Teeth Page 3

  Captain Harris answered with impatient silence.

  Connor huffed as he spun on his heel. “I’ll be downstairs.”

  “Find something worthy and I’ll give you Pattee,” the captain called after him, the lilt in his jest unmistakable.

  “Jesus… never mind.” Connor walked from the offices and past reception in time to dodge a shoe flying toward him from his right. “What the—”

  He turned and saw a mess of a man handcuffed to the metal bench next to the processing room, both shoes now missing from his feet. Behind him, Connor heard snickering.

  “Look, it’s another case for you.” Pattee walked past him, heading to the bathroom.

  Connor yelled out after him. “No, that is a dick. You should recognize your own kind. Plus, look at this guy—I only stick up for the innocent.”

  Pattee waved a hand to dismiss Connor’s argument and disappeared behind the door to the men’s room.

  “Who says I’m not innocent?” The man leaned forward, straining against the cuffs. He looked at Connor with wide eyes and then licked his bottom lip.

  “Seriously, dude? You actually have dried blood all over your face.” Connor moved his open hand with splayed fingers in a sweeping motion in front of his own nose.

  “Yeah… it’s not as clean as you would think.” There was a calculated wildness to the man’s eyes.

  “I’m sorry. What?” Connor had started to walk away but stopped and turned back.

  “Hollywood always shows it as two pretty little puncture wounds.” He tapped his neck with his index and middle fingers like snake teeth. “And then they suck the blood and that’s it. All graceful and romantic. But that ain’t how it works. These teeth,” the man curled his lips to show his bloodied mouth. “These aren’t sharp like that. You have to actually tear the skin on their throats to get anything at all…”

  Connor felt his lunch flip in his stomach and turned away, not giving the man the satisfaction of knowing he’d affected him. Regular criminals—murderers, rapists, drug dealers—he could deal with, but the reality of true lamian-on-human murderers, any lamian murder for the purpose of blood or meat, was that they were basically cannibals.

  He whistled at the desk sergeant to get his attention and pointed behind him at the bench while holding the folder up. “Cut and dry?”

  “Nah, he’s not yours. He was caught eating neighborhood pets.”

  “Eating?”

  The sergeant nodded with a look of bemusement on his face.

  Connor shook the idea free and turned away in time to see Pattee exit the bathroom. He pivoted toward the stairs, not wanting to wait for the elevator in his need to get away from the man in the cage and avoid the other detective. Asshole.

  Connor had a packed afternoon ahead of him. He needed to go downstairs and talk to Rogers about the victim, then head over to the scene and likely re-catalog the whole thing. He glanced at the clock above the stairs.

  Shit.

  And he needed to be at the school by 3:30.

  It’s going to be one of those days. He turned his body at an angle and took the stairs two at a time.

  — FOUR —

  “I don’t want to see it.” Madison clamped her mouth shut and huffed through her nose, almost snorting in response to Brenna’s suggestion they check out the newest movie version of West Side Story. She only half-heartedly argued the value of the movie itself, her mind elsewhere as she ran her tongue over her tooth again.

  Madison had lost track of how many times she’d surveyed the canine in the last week. Her tongue was developing a sensitive spot and the tooth wasn’t getting any more stable in her mouth. It freely swung back and forth when nudged, and she swore it spun all the way around in the socket the previous night. It was going to fall out at any moment, and she dreaded it happening at school, or around friends.

  Then they would know.

  “Come on. Seriously, Maddie?” Brenna turned her attention back from the bus driving off with Tristan inside and slouched her shoulders in an exaggerated movement, bouncing her curls. Brenna’s new hairstyle was barely an inch shy of her shoulders and Madison briefly wondered if it wasn’t a practiced move to animate her meticulously stretched and twisted black hair. “But you were Maria in the play last year. And now you’re telling me you don’t want to see the new remake?”

  Last year? Madison thought. A lot has changed since last year.

