Under a Silent Moon

8

Chapter Eight: What Happened to You?

ZACK

The thirst has never been more crippling. An invisible hand grips, twists, and tugs my insides and I am helpless to obey. The turbulence of sound, smell, hunger, and the fear of being seen merges together and takes over my impulses like some sentient being of its own. I knew it was a mistake to come here. My hand reaches for the door and I am renounced to its power--the very same door I stumbled through during my transition--but the recollection of last time I was in this club is branded in my memory and I use all of my willpower to refrain from giving it that one final push. One nudge and I fear the building will consume me, and in turn, I will consume the contents of it . . .

I'm frozen outside of the entryway and the prickling bumps on my skin have not been summoned by any outside force. Before I can pull my hand away and slip into the darkness, the door swings open.

I don't have time to see who it is--boy, girl, old, young, drunk, sober. The instant they step foot onto the pavement of the alley my hands are tangled in their clothes and pinning them to the red brick of the club's exterior. With my right forearm, I push onto their chest, exerting all of my weight to keep them still. My left hand finds long, thick hair that it yanks aside, exposing smooth, pristine skin. I can nearly see the artery pulsating just beneath that skin; I can smell it, and I'm about to taste it when a small voice whimpers, "Just do it."

It's a command that I wasn't expecting to hear. I falter momentarily and risk a glance at the face of my victim. To my horror, it's a familiar one.

Her eyes are squinted, as if she's wishing them closed but can't help herself. She wants to see her fate, see her attacker. Although she is trembling, it's as if being this near death doesn't frighten her like it should. Her chin is held steady, her lips are pursed tightly together. Her arms don't make a move to push me away, but instead stay tightly fisted at her sides.

My deathly hold on her shock of hair loosens and I take a step back, studying her features. I know her from somewhere.

The longevity of my pause strikes suspicion in her and she takes a moment to really get a look at me. Her eyes soften as a look of recognition paints over her face. "Zack?"

And that's where I know her from. Lana. She used to be in the musicals our middle school put on, and she had the most amazing voice out of all of the girls in our grade. I always told my buddies I went to those "fag shows" for extra credit, but in truth, the main reason I went was to hear Lana sing. Of course, she'd never know that. I hadn't spoken a word to her since the sixth grade.

The door of the club swings open once more and before I have time to distance myself from her, Lana wraps her arms around my waist, pulling me close.

"Just go with it," she whispers into my ear. I hide my face in the crook of her neck, closest to the dumpster. Being in such close proximity to the very artery I was about to feast upon a moment ago causes something to shift behind my eyes, as if my pupils have dilated to their full extent. I have not dared to look in a mirror in months, and so I can only guess that this sensation is physical.

Squeezing my eyes closed, I attempt to focus on the wet garbage stench wafting in from the right of our embrace.

I don't see whoever exited the building, but I do wonder for a fleeting instant if our facade is credible. A woman's slurring voice says, "Get a room."

When the coast is clear, Lana gently removes her arms from my sides and waits for me to meet her gaze. It takes an awkward amount of seconds.

"Zackary Ions, right?" she says, as if she doesn't believe her own conjecture.

I nod, feeling my body revert to its cool, calm, and collected default setting. I haven't felt this way for six months. I had nearly forgotten what it felt like to interact with another person, albeit one I haven't spoken to in five years.

"What happened to you?"

I usher Lana away from the club, nearly dragging her by the wrist. She doesn't appear to be fazed at all by this strange situation. We hide away in a gathering of trees behind the building, and I force us to crouch down for fear of anyone else seeing me.

She hasn't spoken another word yet, simply eyes me with suspicion and waits for some kind of explanation that justifies me attacking her.

I know it's my turn to speak, but I'm at a loss for words.

Finally, she says, "Why are we hiding in these bushes and what were you going to do to me back there?"

My eyes lock onto her neck again and I have to squeeze them shut tight in order to refocus. Lana must have seen them before I closed them, though, because she almost stumbles backward. Steadying herself, she repeats her initial question: "Zack. What happened to you?"

"I--I don't know," I stammer, and I hate how pathetic my voice sounds. I haven't even been completely truthful about my situation to myself, let alone anyone else. "I was attacked here about six months ago. I haven't been the same since."

Outstretching her hand, she traces her fingers delicately underneath my left eye. "They were black, like an animal's." There is no accusation in her words, just a matter-of-fact statement.

By the way we are crouching, I have to look up to see her. We lock eyes, and she squints as if she's trying to figure out a mathematical equation. She brushes her silky hair behind her shoulders. Then, slowly, she grabs my hand and places it gently on her neck. Losing slight control of my body, I feel my fangs extending behind my lips and even now it's still painful. I part my lips slightly as an innate animalistic fervor begins to overcome me. I know my pupils are expanding just by the look of astonishment that washes over her features.

She pulls her hand back. "That's wild." Is she smiling?

I swallow hard and stand up, suddenly angry that she's putting me through this. I'm not sure how much temptation I can take before succumbing to the darkness that fuels me.

She stands too and meets my gaze levelly, obviously not sensing the tension she has caused.

"People think you're dead. It's been all over the news."

"I might as well be," I tell her, and I have not a damn clue as to why I'm opening up to her like this, a girl I haven't spoken to or even thought of for nearly six years. She tilts her head to the side questioningly which prompts me to lift her hand now and press it against my chest where the steady thump thump thump of a heartbeat should be reverberating. Upon sensing its hollowness, she pushes harder against my thermal. It takes her only a moment to come to the same impossible conclusion that took me a while to accept. I am, in fact, dead.

She thrusts her fists into the pockets of her jacket and gives me a good one-over.

"Well Zack, I think I have some bad news for you. I think you're . . . a vampire?"

There's a moment of silence that happens following her statement/question, and then for some fucking reason, we start laughing.