siblings. I wasn’t scared of them, just resentful to be bothered with them at all.

  Not wanting to wear a dress to an unfamiliar place, though it would have been the most comfortable for my mangled thigh, I chose baggy blue jeans paired with a short-sleeve navy and red plaid blouse. In comparison, Rose Menendez looked like a Playboy Bunny in a black T-shirt that pulled taut across her full chest and tight gray jeans that embraced her ample curves. Even her onyx waist-length hair looked like a freaking shampoo ad. And her cherry lipstick was a hymn from God’s lips to a dying man.

  Occasionally, I eyed Jose Menendez in the kitchen doorway across the room. He was squatty but fit. His hair, the same color as his sister’s, was cut short in the back, but slightly longer in the front as it strained to cover the top of his forehead. Jose gave the impression of an average man in his early twenties that demanded little expectation. Trying to ignore his amateur attempt at vigilance, I inspected photo frames filled with look-a-like smiles and bold crucifixes hanging on the walls while listening to Dominick explain their family’s predicament.

  Dominick Menendez, not much taller than his brother, dispensed a firm hand with intelligent presence. He thought before speaking, as if each word held awesome power, and didn’t shy away from the passion his cause spiked within. Dominick’s accent was thick, but his English was impeccable. Their family had been born and raised in Mexico, but their Hispanic mother, an anthropologist, taught them English from the time they were in diapers.

  A solid family with good fortune, Dominick shared how the Menendez clan found themselves under a dark cloud twelve years prior. After an archeological dig in an undisclosed South American location, their mother returned home, uncharacteristically sullen and dejected. She had been the sole survivor of a wicked mystery virus. When she returned, she brought something with her. Turned out to be a cursed something.

  Nash listened with voracious curiosity before asking, "And the item your mother found?"

  Dominick shook his head. "Barely anything: a shard of pottery. Seemingly trivial."

  "A piece of broken clay turned you and your siblings into werewolves?" Yeah, I was skeptical.

  His gaze shot straight past my eyes into the squishy center of my brain. "No, the cursed land where that clay was baked and cured did. You have the luxury to find that hard to believe, but it is a hard truth that has become our way of life, and now it threatens our youngest sister, Mira. For Rose, Jose, and myself, the first change happened on our eighteenth birthdays. Mira’s birthday is two days from today." He leaned forward, unconsciously flexing the muscles in his arms as his hands played with the idea of turning into fists. "That untapped power will lead her to a purely depraved state of mind and physical being. Uncontrolled, we are the hounds of Hell’s very fury."

  That’s why I hated ‘weres.’ They were unpredictable, manic beasts who, more often than not, over-credited themselves. They could get you killed. Shit, they would be the ones to kill you and blame it on a curse the next day.

  Rose stood, her patience pushed to the edge by my disbelief. "Don’t stand there, a visitor in my home, and challenge my brother’s integrity!"

  "I’m not challenging his words or your family. It just sounds like some Scooby-Doo bullshit."

  Nash caught his head in the palm of his hand before looking back to witness Rose’s outpouring.

  "Why must it be bullshit? Because we were not born with a second skin? Because we do not act as if Jesus has come down from the heavens to bless our mangy shrouds? We are not creatures like you." She divided her attention between Nash and me. "But that does not make us your trash." There was venom in her words, as if each time she had said it in her mind it gained a level of toxicity.

  Dominick stood and said, "They did not make such an accusation."

  "Didn’t they?" She nudged her head toward me. "You stand there afraid to touch anything. Are you afraid we will taint you?"

  "No, I’m afraid of what might come out of your mouth next."

  Rose screamed as she threw a marble drink coaster at my head. I blocked it with a forearm. When I peeked around it, I saw a red gash.

  "Rose!" Dominick screamed. Her eyes smoldered with a death wish for me as Jose moved to stand behind his brother and sister. Nash was just instantly by my side, knowing I would have taken offense if he stood in front as a shield from the ‘weres.'

  Dominick reached an open palm to me. "Please come with me. You can wash up and I will give you a bandage."

  I sat on the closed lid of the toilet holding tissues to my arm as he rummaged through the cabinet under the sink. Though dulled by the white cabinet door, the slow pace of his speech was the inevitable product of emotional wear.

  "Ms. Lark, we do not have a support system beyond each other to fall back on as shifters and vampires have. We do not even register the smallest seed of respect as a community, as scarce as we are." Dominick took a moment to inhale before continuing. "Rose has developed a lot of anger towards other supernaturals because of the treatment we have received, for what we are… Or maybe more so for what we are not."

  "Do you feel the same way?"

  He leaned on his haunches, thoughtful, before nodding his head. "Sometimes."

  "Then why are you trying so hard?"

  As if someone hit a switch, he stopped searching. Remaining squatted in front of me, he replied, "Because there is no one else. Mira has never been apart from us. And whether or not you believe the origin of our curse, or even if it is a curse at all, makes no difference to the reality that she is going to change." He rubbed his bloodshot eyes, which shattered the baby-face illusion. It was clear that Dominick was at least thirty-three or thirty-four. Too young to have seen a lot, but old enough to have seen plenty.