  For starters, she hated how Brenna had grown so much taller over the summer. Even though Brenna’s phone case and handbag were beyond-her-budget name brands while Madison’s were knock-offs, they used to at least feel like equals—looks, abilities, popularity—but now it felt like Brenna talked down to her because of a growth spurt. Brenna was suddenly taller, with shorter even more perfect hair, and more makeup—a lot of purple had shown up on her eyes and matching nails lately. Madison, in comparison, was now a dirty lamian.

  “But Brenna, they changed it.” It almost sounded like whining as she stood her ground vocally, physically, while mentally scrambling to keep her secret safe. “Why’d they have to change it? It was perfectly fine when it was about gangs.”

  “Yeah well, the West Side grew some fangs this time!” Brenna laughed at her own comment and held up what was referred to as finger-fangs—using her index and middle fingers in a folded down peace sign, or as the ending portion of an air quote. She wiggled her finger-fangs and threw her head back in an over-exaggerated extended laugh, like she did whenever Tristan was around.

  That was the exact response Madison was dreading. To Brenna, lamians were a lower class. They were all vampires—creatures to be ridiculed at worst and romanticized in all the wrong ways at best. Though Tamara and Amber were never vocal about it like Brenna, and stretched from upper-middle to lower-middle class, they played along whenever Brenna reminded them they were still well above lamians.

  As a lamian among them, she wouldn’t last a day of their badgering. She’d be driven from the only group of people she’d ever known. They’d been friends since kindergarten, and they’d survived everything from Girl Scouts, to camp, and eventually puberty and the boys who followed. They’d been through it all, and she knew they’d dump her the second they found out about her teeth.

  “What the hell is up with Tristan on the bus? Daddy take away his shiny car?” Madison tried desperately to change the subject and bring it back to Brenna.

  Brenna and Tristan had been dating off and on for almost two years. They would have fights leading to a three- or four-day breakup, but they always ended up back together. Brenna usually acted like a victor in some big battle, and Tristan often looked like a victim silently pleading for help. No one helped him. He knew what he was getting into with Brenna, and most of the time they seemed made of the same mold.

  “No. It’s in the shop getting a tune-up. Nice subject change though.” Brenna raised an eyebrow at Madison. “Come on. Seriously, why won’t you go? Amber said she’s on board, but it’s always better with more than two of us.”

  “It’s stupid. They don’t need to remake every single popular classic and recast it with lamians. Why not make new movies. Give the lamians their own voice, tell their own stories, instead of shoe-horning them into characters and situations written for humans?”

  “Their own stories? Are you...?” Brenna’s eyes widened and her lipstick-smeared smile twisted into something of a dare. “Why, Madison Hayward… Are you becoming a vamp sympathizer? Going to start marching with them and demanding we respect them for who they are?”

  “No.” Yes, Madison thought. “I just… I think there’s enough versions of West Side Story for the next millennium or so.”

  She could hear the thinness of her argument and worried her expression would give away her internal struggle. She huffed and jutted a hip, putting on a show for Brenna. “I don’t like any remake,
Bren, you know that. And remaking a movie for that reason? It’s stupid. Hollywood is trying to cash in on a new fan base in the name of diversity and I’m not buying into it. You give them your money if you want to, I’m out.”

  Madison turned away from her friend and looked down the driveway loop, praying Brenna’s mother would arrive and save her from this conversation. She saw a police car enter the student pickup area and glanced left in time to see Tamara wave in her direction—all bubbly and polite, even though Madison had gone along with Brenna’s lead and been cruel to her oldest friend.

  Tamara and Madison had met in preschool and immediately became tight friends—a full year before either of them met Brenna. But Madison hadn’t talked to Tamara so far this year. Not after learning she’d lost her canines while away for summer break and sported a new set of fangs. Brenna had pushed Tamara from the circle within a week of the news spreading through town, openly discarding her with the comment, “Being a cop’s kid is bad enough, but a vamp to boot?”

