Page 29 of Blood Lovers (American Vampires #1)

I shall not find it.

Images are flashing through my mind. Paul. Syrsee. Blood.

I was feeding on her. I was, right? My mind is so muddled. I’m so confused.

Where am I?

A sign for a scenic overlook flashes by and then up ahead I can see the pullout. Needing time, I pull the truck into it, park on the side of the highway, and just sit with my forehead on the steering wheel as I play back what happened in the conservatory.

Cars and trucks are passing by, making my truck rock. I squint at the sign where I’ve pulled over. A scenic route I’m familiar with. I’m not that far from home.

Home .

Paul’s place is not home. Not the one I had, nor the one I have.

A sharp pain shoots through my temple and with it comes a flashing image. A woman. Not Syrsee, because she’s too small and slight. Syrsee is tall and curvy. But this woman shares some features with her. The eyes, for one. Green. Like a witch’s. Like Lucia’s.

Lucia.

Paul.

Blood.

Syrsee.

What the fuck happened back there? I drank her. She’s the Black witch I’ve been hunting. She’s been feeding me. I’m dying.

That’s what Paul said. He said I’m dying.

And maybe I am. The heat is not normal. But I’ve been hot like this for so long now, I’ve just gotten used to it.

The highway is covered in snow and even though it’s barely noon, the clouds above me are thick, and gray, making the early afternoon feel more like evening with a threat of a coming storm.

What are you doing, Ryet? What are you doing ?

I don’t know. That’s why I have to ask. I don’t know what’s happening, I don’t want to go, I don’t know what to do, and I’m tired. I’m just tired of all of it.

I lift my head up off the steering wheel and look over to my right at a very dramatic sky. The clouds are rolling now, almost churning. Like special effects in a horror movie.

And why not? My life might as well be a horror movie. Death. Blood. Remote location. The monster. Who will make it out? I guess that’s the only unknown variable.

I don’t think it’s gonna be me. It’s gonna be Paul. It’s always Paul. He makes it when no one else does. I’m gonna die, and Syrsee’s gonna die, and—

Movement just outside my field of vision disrupts my thoughts, making me turn my head. An RV is pulling into the scenic overlook behind me. I sit back in my seat and watch from the rearview mirror as a family spills out: a couple of kids who probably aren’t even school age, their puffy jackets making them look much bigger than they are as they point their phones to take pictures; then a woman holding a baby so bundled up, I can’t even see it; finally a man, who must be the father, wearing a ski jacket and a matching knit beanie.

They go over to the iron fence that separates the parking area from a long drop over a steep cliff and both of the little kids put their feet on the bottom rail, trying to look down. Even through my closed windows I can hear their excitement and before I know what’s happening, I’m smiling.

I had kids once. I know that much.

Jane and little baby Susan. But there were more kids. Two more. In fact… I turn in my seat so I can see them better.

Yes. That was me. That man was me once upon a time. Before the Darkness took over my life. Before Paul made me his. I was that man. I wasn’t planning on buying an RV—we called them trailers back then—but we were gonna buy a boat. I feel these things in my heart.

We weren’t rich, or even middle-class, but we weren’t poor anymore. I was…

A wave of images floats through my brain. A garage, the smell of oil and transmission fluid, and old cars. Those beautiful old cars that came in all kinds of happy colors, like Easter eggs.

Tools replace the garage and I see my own hands picking them up.

I was a mechanic. And I had a wife and three kids.

Then I see stained glass and in that same moment I hear singing.

But it’s not in my head, it’s the kids outside my truck. They are singing a church song. Something all little kids sing.

This little light of mine...

Then another voice joins in, a boy. He’s laughing as he sings. I squint as I watch the kids outside, desperate to see him. But he’s not here. I don’t know his name, or how old he was, or what his face looks like.

Mine? Does he look like me? Or did he look like his mother?

I’m gonna let it shine…

Jane. Paul called her Jane.

Then another voice is added to the chorus. A sweet voice in a higher octave. A girl.

Let it shine, let it shine, let it shine…

I picture them—no, I picture us —standing outside there on the side of the road, looking out at the afternoon sky and the snow-covered mountains, enjoying the day, and the drive, and each other. And I am suddenly angry.

Why?

Why did God take them away from me?

I’m not stupid. It was Paul. I know he killed them. I think I knew it back then too. I don’t remember much of them at all, but I remember Paul. Not beautiful Paul—which isn’t an illusion. It’s just how he looked before the Darkness got him—but monster Paul. The winged thing. The ugly face. The horror of him.

He was stalking me for weeks. Years. No. A lifetime.

My whole lifetime.

He was always there. That’s why I went to church. That’s why I believed. That’s why I prayed, and prayed, and prayed. Because I knew the evil was real and if the evil is real, then so is the good. They can’t exist without one another. That’s just not how it works.