  He mumbled, "We have already tried on our own. That is why I contacted your leader."

  "Did you find anything?"

  "A male ‘were’ in a neighboring town went missing the same day as Mira."

  "A teenager?" It was more of a statement at this point.

  He shook his head, saying, "Adult. Late twenties," before resuming the search for bandages.

  "Who reported him missing?"

  "His girlfriend." Dominick held out a large, freshly opened bandage. "She was asleep when it happened." He pointed out, "She is a vampire."

  "Damn it." I stuck the bandage on my arm.

  "You need stitches."

  "Nah, it will heal the next time I shift."

  "And that limp?"

  My gift from the local pride. I couldn’t help but smile. "Happened in kitty form. No supernatural healing." Standing up, I requested, "Let’s finish the conversation in the other room. Nash needs to hear this."

  Nash was mesmerized as Dominick, once again, demonstrated his superb storytelling capabilities.

  "What time does she
think the male disappeared?" Nash inquired.

  Dominick sat down next to Rose. "Sometime in the afternoon. His lunch was still sitting on the counter. He always eats around twelve-thirty after his daily jog in the woods bordering their property."

  Nash held out a piece of paper from his jacket.

  "If you could please write down their names and address, it would be of great use. We need to speak to the girlfriend immediately."

  Dominick started writing. "The vampire’s name is Lucy Wells. Her boyfriend is Rush Stevens."

  Wordlessly, Nash retrieved the paper. "Thank you." Taking a moment to bow his head, he swore, "We will do everything possible to find your sister."

  Leaving the talking to Dominick, Rose and Jose stood behind him as he implored, "If we can, in any way, help recover Mira or the others, please call us." As we walked to the door, Dominick quietly apologized again for his sister’s behavior. "She would never have done that if she was not under the stress of Mira’s disappearance."

  Nash laughed, dismissing it. "You wouldn’t believe how often that happens."

  Dominick smiled. "You have known each other a long time, then?" he asked, looking between the two of us.

  "Since yesterday."

  "Get in the car," I snapped. And yes, I was driving my poor, beat-up vehicle. Nash didn’t own one, as it turned out, and every other car in the world seemed to be occupied.

  With an eyebrow to the sky and a flat tone in his voice, Dominick yelled, "Nice ride!"

  Out the window, I yelled back, "One of a kind!"

  And as I pulled away from the curb on the way to see a distraught vampire with a missing furry lover, Nash confessed, "Lucy Wells is my ex-girlfriend."

  "Well, fuck a goat, Nash!" was all I could muster.

  Chapter Seven

  Still reeling from Nash’s confession, I stood outside a cottage so cheery I half expected something blue or puppety to skip out the front door. The covered porch was full of suncatchers, a bright contrast, even at night, to the rustic cedar as the small bug light reflected in them a hundred times over. And the sunshine yellow shutters left my eyebrows singed, even in the balmy eve.

  Taking a moment to ponder the two-story bungalow, Nash observed, "I bet it’s atrocious in the sun’s embrace. Lucy was always a creature of light. Destined to the night, I believe she’s made an oath to see things as clearly as one would in the daylight. She is very atypical."

  "In her choice of décor?"

  He paused before answering, "In every way." There was no longing or sense of remorse in his voice. But a pause, for a vampire, means much more.

  "Does it bother you that she’s dating a man with a cool, one-syllable name like yours?"

  Nash thought for a moment as we walked up the steps to the front porch. "No."

  "Then I guess you’re not a suspect."

  When we stopped walking, he asked with a quirky grin, "Was that an attempt at humor?"

  "Did I miss the mark?"

  "Yes… But it was nice of you to try."

  "I’m capable of more than just pissing people off."

  "I think that depends on the company," he said, before knocking on the canary door. He was right. It surprised even me to be joking with a vampire. Luckily, a dainty blonde opened the door and delivered me from the conversation.

  "Baby Jesus in a tutu! Haden Nash, you are the last person I expected to see right now." She gathered him into a death grip that left my ribs aching. Her long hair, even pinned up, managed to envelop them as she mauled him with kindness. The white sweater stretched across her back, allowing the flittery blue and yellow pattern of her sundress to permeate the thin material. Finally, when the embrace grew awkwardly long, Lucy unbound him. It was Nash, however, having stood rigid to her touch, that made it awkward.

  Lucy held his right hand between her palms as she apologized, her voice as delicate as the pattern on her dress. "I forgot your discomfort with intimate gestures." Not letting go of his hand, she looked at me. "It was always such a barrier, like a third entity exacting pressure where there should have been space only for pleasure."

  "I’m sorry," was all he said in return. Was he apologizing for the kink in their expired relationship, or for his failure now to offer comfort as a friend? Both, if he was smart.

  She spoke as she moved his hand with hers to rest over her heart. Her voice was reminiscent of a favorite babysitter I once had that let me eat ice cream in bed and could, in the most polite tone, tell the monsters under my bed to go home because they weren’t allowed to sleep over.