  Brenna’s nose literally lifted so high when she turned away from Tamara—dismissing her with words and gestures—Madison could clearly see up her nostrils. Madison peripherally caught Amber take a physical step toward Brenna. Madison glanced between her friends, two to one, and then chose.

  Poorly.

  Since then, if Tamara had come close enough to see it, Brenna would make an L with her thumb and index finger and put it on her forehead. The Social Studies teacher explained how the hand gesture had once meant loser, but had been borrowed and evolved to mean lamian to the younger generation. It was still mean. Still hateful. And Brenna did it every chance she got.

  It had only been a month since Tamara had been pushed from their circle, but if she’d known then what she knew now, Madison would have sided with Tamara. Now she worried what that meant, what it said, about her. Was it because she was lamian and needed an ally, or was it because she truly missed her friend and knew Brenna had been wrong? Madison was unsure how much of her wish to turn back time leaned on one answer or the other.

  The police car came to a stop at the curb and Tamara pulled the front door open, smiling as she spoke. “Hey Dad, can’t you pick me up in the SUV like a normal parent?”

  Madison couldn’t hear if Tamara’s father had responded and turned away from the grinning girl in the squad car, in time to catch Brenna’s glare. Madison braced herself for Brenna’s hateful tirade, but she was surprised when the girl squinted, curled a lip, and nodded at the door at the far end of the entrance loop rather than the cop car.

  “What a freak.”

  It didn’t take Madison long to find the source of Brenna’s disdain, as she watched the school janitor drop his eyes to the ground and retreat into the shadows inside the building.

  “Can you believe him? He was just sitting there, staring at us.”

  “Was he?” Madison turned back to Brenna, glad to be off the hook for the silent exchange with Tamara. “Or was he looking for someone?”

  “He was staring. You know he was staring. He’s always staring. Watching us in the halls, looking through the glass in the doors, and now out here. He’s a creep.” Brenna abruptly walked toward and right past Madison, as she headed for her mother’s rose gold SUV. “I’ll call you later about what time we’ll go to the movie.”

  Madison opened her mouth to once again refuse the offer but left the words unspoken. She wished she could ignore Brenna’s call, but knew she couldn’t avoid the girl all weekend without a good excuse.

  I wonder if I can get Mom to make food poisoning for me…

  Madison turned to head down the sidewalk leading her off school property and headed home. She didn’t notice the janitor was still watching her from behind the glass of the school’s vestibule.

  — FIVE —

  Henry turned the shower off and quickly ran the towel over his body before wrapping it around him. He’d thought of nothing but the blood while mowing the lawn. He’d relived the collection, the kill, while showering. And now he needed to reward himself with a treat.

  Heading straight for the kitchen, still in the damp towel, he could almost taste the excitement awaiting him in the fridge. He reached in and pulled a pint-sized Mason jar free, and then felt his stomach flip for a moment.

  “Uh…” He groaned.

  He hated the way it looked when it separated. The bottom layer had become a thick, dark, almost gel-like substance. The upper layer was a sickly, blood-tinted yellow, topped off with what reminded him of the gentle froth of a freshly poured soda.

  Henry looked at the other small jar and saw it had also separated. The first jar he had collected hadn’t done that. It had stayed nice and smooth for much longer. He briefly wondered why.

  Was it something to do with the size? I’d used a larger jar the first time—a big pickle jar.

  He had since gone shopping for canning jars, convinced he could still smell the vinegar from the dill pickles rising above the blood when he opened it. But seeing this—the coagulation, separation—made him decide to more thoroughly clean the pickle jar and have it handy for the next time.

  Meanwhile, he pouted and wished he hadn’t gone through the smoother contents of the first one so fast. It is what it is, he thought. He stood and focused instead on the blood he had in his hand.

  The jar was cold and the blood inside refrigerated to a chill he didn’t enjoy. He preferred it warm when he was drinking it plain for a quick treat. Or at least room temperature.

