Endless Night (11 page)

Chapter Eleven

We
lay sleeping in a bed of white. Plush, overstuffed pillows billowed around our heads. In matching white Long Johns, I snuggled spooning with a child about half my size. Her curly brunette locks mimicked mine and waved around her head like sea foam. Our bare feet overlapped one another and my arm draped over her side. We both slept so soundly. I could see the two of us from a bird’s eye view as if watching from outside my own body. The little girl I lay with seemed so similar to me. I wondered if I was seeing my own child. A futuristic premonition of my child and I asleep in our bed perhaps.

Bright white light filtered through unseen windows, illuminating the stark snowy bedding. The contrast between our dark hair and the white of the linen was shocking and somewhat ethereal. Neither of us moved. Not even a sleepy little twitch. Like two mannequins snuggled on a bed, alone in a room of white. Suddenly and with no obvious discretion, syrupy red liquid fell from above my view. I watched as sheets of it fell in slow motion down toward the sleeping child and my
own body. A spark in my core told me to stop the carnage. Prevent this scene from presenting itself to the girl sleeping so peacefully. But it proved pointless to try. I was only a bystander, innocent I was not, but bystander nonetheless. I had no hands, no voice, no vessel with which to halt the impending gore.

The moment I realized there was nothing that could be done, the red ooze splashed onto its target. The beautiful little girl
lay in her lush white bed covered from head to toe in thick crimson blood. Her clean white pajamas soaked to her skin with it. My clothing was the same. Our hair stuck in wet ribbons to the pillows we laid on, and our intertwined bare feet dripped blood from their toes. In all this mess, neither body moved. No one awoke in screaming hysterics. Through the spreading blood, I watched as a tiny smirk spread across the face of the child. In horror, I looked to my own face hidden poorly behind a mask of blood and saw an identical grin. The child and I slept in a bed of blood and I think we liked it.

I sat up in my borrowed four poster bed and held my head in my hands. I tried hard not to cry, but failed miserably. My thoughts flashed on the face of the little girl in that lovely bed. The little girl who looked so much like me. So innocent lying in a bed of white. So cynical covered in blood boasting a maniacal grin. I thought then, for the first time in a long time, about my dad. I was a little girl once. A little girl with long curl
y brown hair. A little girl who looked so much like her handsome daddy. A little girl spattered with the blood and brain matter from the back of her daddy’s head after a man shot him through the windshield of his car.

Years of therapy had taught me to move
passed that night, to forget the images that were ingrained in my little head, and to allow those thoughts to flow through now and then and not become a complete psycho. Therapy worked. Having a mother who loved me unconditionally helped. Having a friend like Tatum who was there to back me up at any given moment helped. Having my darling Mike love me for all that I was and all that I wasn’t helped. After a while, I didn’t need all that support. Shit, I didn’t want it.

They were always so fucking worried about fragile little Dylan. I’d made myself forget that night, made myself move on from it. Remember my dad for who he was not how he died. It worked. Even through all the blood that night in Mission Junction, it didn’t affect me. Didn’t affect me, so much so, I seemed a bit sociopathic. Maybe I was.

“God, maybe I’m just a fucking nutcase,” I whispered to myself in my darkened room and felt a little ridiculous.

After all these years of forcing myself to be unaffected, one bloody little dream brought it all out. Well, not all, but a little bit of crazy leaked out. I sniffed the snot back up into my nose, and wiped my wet cheeks. A familiar cynical smirk moved along my lips and I spoke into the darkness one more time.

“Dad, I miss you. If anytime you can come to visit, please make it now. I need you.” I’d said this line more than once in the last twenty years since that horrific night and not once had he answered. Not that I could hear or see anyway.

It wasn’t often I allowed myself to think of him or the night he died. It was better that way, I thought. But sitting alone in the pitch dark in the center of the spookiest place in the south, it seemed fairly appropriate to speak to the dead.