  Looking into Nash’s eyes, Lucy said, "There are things about ourselves we cannot change, even in our afterlives. There are so many things I would never change about you, Haden." She moved their hands to rest at her lips as she continued, but with grave concern. "I’m glad you’re here with me now. In my heart, I fear Rush is gone forever. Not the human forever, but ours, which is far worse to bear." Carnival tears would have glistened in her eyes from the suncatchers if vampires were able to shed their grief so humanly.

  She gingerly dropped Nash’s hand. "Please, come in."

  We found ourselves ushered to a rustic, oblong table. The dining room consisted of a juniper table and six chairs sitting in a thin space between a not much larger living room and kitchen, all one room. As I walked past the stairs, I stopped to glance at a cluster of photographs and framed currency. Lucy came to stand by me, hands clasped behind her back, admiration in her gaze.

  "Are you a fan of our third president?" I asked.

  Two portrait oil paintings of Thomas Jefferson accompanied a small frame cradling a collector’s stamp, a two-dollar bill portraying John Trumbull’s ‘Declaration of Independence,’ and a photograph of the famed Monticello in Charlottesville, Virginia.

  "No," her soft voice answered, "A proud sister." Trying to swallow, I looked to Nash, who seemed unfazed by her admission. Lucy smiled. "As vampires are instructed to do, I begrudgingly changed my name. But I miss Jane. I miss being who she was."

  Shifting uncomfortably, I searched for a consoling sentiment. I don’t know why. She was just a vampire. What came out instead was this: "I’m sorry…someone killed you."

  Lucy wistfully touched the photograph. "I wish I had been alive when this was finished. I would have wept tears—real tears—of elation to walk in such a marvel by my brother’s side."

  A moment of silence passed before she swept her hands to show me to the table. Completely unhinged, having never experienced a firsthand account of historical name-dropping, I chose to sit at the table as Nash led the rest of the conversation.

  After recounting the current situation, he outright asked, "Do you think the disappearance of your boyfriend is related to the troubles plaguing the shifters and Mira Menendez?"

  "I have no doubt." She sat straight, hands in her lap.

  "How so? We’ve found no real link between the shifters and Mira other than age. Rush is no teenager. All be it, at twenty-four he is still riddled with immaturities, I’m sure."

  And the jealous ex emerges. I almost kicked him under the table, but Lucy dealt with his emotions swiftly.

  "Rush is nothing short of a sincere gentleman. Your animosity, however, leads me to question your ability to help find him anywhere but in his grave."

  Again, Nash found himself apologizing. "Please confide in us."

  Somewhat reluctant, Lucy began with Rush’s personal history. We patiently sat through a long recap of his lonely childhood in Massachusetts where he wasted much of his youth working odd jobs to help his single mother pay their bills. The history lesson especially lagged from eighth grade to his sophomore year when he, apparently, did nothing.

  Just as my heel began tapping the floor uncontrollably, Lucy announced that during his junior year, Rush was attacked the night he escorted a senior to homecoming.

  "Within days of the werewolf bite," she recounted, "Rush was confronted by a group of men dressed in black. They had been stalking him."

  Nash interje
cted, "They knew what he was?"

  "Yes, and they took him."

  "They kidnapped him?" I asked, my body completely still.

  Now she had my attention.

  Lucy’s entire being oozed with sympathy as she added, "He was a seventeen-year-old boy with a mother working so hard to care for him she did not even realize he was missing for two days."

  "But the police found him?" I asked.

  "No, they had nothing. He escaped by way of his own wit, but not before learning about them and what they are capable of doing." She cringed.

  "If they can make a vampire squirm, they must be real sons-of-bitches," I said before catching myself.

  I didn’t have to look at Nash to feel the flames of his temper lick my flesh, but it was Lucy who chastised my reckless tongue.

  "Bloodlust may label me a monster, but even I am not capable of what these men do. I am no murderer of children, Ms. Lark, nor could I torture them so brutally for being different, like you."

  She had every way of making a person feel like cured shit, even with her delicate features and soft brow. Before I could open my mouth to apologize, or potentially make things worse, Nash focused us back to the information.

  "Are we dealing with human men?"

  Subsiding the urge to lash me yet again, her head moved once from left to right. "They are all stricken with various forms of the Versipellis." That was the Latin term for therianthropy.

  Nash sighed. "There is one common denominator: We all share a trace of humanity. And from such few drops—no matter the form—evil pleasures bloom."

  "Not for pleasure. Not this time."

  "Who are these bastards?" I asked.

  "While captive, Rush discovered their origin to be a group of Puritan dissenters whose ratification against shifters dates back to the Salem Witch Trials. They had no real interest in the occult. It was merely kismet. It served as a shroud for their degeneracy, prodding the fear of locals to seek out every supernatural under the charge of witchery. These individuals, however, never saw a biased courtroom or quick, unjust demise. Such awful things…" She stopped to compose her voice, which should have been accompanied by tears. But even the most civilized vampire can’t act completely human.