  When I’m cooking with it, it doesn’t matter.

  He glanced at the stack of Internet printouts on the table and smiled at the recipes. He knew he’d find something fun to make for dinner later, but for now, he returned his attention to the jar in front of him.

  Taking the metal ring off and prying loose the flat top underneath, he held the jar up to his face and inhaled deeply. Coppery.

  Barely, he thought.

  It didn’t even smell right when it was cold and separated. He put the jar in the microwave and pushed the thirty-second button.

  Just enough to take the chill off, but not cook it.

  He nodded his head to the beat of the glass tray, which had come off its track and was jerking and bouncing its way around the microwave. He beat on the edge of the counter with his fingertips, creating a drumbeat of excitement to go with the bumping sounds of the glass tray. He noticed the dirt under his fingernails—even fresh out of the shower—and frowned. He used them to scrape gum and dirt, and who knows what else, off the mirrors and desks at school, and he couldn’t remember the last time his nails actually looked clean. The ding made his fingernails unimportant and brought a smile to his face, as his anticipation rose.

  Henry carefully removed the jar and stuck a long iced-tea spoon into it, swirling the separated contents slightly as he stirred the bottom sludge up into the thinner liquid. Plasma, he corrected himself, remembering the night he’d gone online in horror to find out what had happened to his collection of blood. He poured the entire jar into the blender—a trick he’d learned that same evening.

  A couple seconds on puree and it’s drinkable again.

  He leaned over to watch through the hole on the top. The center of the lid had been missing since it had belonged to his mother and he usually put his hand over it, but this time, he was excited. Eager. And needed to see it.

  The machine came to life as he pressed the pulse button. A quick whirl and the coagulated blood and plasma began to blend together. Another pulse and the color smoothed out, and he could no longer see a clear distinction between the two parts. The third pulse he held a second too long, as his mouth opened with hunger and his eyes widened with fascination. The blood blended, the plasma thinning the clot back into a liquid state. It rhythmically rose up the sides of the blender and receded back to the whirling blade below as it thinned and spun at high speed. Without war
ning, without precedence, holding the button for too long, the blood rose too high and spurted out of the hole.

  Henry jumped back as blood splashed into his eye. It completely coated his right hand when he raised it defensively. Reflexively, he moved his left hand from the pulse button to his face and covered his eye. Without thinking, he wiped at his eye with his clean palm, then his fingertips. He blinked both eyes frantically. The kitchen was washed in a red-tint and his vision blurred, as the irritant smeared across his cornea and began to sting. He turned and made his way to the bathroom to rinse his eye and check it in the mirror.

  Henry wasn’t expecting to be enticed by the reflection he saw there.

  Sure, he’d been spattered before. None of the kills had been without some blood smears or at least a speckling landing on him. But this was different. This was a thick smudge, wiped across his flesh as if he’d rubbed against a bleeding victim like he was a cat looking for affection.

  And something inside him buzzed with delight.

  He blinked until tears cleared his eye naturally, no longer wishing to wash his face. Henry looked down at his right hand and back to the mirror. Slowly, in an exaggerated motion meant to mimic a mother’s hand caressing him, he wiped the back of his blood-covered hand across his cheek. His mouth hung partially open. His breathing caught as the back of his fingers drew with both life and death along his jawline. His chest hitched. His stomach tightened. His groin reacted.

  His mind followed suit.

  Without ever looking away from his reflection, he lowered his hand and pulled the tip of the towel free, letting it fall to the floor. He stepped back and leaned against the wall.

  With agonizingly slow, purposeful movements, he wiped the blood coating his palm along his erect penis, before wrapping his fingers around it. Henry explored the sensation of the natural slickness as he slid back and forth, pulling his foreskin with just enough practiced force. His breathing matching his movement, as both sped up in a halting fashion. The air felt cool against the ever-increasing heat of the pulse in his grip.