Chapter Fifteen
He woke to pitch blackness, and for a few seconds he couldn’t
remember where he was. Panic rose, but he was too sluggish to react to it.
And he was hungry. So fucking hungry. Even paralyzed in the
blackness, his body and brain not quite transitioned to nighttime
consciousness, he was hungry.
The blackness receded, as if his eyes hadn’t quite started working
yet when he’d awakened. Returning consciousness prickled along his arms and
hands, his brain, like circulation returning to numb limbs.
He was never going to get used to this.
As soon as he could, he sat up and groped for the bottle of pills
on the nightstand. He popped two into his mouth, letting them dissolve on his
tongue. The hunger eased, feeling more like a normal early-morning craving for
eggs and a bagel and less like a crazed badger setting up a home under his rib
cage.
He made his way downstairs, tiptoeing because the silence of the
place seemed far too...silent. He was loath to break it, not because he liked
the quiet but because he was afraid it might become corporeal and attack him if
he disturbed it.
Downstairs seemed more normal. He could hear the vague sounds of
traffic from below, a siren wailing somewhere, a screech of brakes as someone
narrowly avoided an accident. The refrigerator hummed. He opened it, took out a
bottle of blood.
He felt like he was physically holding the hunger back as he
waited for the blood, transferred to a highball glass, to heat in the
microwave. Don’t try to rush it, he remembered, watching the LED numbers count down.
He had to concentrate to keep from chugging the blood, instead
rolling it over his tongue, letting the flavor settle. He savored it, feeling
the hunger recede as the blood washed warm through him. He’d finished the first
glass and set the refill in the microwave when he heard his cell phone
tweedling from the bedroom. He dragged himself away from the hypnotic spectacle
of his breakfast turning around and around on the carousel to go find it.
By the time he retrieved the phone from the bedside table, it had
stopped ringing and made the beeping noise that alerted him to a voicemail. He
looked at the call history. Marc. He called back as he made his way back
downstairs.
“Hey!” Marc answered on the second ring. “Turn on CSN Chicago.”
The connection clicked off.
Travis grabbed a TV remote and did as told. As the microwave
dinged in the kitchen, his own face appeared on the TV screen in all its
widescreen, high-definition glory. His pores looked like a small child could
swim in them.
“...makes his debut tonight at Cobra Stadium in the team’s third
game this season against the Detroit Damnation. These teams are bitter rivals,
and their last confrontation ended in a shootout, with Detroit coming out on
top after the fourth round. Sources from inside the Cobra organization say
Payne’s more disciplined, team-based play style has already had an effect on
the Cobra’s practice sessions...”
The door swung open and Marc ambled in, joining Travis in front of
the TV. Travis gave him a startled look.
“I still have the key.” He eyed Travis sidelong, the corner of his
mouth curling.
Travis nodded, wondering if he should ask for the key back. The
smirk on Marc’s face made Travis think he probably should, or Marc would take
advantage. Mulling, he turned back to the TV.
“...in the meantime,” the announcer continued, “controversy
continues to rage over Payne’s right to have his name engraved on the Stanley
Cup after the Hawks’ victory last spring. Payne played in all but two
regular-season games and every game in the playoffs until the finals against
the NHL’s Philadelphia Flyers. Under normal circumstances, he would be eligible
for inclusion on the Cup, but the league has shown reluctance due to questions
regarding his changed status.”
The NHL commissioner’s face appeared on the screen then. Travis
was happy to note that his pores looked even more spacious than his own had.
“We still don’t know the circumstances of this incident. If Payne
chose to be Turned, then he has no reason to complain. And it’s my
understanding that very few full transformations are involuntary. It requires a
certain level of cooperation from the ‘victim.’”
“You smarmy motherfucker,” Travis muttered. Then he fell silent
again as Susan’s face replaced that of the commissioner.
“Travis Payne was Turned involuntarily, and there is a pending
police investigation regarding the identity of the individual responsible. Mr.
Payne is no more responsible for his change in circumstance then was Vladimir
Konstantinov of the Detroit Red Wings after his devastating car accident in
1997. And, as we all know, Konstantinov’s name is, indeed, on the Cup. In fact,
it’s on the Cup for the 1998 win, during which season he never played due to
his injuries. Travis Payne’s should be allowed, as well.”
“And there you have it.” The main announcer dominated the screen
now. “Yet another blatant act of prejudice against the vampire race. Only this
time it looks like we have a human on our side. Best of luck, Ms. Harris, with
your crusade for justice, and best of luck to you, Mr. Payne, in your LVH debut
tonight.”
The coverage switched then to a story about the Eastern European
vampire rugby league. Travis flicked off the TV, a little stunned.
“I just called her last night. Or way early this morning. She
wasn’t even awake.”
“She’s a good agent,” said Marc. He punched Travis in the
shoulder. “And you, my friend, are a big fucking deal.”
Travis just shook his head. He’d known all this was going on, but
seeing it on a fifty-inch TV was a bit different from watching clips on
YouTube.
There was a moment of silence, not quite awkward but not quite
comfortable, then Marc said, “I’m keeping your key.”
Travis didn’t look at him. “Fine. God knows when you might have to
bust in here to save me from myself.” He finally gave Marc a sidelong look, his
mouth twisting into something that didn’t really feel like a smile. He knew
damn well that wasn’t why Marc was keeping the key. “Let’s face it—I’m still
kind of a shit vampire.”
Marc chuckled and dragged a hand across Travis’s back, the touch
lighting up Travis’s skin in ways he wasn’t entirely comfortable with. “Not
going to argue with that,” Marc said. He waved toward the kitchen, where the
microwave was still blinking. “Finish your breakfast. Game’s in four hours.”
