“I hope you’re a cat fan. Henry is rather inquisitive.”
“Not a problem,” said Feit. “I have pets at home.”
“Dogs or cats?” asked the painter.
“Cats.”
“The superior beast,” said the old man, who gave a knowing smile and nodded. “Stay put. Mr. Feit, I’m going to get us some tea. Do you prefer cream and sugar or plain?”
“Plain is fine.”
“A perfect choice,” said the host, who left through a passageway toward the back of the house to fetch the refreshments. As he disappeared through a darkened doorway, the sleepers moved around the room to get a better view of Feit. The thief tossed the cat on the floor and brushed off his pants legs with a look of disgust. He then darted a glance at the door through which the artist had retreated, reached into his jacket, and took out the handgun Owen had seen on the table at the place on Margrave Street. Feit lifted his left thigh, put the gun under it, and eased his weight back down upon it.
“You can see he’s nervous,” said Melody.
“That makes two of us,” said Owen.
Minutes passed and the visitor put his right hand under his thigh repeatedly, no doubt practicing grabbing the gun. “Whatever is going to happen here isn’t going to be good,” said Melody. As she spoke, the old man came back through the doorway, pushing a silver tea cart. He poured his guest a cup and set it down on the small table next to his chair.
“Would you like a cookie?” he asked, and offered a silver tray of dainty items with frosting in a rainbow of colors.
“Forgive me, sir. I can’t have sugar.”
“Understood. We must have the same doctor.” He set the tray down and went to sit in the chair with the easel in front of him. Once settled, he leaned forward and turned the contrivance to face his visitor so the painting was in full view.
“Oh, my. That’s lovely,” said Feit. “And what are you asking for it?”
“I can let you have it for eighteen thousand dollars.”
“Very well.” The thief put his right hand into the left-hand side of his jacket as if to withdraw his wallet, but at the same time, Melody pointed out to Owen that Feit was reaching for the gun with his left hand. Even though they knew full well the gun was in the offing, they were both shocked when they saw it rise up. Both looked to Crenshaw. In an instant, the old man’s face went through a remarkable transformation, from the kindly old painter to a beetle-browed demon. The sleepers stepped back in shock. Feit aimed, but before he could pull the trigger, the artist pounced with a vicious growl. It happened so fast, neither Owen nor Melody could more than barely register it. As the gun went off, Crenshaw, having leaped in a blur, was on his prey, pushing away the weapon. The shot went wide and high into the ceiling as Feit’s throat was ripped out by the old man’s teeth in a gush of blood and a rapidly drowning cry of agony.
Melody froze but Owen screamed, loud and shrill. Crenshaw, who was lapping at the gaping throat while Feit’s body jerked and shuddered, suddenly spun around as if he could hear the cry. His glistening green eyes searched the shadows and glanced about the room as he sniffed the air. “He heard me,” said Owen.
“Back up,” whispered Melody. “Just keep backing up till we’re through the wall.”
The creature that had been the painter stood and started in their direction, his clawed hands out in front of him. The sleepers stepped back and back and passed through the wall into another room. It was a large bathroom with red tile on the floor and walls. A woman, obviously dead, hung upside down, her long hair reaching down into the tub of blood beneath her.
“God. What is this?”
“Just keep going till we’re on the street,” said Melody.
They pushed through a number of other rooms that smelled like a slaughterhouse, but neither of them stopped to look around. Eventually, they drifted to the ground on the side of the house and bounded away into the night.
11
THEY SAT ON SWINGS next to each other in the children’s playground behind the baseball diamond at the park. The night was still, whatever breeze there had been before now gone. The only sound, spring creepers and an owl. It was late enough that no traffic passed on the road a quarter of a mile away.
“What the hell?” said Owen.
“What the hell is right,” said Melody. “That was horrifying.”
“Did you know about this? Modern vampires in Westwend?” he asked. “Gangs and cutters and the miasma, people tripping on cicada-ass fungus? And now vampires?”
“I’ve never encountered it before,” she said.
“Had you ever heard of it in your travels?”
“Only rumors that sounded so outlandish, I passed them off as mere traveler’s tales. Exaggerations about an already-astonishing realm.”
“I think we can rule this one legit.”
“There’s so much going on at night, in the shadows, that people who spend most of their waking time in the sunlight have no idea about. Neon and spotlights and bulbs have pushed back the darkness, but night is still largely an undiscovered territory.”
“I thought vampires didn’t like cats.”
“Owen, please, this isn’t a Bela Lugosi flick. This is the real thing. We’re calling him a vampire, but he may be something else entirely. And he probably doesn’t adhere to the rules of fiction—wooden stakes and garlic, the lack of a reflection in mirrors.”
“He has the bloodletting thing down fairly well.”
“I wouldn’t take anything for granted.”
“And he heard me. That girl saw me in her backyard, the dog saw me in that couple’s bedroom a few nights ago, and the vampire heard me. What is it about me? I’m the least stealthy sleeper in town.”
“Creatures like this might have the extrasensory abilities of a dog or gifted child. Perhaps they sense you more readily because you don’t really belong here. I don’t think he saw us, but he obviously knew we were there. We’re dangerous to him and he’ll come looking for us.”
“I doubt anyone would believe us about him—especially not the cops.”
“We don’t have to convince them he’s a vampire. We just have to interest them in going inside his place to look for that dead girl’s body and the remains, if there are any, of Feit.”
“Do you think he was there to rob Crenshaw, or was he really there to kill him, knowing he was a vampire?” asked Owen.
“I’m confused. I could believe he was there to assassinate the old man if not for the fact his tattooed compatriot shot up the convenience store and murdered your friend’s daughter.”
“Yeah, that makes no sense. There is one person who might know, though.”
“Kiara?”
He nodded. “But how do I broach the subject, and if I manage to, what are the chances she won’t shoot me?”
“It’s either that or we go to the police, I guess,” said Melody. “One thing’s for sure: I bet he’ll come looking for us in the night world.”
“How will he know it’s us?”
“Did you see him sniff the air?”
“How can there be an odor if there’s no body? It doesn’t make sense.”