Amaranthine

Chapter 10

Katelina woke the following day to filtered sunlight splashed across her face. Faint impressions of a dream lingered, like half formed fingerprints in warm clay. Yes, it had been a warm dream - very, very warm. He'd been beautiful and smooth with dark eyes and strong hands. It was the kind of dream she wanted to stay in.

But, she couldn't, so she slowly opened her eyes, feeling disoriented and sore. Her head ached and her throat felt thick and raw. Her mind was mushy as it tried vainly to process why she felt so bad, and finally concluded that she must have a hangover.

She rolled over and found herself staring at a set of heavy orange drapes. A single thought drifted though her consciousness: Orange? Who in the hell has orange drapes?

Her muscles complained as she sat up too quickly and her eyes darted around the shabby motel room. She scrabbled through a tumble of memories, but the replay stuttered to a stop when a sharp pain erupted in her shoulder. Her hand went to it unconsciously. The hardened blood felt crisp beneath her fingers, a stiff reminder of last night's events. A strange horror gripped her as she gingerly fingered the wound and remembered it all - blood, fear, fire and- vampires?

Still reeling from the memories, she climbed out of the bed. Miniature clips flashed behind her eyes, encapsulated events in slow motion: A monster chained to a wall, bodies burning, something attacking her-

She forced the thoughts away and moved to the window, her mind in disarray. She jerked the drapes back and stared through the grimy glass to the world beyond.

The sun, in the last throes of the day, drenched the scene in blood-colored light. Cigarette butts littered a dingy sidewalk like crumpled pieces of reality. A random smattering of cars were scattered around the cracked parking lot. Weeds grew at the farthest edges of the pavement where the civilized world dissolved into a dry muttering cornfield. There was simply no room for vampires here.

She pulled the drapes closed and clicked the light on. The only thing that really mattered to her was what she was going to do. First, she needed to talk to Jorick and then everything else would fall neatly into place. Unfortunately, as her eyes skipped around the room, she realized that Jorick wasn't there.

Her first reaction was a string of obscenities, but she forced herself to relax. The room was already paid for, so even if he'd left that was okay. Still, she'd need some food and a ride. She hated the thought of having no money and being completely dependent on someone else, even if that someone was Sarah. That might be what best friends were for, but still.

She fished through her pockets and gave a small cry of triumph when she discovered a wrinkled twenty-dollar bill. Everything was going to be all right after all. It might not be much, but money was money - a real, useful, tangible object she could hold in her fingers.

She stuffed the money in her pocket and decided to take a shower before she called anyone. She paused at the bathroom door, in case Jorick was inside. She cleared her throat loudly and, that failing, she called his name. There was no answer, so she cautiously stuck her head inside. The room was tiny and painted the same boring shade that most of the commercial world used: white enough to be sterile and unimaginative, yet off -white in a failed effort of homey-ness. The place was tidy; the shower curtain was even pulled shut, but there was no Jorick.

She decided it was just as well that he was gone. She didn't need him, after all, and she'd begun to suspect that the man in her dream looked a lot like him. She wasn't sure she could look him in the eye with that still clinging to her memory.

She paused by the sink and looked in the mirror. Her pale skin was streaked with dirt and traces of blood. Her sweater was torn at the shoulder, with threads of frayed yarn slowly unraveling around the edges. Her blonde mane was still pulled back in a ponytail. The memory of her bathroom and yesterday's scramble to get to work seemed a world away.

She peeled her sweater off and washed the heavy scab from her shoulder to uncover two slits about an inch apart. Jorick's words returned to her mind yet again: "-you've gotten quite a bite".

Pushing away the macabre thoughts, she kicked her shoes off, then moved to the bathtub. She jerked the shower curtain open and reached inside to turn the water on. Her fingers brushed the knob just as her eyes landed on the contents.

She screamed.

Jorick lay in the bathtub. His skin had the ashen, bloodless color of a corpse. Both his eyes and mouth were closed. His hands rested on his chest and stomach, perfectly still. His black hair fell over his shoulders and spread out to fill the space between his head and the chipped white porcelain. He was clearly dead.

Katelina stared helplessly. She knew she should call the police - but she had no idea what she'd tell them.

Fighting to maintain logic, she chewed her lip thoughtfully and began to pace the tiny room in circles. She had to do something. She couldn't just ignore this - or could she? She reasoned it out logically. What if she just got dressed and left? Could they find her? Would they try to pin his death on her? Would anyone believe that she didn't know what had happened to him, or that she didn't even know him? Would they say she'd done something to him? Would they find a way to blame her for his house burning down? And there would be bodies in the ruins, wouldn't there? After all, with the stress of Patrick's murder investigation, the detective didn't like her very much. They'd be happy to get her for something.

The questions ceased and she came to a single conclusion: this was a very, very bad situation.

She made two more circuits of the room, then knelt by the bathtub and studied Jorick again. As she stared at him, a strange thought flitted through the chaos in her mind: He was very good looking - maybe even beautiful - and dead as a doornail. A beautiful corpse in a chipped bathtub. Just her luck.

She leaned over him and tentatively reached a trembling hand towards him. She'd never touched a dead person before. Reluctantly, she pressed her fingertips to his neck, imitating what she'd seen on television. His skin was ice cold and she winced as she searched for the faintest hint of a pulse. Her brows furrowed in concentration and she was forced to admit that she didn't even know what she was feeling for, but, she decided, it hardly mattered. One look was enough to pronounce the man beyond aid of medical help.

She took her hand back and studied him, wondering what had killed him. She didn't think people just died sporadically, unless there was something seriously wrong with them to begin with. Maybe he'd had a heart attack, or died of a drug overdose. That sounded like something that would happen to one of Patrick's friends.

She poked him again. If he had drugs on him would they arrest her, too? She'd just decided to search his pockets when his eyes popped open; dark orbs that stared straight through her.

With a horrified scream, she fell over backwards and sprawled across the floor on her butt. She propped herself up with her elbows and stared in disbelief at the bathtub.