I wondered if the little witch girl, Azelie, was psychic enough to talk to my dad. The moment the thought entered my head, I flushed it away. It was crazy to even think it. First of all, she was a fucking lunatic. Secondly, I sort of trusted Cyrus. He said to stay away, so I thought I actually would. Well, aside from running into the crazy bitch at social events that was.

My head spun for a moment and I remembered how drunk I’d been hours before. Or days. Or months. Fuck
, it was impossible to live in real time with no window. It made for constant darkness. An endless night moving from one darkened space to another.

The light from the screen of my charging phone was the only thing allowing me to make out the shapes in the room. My door was closed and I slept alone. A quick check told me I was dressed in my pajamas and even wore a pair of socks I didn’t remember putting on. I’d been awake for quite a few minutes worrying over the past before I noticed the present. What the fuck did that say about me?

On socked feet, I moved from the comfort of my bed to the dresser that held my phone. The only lifeline I had to the outside world. It seemed I was losing Tatum with every passing minute and I hated Malcolm McTavish so uncontrollably it was a wonder he didn’t make it into my staked bank.

Haha
. Staked bank. I’m so fucking clever.

The only other person I felt I could at least trust not to throw me to the wolves was Cyrus. And even that was questionable. I had to say, I was a bit thankful he was such a gentleman. There was no way I made it up those stairs on my own and judging by the fact I was wearing socks, it was likely he helped me change my clothes. A mortified thought passed through my head when I realized he’d removed my clothing. He’d seen me naked. In a panic, I grabbed my boobs to check for a bra. A relieved breath escaped my lips when I felt the familiar padding of my strapless bra. He hadn’t taken it all off. Only what was necessary before putting my pants and a t-shirt on.

Relieved, I smiled. Bloody little girls and dead daddies and my biggest concern was whether or not a hot guy saw my tits. What the fuck was wrong with me? Perhaps a few more therapy sessions were in order. A lot more.

Requiring the presence of someone living, I left my room of dark solitude and sought out a familiar face. I knew the room across the hall was the temporary home of one of my favorite little vampy boys, but I wasn’t exactly comfortable with just knocking at his door. He had stripped me naked, so the embarrassment to follow when I did see him was going to be great for certain. I figured I might as well put that off as long as I could. Besides, there was another party to attend, giving me an entirely new opportunity to do something completely retarded. What was a weekend getaway without utter embarrassment?

The hall was dark and Cyrus’s door was closed. No light spilled from under his door so I assumed he was still sleeping. I glanced at my phone to check the time. The bright screen told me it was seven-fourteen. I’d only been asleep a few hours as far as I could tell. I doubted anyone else would be awake at this hour. In fact, I was a bit surprised I was.

My socked feet made no noise as they moved along the carpeted floor on the third level. A few other doors lined the dark hallway, but all were closed.

I realized I had no clue where Tatum’s room was. Not as though I’d go barreling into a room she shared with that ginger vampire boy anyway. Just the principle of the thing. What if there were an emergency? Well, I supposed that was why I was shoved with Mr. Atossa for the weekend. I questioned quickly if it was Tatum or Cyrus who asked that I be invited to this bloody getaway. It would make a lot of sense. And yet, none and all. Why in the holy hell would the guy I put a bullet through want to invite me on vacation with him and his vampy friends? Beat me. It was yet another question added to my ever growing list of shit that didn’t make sense.

Giving up on finding the living on the third floor, I made my way down the modest stairway to the much more extravagant second level. There was no noise coming from anywhere in the general vicinity. No moving bodies. No silly little bloodletting ceremonies clogging up the second floor landing, just a beautiful southern mansion filled with things older than me by a hundred years. And no, not the inhabitants. No matter how much they wanted it to be true, these little vampire kids did not live forever unless staked. Human, just like me and you. Only, they liked to drink a little blood now and then. No big deal. Right.

