flesh now, no squish and deflection of natural tissue. He smelled like the waters of a mineral hot spring. A damp, sharp scent, somewhere between safe and dangerous, just like Sam.
He accepted her arms, returning the embrace. The lack of warmth arising from his body felt so strange. The feeling that, without any action on his part, Sam could hold her like a loop of chain, a human-shaped set of restraints that she couldn’t ever break away from—this shook her as the conception of a day without dawn might. Something changed in him. A ripping, squelching sound filled her ears, and Sam’s body pressed against her more intimately. “That’s good to hear. I hoped you were on my side.” His words wore angular disguises, every syllable rasping, sibilant. “I’ve been so damned lonely. That’s what no one tells you about. How much you lose. How small your world gets when everyone turns their back on you.”
Delia shivered when Sam’s mouth touched her neck. A kiss? Not exactly, but not so different. Gentler than a kiss, almost. The touch of his tongue against her pulse point made a whisper of air escape her mouth. Her hands gripped his shoulders, not trying to pry herself loose, as if she really could.
“Sam, I don’t know,” she started. “I’m not ready for this.” But she did know, didn’t she? And she was as ready as anyone can be to die. That picture had been painted in her mind for quite some time now.
“Easy, D. It’ll be okay. It doesn’t hurt that much.” Sam’s arms tightened around her. The feeling of his long fangs piercing her neck was no more than the sting of a flu shot, the touch of a tattooist’s gun. All the darkness of the room swooped upward. She went blind, her mind thrown into a soft, timeless oblivion.
* * *
—
Sam handed the change back to Mr. Kirshner and gave a slight smile. The pain of the sun coming through the window wasn’t so bad, this close to a feeding. No worse than having dozens of bees stinging his skin. If pain served to let us know we were alive, it was blessed. He wasn’t alive. It was only pain, signifying nothing.
“Thanks, Sam. I haven’t seen you around lately,” Mr. Kirshner said. He had a fantastic mustache. He always wore a hat that had “PSE Archery” embroidered on it.
Sam wondered how he felt about the man. He found that he had no feeling one way or another. Everything was getting weighed and measured again. The entire terrain of his psyche shifted and began to rebuild itself. Just now, he understood how little he knew about himself. Traversing the boundary between prey and predator required a level of emotional distance.
Mr. Kirshner picked up his six-pack of Coors and his bag of chips, stowing them under his arm.
“I’ve been under the weather. Just getting back into the swing of things.”
“Yeah, you look pretty pale,” Mr. Kirshner agreed. “Hope you feel better.”
“Thanks. You drive carefully now, huh?”
The small bell rung, and the store held only a traveler who pondered the caffeinated drinks so seriously that the fate of civilizations seemed to rest on the proper choice. She stood, a long-jointed girl with brown hair and a crooked nose like a boxer. Her hand made a halo of fog on the window of the cold case. Deep in thought, she hummed a few bars of a melody Sam couldn’t recognize.
“Can I help you with something?” Sam didn’t raise his voice much nowadays. When he really leaned into it, the sound became strange, fracturing into a dozen pitches. It spooked everyone out. Including him. It occurred to him, not for the first time, that his lungs were just fleshy bagpipes now, just a weird instrument that lived inside of him, vestigial to his other mechanisms.
The girl looked back. “Do I want an iced coffee or an energy drink?” She twirled a little bit of her hair around her left index finger.
Sam inhaled. His nose told him so much now, far more than words could convey. This one was coming into her monthly, and she hadn’t eaten much of value in two days. She had that car smell, of confinement