CHAPTER 8.
The Hardaway residence was in the trendy west side of Bend,
only a block from the Deschutes River. The house was small, probably
owned by the family for generations. Updated bungalows surrounded it, but
it still possessed its original particleboard siding, warped by the infrequent
rains.
Terrill had driven by it the night before. A big
screen T.V. seeming to take up half the little living room, a couple of old
couches, and an older couple ignoring each other at the far ends. It was
nearly midnight, too late to knock on the door. No sign of the daughter.
He felt restless. He drove out east of town, feeling
vulnerable from the lack of cover, trying to get used to the openness of the
terrain in this part of the country. He got back to the motel room, as
dawn was already breaking, and the sunlight ready to stab down on him.
It was mid-October, but the sun was shining brightly all
day. Terrill chose the queen size bed farthest from the windows and tried
to get some sleep. He'd be up at the break of dusk -- his internal clock
would wake him automatically; trained by centuries of needing to feed at first
possible moment.
He turned to his side, remembering Jamie.
They were naked on top of the bed, one of her legs and
one of her arms draped over him.
She was languorous. Something about her appealed to
him. He decided to please her, to make her want it. In return, she
was confiding in him, and for some reason he was willing to listen to this
young girl who had almost no experience of the real world. She had a kind
of wisdom, though. An inner perspective that came from some deep well of
goodness.
Jamie talked glowingly about Bend, and especially her
younger sister.
"Sylvie will get the chances I didn't," she
said. "She's incredibly bright -- math and science and all that
stuff that I never could understand. She just needs a break."
"That's why you're here?" he asked. ‘That's
why you do what you do?’ He didn't ask.
For the first time, she seemed a little defensive.
Before, she had seemed if not happy in her work, at least content...if not
content, resigned.
"I've already put five thousand bucks into her
college fund. That never would've happened working at Burger King."
She was so young, so unspoiled. But he'd sensed
right away that she was a wide-eyed girl in the big city. That's what had
attracted him to her.
"It's not too late for you, surely."
"Yes," she said. "It is."
Terrill knew America was full of such young people, in
deadend existences. Most weren't aware of it, but for some reason, Jamie
had already scoped out the future and decided it was hopeless. He wanted
to object and to tell her anything was possible. But he knew that she
hadn't even finished high school, that she had no skills and had to rely on her
beauty. Even that was beginning to wear off, though she was in her early
twenties. Where could she go? What could she do?
Her grammar and diction were adequate -- nothing
more. Her clothing sense was that of a girl playing at being a
sophisticated woman. She would be limited even in her chosen profession;
at best, forced to pick up strange men in bars. At worst...he shuddered.
Once he had fed on such dregs of civilization, knowing
they wouldn't be missed. But that way of existence was behind him
now. Maybe he could help this innocent young girl, make up for some of
his past. It would be a small step, but in an immortal 'life', such small
steps could add up. Already, he had quietly used his wealth to help other
humans in return for small kindnesses.
"Go home, get married, have a life," he said.
She shook her head. "I attract the wrong kind
of guy. Always have. I'm not going to be like my mother, marrying
five times, each guy worse than the last..."
Terrill said nothing. If she survived her dangerous
and unhealthy profession, she would probably end up exactly like her mother --
marrying the men who paid attention to her, not questioning their motives,
excusing their bad behavior, secretly believing she didn't deserve any better.
"Sylvie doesn't have to be like that," Jamie
continued, as if reading his mind. "She can go to college,
get a good job. Wait for the right man to come along."
He must have been frowning, because she playfully patted
him. "I'm sorry. You don't need to hear all this. But
if you ever met Sylvie, you'd know why I talk this way...”
He didn't answer. It was the rare human who could
pull themselves out of their designated fate. But something about this
young woman's faith in her even younger sister was inspiring. He'd help
make it happen, he decided. At least give them the chance.
He lay in bed with
this young woman in his arms, the warmth of her body seeming to wake memories
long forgotten. Of life, of love and family and everyday existence.
It was strangely comforting. For once,
his hunger left him. Or so he thought.
The windows glowed from sunlight one moment, and then
darkened in the next. Terrill awoke instantly at the cusp, as the ambient
light shifted.
He got up, surrounded by empty mirrors. If ever he was
tempted to forget his nature, he need only rent a motel room, for which mirrors
served as decor. An empty room surrounded him, and empty mirrors
surrounded it, as if he really didn't exist. He only existed in the
darkness and the shadows, which meant he was invisible, night or day.
In truth, he was unlikely to ever forget that. He woke
every evening hungry for blood. For many decades he had been prudent
enough to wake alone. The one time he had forgotten -- the one time he
had felt comfortable enough to let the human stay with him -- had ended badly.
Now this strange trip to a part of the country he’d never
intended to visit, this crazy idea of approaching strangers, to risk his
life. All for a girl he'd barely known, with whom he'd planned a simple
sex-for-money transaction.
But she had not treated him that way. For the first
time in a long time, she'd treated him like a human.
He dressed in a conservative suit, something that wouldn't stand
out too much in a small town where most people dressed informally. It was
the best he could do. He'd never owned a flannel shirt that he could
remember, never even tried on a pair of jeans. In part, he dressed
formally because old fashioned classic clothing offered him more cover -- hats,
gloves, vests, coats, long sleeved shirts and trousers, all gave him a small
advantage over light.
It was also a remnant of his long existence. Clothing
styles came and went -- and he didn't even try to keep up with them.
He stuck his hand in his pocket and felt a burning pain in
his hand. He cried out, and withdrew the stinging object. He
dropped the crucifix out of his hand, but held onto the silver chain, which
hurt him, but didn't burn like the cross.
He stared at it curiously. He'd always been confused
why crosses had this effect. He had no opinion about religion. He
didn't believe in an afterlife -- other than the type he was
experiencing. It was all mumbo jumbo to him. Why should a cross, or
Holy Water, or silver or any other of the many folk wards have any effect on
him at all?
Why question it? Why were any of these superstitious
talismans any less likely than the fact of his own existence?
He touched the crucifix again, and though it hurt, he found
that he could stand the pain. It burned a few centimeters of the surface
of his skin, but went no further.
Without thinking he swung the chain over his head. The
cross bounced off his chest and then settled and he staggered and cried
out. The silver chain cut into the back of his neck, and he had the image
of his head detaching, and bursting into flames. He reached up, and found the
chain digging into the surface of his skin, but lodging there.
The cross burned into his chest and stuck, his skin fusing
with it. It continued to ache, but the sharp pain subsided. He
could stand it. He removed the chain,
because the wounds it was inflicting were visible. The crucifix remained fused to the skin of
his chest.
He'd once fed upon a priest, who when the outer layers of
clothing were removed, had been wearing a hairshirt. The mortal's skin
had been mottled and covered with rashes. His back flayed by
self-flagellation. As Terrill remembered it, the priest hadn't been a
righteous man, but a vicious schemer who used the Inquisition for his own
benefit. So it had surprised Terrill to see that the man apparently had a
religious side.
Or perhaps, sadomasochistic side, since the sadism was more
than manifested by his official duties -- a torturer who tortured himself.
Terrill winced as he put on his shirt. He didn't ask
himself why he left the cross burning into his chest.
He drove to the Hardaway house the minute it became fully
dark. He'd probably catch them at dinner, but so be it. It was
important that they all be home.
He still wasn't sure what he would say. Perhaps
nothing. Perhaps he'd hand over the check and walk away. That's
what he should do. Anything else wasn't safe, either for him or for them.
But as he stood at the doorway, he knew he wouldn't leave
without talking to Sylvie.
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