"You get to stalk me all over the world and I donât get to call you a creep?â Daniel muttered under his breath as he watched Armand disappear from view. DonâtyouturnyourbackonmenoooâAs much as he craved the thrill of the vampireâs presence, his body still knew to relax in increments, as if some restless instinct still fought against Armandâs spell. Two years, three years, Daniel had thought of nothing but Armand and the chase. Jet lag was so constant now that he could scarcely claim it to be an affliction.
This was supposed to be a breather. A way to get his bearings while Armand trailed after him through three countries, four train transfers, and 3 adventurous hitchhikes. Daniel rummaged through his pack of forlorn clothes. He packed light on instinct as a reporterâthey had probably fired him by nowâand a wanderer even before that fateful night in San Francisco.Â
A quick inventory. Two white tee shirts (functional though a bit thick as undershirts) worn twice on both sides, inside and out. Two collared shirts shockingly wrinkled and stained with wine from the back of a generous winemakerâs truck who had picked Daniel up somewhere on the A36 outside Besançon. A dirty pair of jeans, still damp, from the night before, worn for who knows how long, unwashed for how much longer, relying mostly on the rain and Danielâs all-American grin to excuse any smell.Â
The black pair he wore now did not stink as much, though perhaps that was because they were still dry and cold. Once Danielâs body heat warmed them up, theyâd probably smell like wet dog. Socks, darned once and then abandoned, also damp. He pulled on the only other ones he had, a shockingly yellow pair that at least did not smell.Â
Armand will say something about it anyway, he thought resentfully. Was Armand reading his mind now? Was Armand always reading his mind? How far apart did they have to be? He tried to ignore the growing realization that he was asking not to know how far he would have to run, but how closely he would have to journey so Armand did not lose his trail.Â
"You are so fucked, buddy,â he mumbled to himself, finally picking one of the shirts at random and shoving his only grey sweatshirt over his head. There was an old mustard stain on the elbow he had become fond of, and whenever he wore it, his thumb would pass over the dried scab of food there as if to ground himself. It felt messy and imperfect, like him, as opposed to the immaculate creature waiting below.Â
A quick rake of fingers through his hair settled the worst of his uncut fringe, and the warm water had made the ends curl just slightly against his skin and stick there. Daniel rubbed the nape of his neck, then shoved his wallet and passport in his front pocket. He had every right to be offended. Who did Armand think he was?, asked his growling stomach. The lethal threat now removed, Danielâs body began to remind him of the necessary rituals for maintaining a steadily decayingâdyingâhuman body.
But he suddenly felt a little sorry too, for calling Armand a creep, because it was petty and true and entirely wrong. Under any cultureâs visual aesthetic, Armand was beautiful. His physical perfections would have conjured divine ecstasy within Daniel if sheer terror did not blanket everything in his presence. And Daniel would sometimes feel triumph when he looked upon Armandâs deceptively yielding form. Like an angelic vessel for a viewerâs desires, it promised everything, when at its heart, Armand was the one far more deadly and powerful and cruel. And he had triumphed over all others over the centuries. As far as Daniel knew, he had captured the attention of the most formidable vampire there ever was.
And even if Armand behaved like a total creep, he thought a little vindictively, Daniel still loved the electric, throbbing allure of this secret inside a shell that had endured whilst the world rose and fell around it. The secret of Armand was all Danielâs, wasnât it, now? The simple hubris of it surprised him. From time to time, Daniel would try to keep Armand out of his thoughts, to plan beyond the desperate randomness of a last-minute change in plans, to throw off the scent. But Armand was inside him all along.Â
Pushing these rambling thoughts away, Daniel wandered through the house, pausing at closed doors like Bluebeardâs freshly betrothed. Had Armand disposed of the corpses already? If Daniel opened any of these doors, would he find a rotting pile of host and maid and backpackers? The horror of it was diminishing the longer he dwelt upon the feel of the doorknob in his grasp. Did Armand want him to find them?
He backed away abruptly, shoving aside the reflex to call the police, shoving aside the delicious feel of the gorge rising in his throat at the imagined smell of putrefaction, shoving aside everything but to see Armand again.Â
âDefinitely fucked,â he said again to himself in the empty hallway.
It was the family photographs on the staircase that hurt. Daniel tried not to look at them as he approached the snug living room. There, that head of hair, that perfect stillness. The hurt inside somehow deepened as Daniel approached. Youâre real. Youâre real. Iâm not crazy. And you wonât kill me tonight. Will you? When itâs time, will you do it yourself, or will you let something else take me? Iâd rather it be you. Itâs not fair, if it isnât you.
Instead, he folded his arms and scratched the old mustard stain on his elbow. What time was it? Was anything still open? How long did he have, really? When would he have to run again? The exhaustion was setting in again even though the sleep had done wonders. Daniel hadnât eaten a full meal in weeks. He had other priorities.
âI am not ordering you a delivery boy. Do your own damn hunting.â