I was a believer .

Let it shine, let it shine, let it shine…

I believed. And maybe that was the problem. Maybe… maybe the ones who don’t believe have it better? Because if you don’t believe in good, then the evil doesn’t care about you.

A knock on the glass startles me and I look over to find the father of the kids peering though the layer of steam that has coated my window.

I buzz the window down and stare at him. We’re about eye to eye and I notice his are blue, like ice. Like Paul’s.

“Hey.” He smiles as he stares at me, and it’s genuine. “My wife noticed you were alone and we just wanted to make sure you were…” His smile falls. “Uh… just… to see if you were… OK.” I squint at him and he takes a step back, putting up a hand. “Didn’t mean to bother you.” He takes another step back. “We’re… we’re leaving now.”

Then he turns and I watch in the rearview mirror as he ushers his family back into the RV, giving my truck one last glance before he disappears inside. A few moments later, they pull away, leaving me alone.

When I focus my eyes on myself in the mirror, I see what he saw.

A monster.

My face is still the same, but my eyes are red. Not bloodshot, but red .

I just gave that man a glimpse of evil and he, unlike me, was wise enough to get the fuck out of here while he still could.

I suddenly want to leave. But I don’t pull out after the RV and get behind them. I don’t want to freak the guy out. I don’t want him to think I’m hunting him. And he will. Because out here there aren’t many people travelling, especially in the middle of winter. I’ve traveled hundreds of miles along a Montana highway with the same cars on many occasions. One stops to get gas. One stops for food. I keep going. Fifty miles later, I stop for gas and watch from the pumps as they pass by me. It’s like a little game of tag out here on these roads.

I don’t want to travel Montana with the family I lost.

I want to throw myself over that cliff, actually.

I want to die and I have wanted this for decades.

But just like Paul said, And in those days shall men seek death, and shall not find it; and shall desire to die, and death shall flee from them .

I shall not find it because I am in ‘those days.’

And it’s only been sixty-five years.

But there is a way to die. Paul said as much. He said I was dying and I have to drink Syrsee to live.

Well. I chuckle as I close my eyes and cross my arms over my chest. I won’t be doing that. I will not drink her again. I will just… stay right here. Let the storm come. Let it wash over me. Let it kill me. Let it…

My world changes as I slip into the purple . It’s a bright, sunny day in the middle of summer, but the air all around me has been tinted to the color of a fresh bruise.

I’m standing outside a garage pumping gas for a man in a gorgeous coral sand Ford Skyliner. He’s talking excitedly about his weekend and even though I can’t hear him, I find myself interested and smiling as I nod.

Because this is me, and this was my life, and whoever this guy is, sitting in this work-of-art car in nineteen fifty-seven, he is my friend. Probably someone I hung out with. Drank with, went on vacation with, and spent holidays with.

Then I hear someone calling… calling for…

The guy in the car nods his head, indicating I should look behind me.

And there is a voice there, a sweet, sweet voice. A woman’s voice.

It’s in this moment that I realize my wait is over. Because this voice belongs to her .

My wife.

My Jane.

And all I have to do is turn my head and…

I can’t. I can’t do it. If I see her, I will want to die. And I won’t. I’ll be stuck here, as this man called Ryet—who is not Ryet—and I will be in Hell forever.

“Riah!” She’s calling me. “Zechariah! Your lunch is getting cold!”

Turn, Ryet. Turn and look at her. See her! That’s what you’ve wanted! That’s what you’ve been begging for all these years!

But I can’t. I just… wake up.

A blanket of white has covered my windshield, inches thick. My truck is still running, but I didn’t have the heat on, and it’s freezing. My body is so hot that when I press a palm up to the windshield, the snow melts around it and in a few seconds, I can see the road and the mountains through the murky haze of late afternoon snow.

Zechariah.

He changed my name when he turned me into this monster.

No ! Paul’s voice is loud in my head, almost like he’s here with me.

But the rejection is correct. He didn’t change me. I was made this way.

I get out, grab a snowbrush from the back seat, clean the snow off my windows with no gloves and no hat, and then get back in the truck and look at my bright red hands.

They are ice, and they feel good, but only for a moment. Then I am hot all over again. And when I pull back onto the road, convinced that I will never see the man and his family in that RV again, I am dizzy too.

I need that blood or I’m going to die. And even though I want to die, I head in the direction of Paul anyway.

Because that’s where she is. Waiting for me.

And I know, with a hundred percent certainty, that I’m going to drain her dry. I’m gonna suck that blood down and I’m gonna like it.

Because it’s just too late for me.

Death is not coming for me.

Not if I beg.

Not if I starve.

Not even if I dig my own grave, crawl inside it, and let the wet earth swallow me up.

I shall not find it.