Free Vampire Miami by Philip Tucker

longer, the door opened, and the
vampire stepped inside.

Chapter Six

    Selah, expecting the Hispanic guy, had already
begun to rise to her feet, protest on her lips. Her words died in
her throat, so that the only sound she made was a queer croak. The
strength went out from her knees and she sank back into a
crouch.
    He closed the door quietly, and then turned to
look down at her. She gazed back up, terrified, mind slack with
terror. His polished, smooth scalp shone under the fluorescent
bulb. Those twin smeared scars, the raw, regal power in his face.
Wide nose, broad lips, hard jaw. No sweat. No smell. Just eyes like
oblivion, swallowing her whole, drinking her in. He stood as still
as a statue, not breathing. Not moving. His hands didn’t sway,
didn’t tremble even a little. A living statue. A dead statue. A
vampire.
    Selah shook her head. Her thoughts were a
maelstrom. This was it. Her punishment. A tidy death in an
anonymous closet. He was going to drink her blood, tear open her
throat. No wonder there was a drain in the floor. This was probably
where it happened, every night, over and over again. How many had
died here? She was going to die—she was going to die.
    Panic crawled and clawed its way up her throat,
and she was about to start clawing at the cinderblocks behind her
when he lowered himself smoothly into a crouch opposite her.
Lowered himself with effortless grace, and rested his forearms
lightly on his knees. He had put on a black jacket, she noticed,
was still wearing the same black shirt and dress pants from before.
His shoes shone in the harsh light. She looked everywhere,
anywhere, but his eyes.
    “Who are you?” His voice was soft, just louder
than a whisper. Air forced out from his dead lungs. She saw him
inhale, a purposeful movement, taking air back in and then simply
holding it.
    “Selah. Selah Brown.” Her voice was wooden. No
more thoughts. Her mind had grown very still. She stared at his
chest. If she didn’t move, maybe he wouldn’t, either.
    “Selah. Not Sethe?”
    Selah frowned. “Sethe? No. My name’s Selah.”
    He searched her face, and shook his head as if
marveling. “Of course. A foolish question. Are you a member of the
Resistance, Selah?” His face was somber, however, his eyes
impenetrable. She tried to remember him on the dance floor, found
that she absolutely couldn’t.
    “No,” she said. Her word hung between them in
the air. Everything hung in the balance. Her life, her fate. She
stared at him and hoped, desperately hoped that he would believe
her. He nodded. Arose just as smoothly to his feet.
    “I didn’t think so. Hector tells me that you are
new to Miami. You had best learn fast: people are not allowed to
make recordings of any kind within the city. Even owning a device
such as yours is a punishable offense.”
    “I—I didn’t know. I’m sorry.” Selah looked up at
him. Part of her wanted to stand as well, but she couldn’t move.
Somehow—could it be? Somehow it looked like she was going to
survive.
    “Hector wants to keep your machine. Make sure
you register yourself tomorrow morning and get an ID. I might not
be around to intercede the next time you make a mistake.” Selah
couldn’t believe it—was there a touch of humor to his voice?
Couldn’t look away from those eyes. She felt half mesmerized. Numb,
dazed. She nodded.
    “OK. I promise.”
    “Good,” he said. He stared down at her for a
moment longer. Seemed on the verge of saying something more, and
then changed his mind. “Perhaps we’ll meet again.” He opened the
door and walked away.
    Selah closed her eyes. Rested her head back
against the wall. Breathed in deep, slow breaths, trying to calm
herself. Trying not to cry in the aftermath of such intensity. To
stay in control. It took all her energy, all her will. Exhaustion
came crashing down upon her, swamping her, so that she didn’t think
she could move. Could ever move again. She could sleep right there.
Just pass out, and sleep for