Violet stared all the more aggressively at her shoes, her brows sinking lower. She didn’t seem to come to any sort of conclusion by the time she shuffled to her feet. “Right. Well, I’ll—I’ll think about that. Thanks.”
“You do that, kid.” It was an abrupt shift, but maybe this was for the best. If she truly did think about it, she might finally realize that vampirism wasn’t right for her—wasn’t particularlyrightfor anyone, so much as it was a thing that some peoplewere, and therefore became a distinct part of them. A challenging, occasionally-traumatizing part, that also had its lovely aspects when life let up the stress and struggle enough to allow space for them.
Violet did a little spin on her heels and headed for the front door.
“You don’t want to weed more of the backyard while you’re here?” Rahil called after her.
“Maybe in your dreams.” She flipped him off as she left.
What a kid.
Rahil was pretty sure she wouldn’t be the person invadinghisdreams though—unless they were nightmares. With how little sleep he got, his brain seemed to be doing its best to avoid those. What he couldn’t seem to avoid were thedaydreams. He spent the rest of the sunlit hours wandering between the living room mattress and the one in his room, carrying around a few pieces of wiring to fiddle with and uselessly checking the empty cupboard during each trek, before finally traipsing to the sheeted-off section of the porch when the heat got too much to bear up in the house.
Rahil tried, again, to close his eyes, but half an hour later he was scrolling through old messages on his phone. He checked on the news while he was at it, searching specifically for any updates on the Wesley Smith-Garcia trial. Each time he ventured into the discourse surrounding it, he could feel his blood pressure spike, but it was too important a case to ignore. Rahil was no expert in legal matters, but from what he’d gathered, after Wesley had helped a vampire escape from the Vitalis-Barron labs, he had been charged with attempted second-degree burglary of trade secrets. His lawyer argued that the willful intrusion into the private space was solely to assist people he knew were in danger and was therefore covered by something called the Good Samaritan Law.
The prosecution claimed that Wesley couldn’t have entered the area solely to assist anyone, pointing to the video evidence Vitalis-Barron had supplied of Wesley originally bringing the vampire he’d ultimately rescued into the lab in the first place. The defense then asserted that since the video proved Welsey had been brought by Vitalis-Barron employees into the building, he was there legally up until the point where he left his escort to help those in danger, so the Good Samaritan Law still applied. It felt like watching people build a picture out of a puzzle by putting the pieces in an objectively wrong order.
It made Rahil sick to think that this was how the lives of vampires were regarded: as sidepieces in a theatrical retelling of history that continued to center the humans. And yet, the more knowledgeable people of the internet seemed to believe that this—the Good Samaritan argument, specifically—could be the beginning of major legal change for vampires. If Wesley Smith-Garcia won, that was.
At the moment, everyone seemed on the fence about that, Rahil included.
He distracted himself with a few games, then a few videos, then another useless news search. By the time the mosquitoes came out in full force, he was shivering from a mild case of sun-poisoning, staring at the screen of his nearly dead phone and watching for a read notification on the last five messages he’d sent Merc.
Five mistakes he did nottotallyregret.
R. BabyCock
Just curious, how much do you charge for one of those ridged dildos?
(That is not flirty, by the way. THIS is flirting):
Just curious, babe, how much skin do I have to show before you put one of those ridged dildos inside me?
You’ve ensnared me in your ouroboros. Teach me how to be as subtle as your fingers as you enjewel that great long staff of yours. I’m ready to be staked by your holy silver. Come work the cold hard metal of my heart.
;)
But the thread just kept looking as though no one had been on. Before, Merc had always at least read his messages. Had seeing Rahil in person really made thingsthisbad? Merc hadn’t seemed particularly interested, but he’d still been kind to Rahil—kinder than Rahil deserved.
Or maybe it was worse than disinterest. That William Douglas fellowhadbeen very insistent when he’d demanded holy silver last Saturday. Merc might have scared him off then, but he hadn’t seemed like the kind of person who would leave well enough alone.
As a couple more days—and twice as many unanswered messages—passed, that worry started to seem less and less like an excuse to think about Merc, and more like a potential reality. If he did go—just show up at Merc’s shed again without warning—it would likely get him into trouble, and ruin Merc’s day to boot.
But whether or not William Douglas was the kind of fellow who would leave well enough alone after all, Rahil Zaman certainly wasn’t.
The cords were tighter this time, Rahil was sure of it.
It didn’t help that he’d been here for an hour already, creeping out of his house early enough that neither the sun nor the out-cold form of Jim on the mattress-couch took notice of him. Now though, there were beams of light pouring through the small windows along the top of the barn-style shed. Why, oh why, did he never realize just how bad a decision was until it was too late?
But he’d known, hadn’t he, that Merc wasn’t planning to see him again. That he might not arrive for hours, or days. That he might even turn his back on Rahil the moment Merc saw he’d invaded his space for a second time. And that he would be well within his rights.
But being here, taking this risk, had still seemed worth it in the moment. It was also seeminglessworth itbythe moment.
Rahil’s fingers had definitely gone numb again, his stomach growled from missed meals, and his whole body felt sore with the bone-deep fatigue of too many insomniac nights. He’d begun to shake and ache in bursts by the time the shed door finally opened.
“Oh,” Merc said, “It’s you.”
8