The wide, sweeping stairs that led to the main floor lay just ahead. The house was so dark and quiet you’d think it was the middle of the night instead of first thing in the morning. I reached the stairs and felt a twinge of fear in my stomach. The kind that makes you turn to see if someone’s following you. There was no one around, but that didn’t make me any less creeped out. There was something about wandering through an old southern mansion in near blackness that was pretty fucking scary. Maybe it was just me, I didn’t know.

Fear driving me to move faster, my little feat pounded each step in a desperate effort to reach the main floor and a large set of windows by the front doors. Reaching the ground level at the speed of fat ass, my socked feet nearly slid out of control on the slick hardwood floor. I caught myself on the winding railing of the wide staircase. My breathing was heavy and growing more rapid every moment I didn’t see light, every moment I was stuck in the grand open space full of so many spooky opportunities.

Practically sliding, I reached one of the floor length curtains and flung each back and away from the window beneath it. My eyes grew wide and my breath caught at the sight before me. Instead of a glorious light filled window, I was met with dark wooden shutters closed from the outside. No light peaked through the trap of darkness.

“Fuck me,” I said in a tone so near a breath it couldn’t even be called a whisper.

In a flash, I moved to the tall double doors. My hands tugged and twisted at the old brass knobs, desperately trying to pry them open. Each was locked. I used my phone to illuminate the mechanism. No deadbolt on these old fashioned doors. Each was locked with a key from the inside.

I was beginning to panic. It seemed to me I was locked in this monstrous Victorian tomb with a gaggle of blood drinking idiots. Not to mention the all-around creep factor of the dark scary house.

The drapes that led to the parlor were open and seemed inviting to the desperate. Using my phone to light the way, I made it to the smaller more furnished room. In the dark and not filled with plastic fanged people lying about, it seemed lonely somehow. I shined the light from my phone into every corner and onto every wall; there was not a window to be found.

Giving up on the search, I figured I’d run as quickly as I could back to my room and wake Cyrus. Embarrassment be damned. Unadulterated fear was beginning to seep in and take over. Fear usually took precedence on the grand scheme of emotions.

A few quick breaths in and out for courage, and I was off like a rocket. Slippery socks slid across the well-polished flooring. I made it to the stairs in record time, but slid out of control trying to stop at the first step. Again, I grabbed the thick wooden spire that protruded from the winding railing. Careening out of control, my body followed its forward momentum. I spun around on the axis my clenched hand had created, and slammed into the railing on the outside of the staircase.

As I tried to catch my breath, I watched as a little door under the stairs slowly opened. When I hit the railing, I’d heard a pop and assumed it was something detrimental in my body breaking. Now I knew I’d likely jarred this little door from its closure. The miniature wooden door opened without a sound and stood awaiting a nosey little snoop to see what was beyond it. One of the only things that could surpass fear was curiosity. I was one curious bitch. And yes, I knew, it killed that stupid cat. I hated cats.

I stood for a moment and allowed my heart to slow its pace. Forcing my rationale to take over and snuff the unwarranted fear, I waited also for one of the many inhabitants to come investigate all the noise. No one came. I listened for any microscopic noise to warn me of the presence of someone. Nothing.

I used this silence as a sign I was meant to investigate what
lay beyond that tiny door. In true sleuth fashion, I tiptoed to the short opening. A secret part of me wished I had theme music playing lightly in the background.

I stuck the face of my lit phone through the opening first. A set of narrow stone steps led down to a dimly lit basement. At the end of the steps, from a source unseen, a soft golden glow made its way up the narrow passage illuminating the stairs. It was nice to see some form of light. Even if it was hidden at the bottom of a set of tiny stairs. I listened again. Not a sound. I was beginning to feel as though I had earplugs in my ears. There was always something making noise. A clock ticking, a cricket chirping, a fucking tree blowing in the breeze outside. Something. But I heard nothing.

Before I could make the conscious choice, my feet carried me down the steps into the unknown below. The light grew brighter the nearer I reached the end of the steps. Relief began to wash over me as I bathed in the golden light.