Free The Strange Path by D Jordan Redhawk

stains and yellow drip marks marring the paint above. Discolored and pitted, the counter embraced a sink with rust stains oozing from the perpetual faucet leak. Rough linoleum floor scuffed her feet where innumerable dropped items had gouged the surface.  Definitely not Fiona’s place. She focused on her reflection in the spotted mirror.
    The cut on her face had completely healed. When she lifted up her T-shirt, unblemished skin met her gaze. Not a single green or yellow discoloration marked where serious bruising had been two days before. She pulled the shirt off to examine the rest of her torso. Nothing. Poking at her abdomen caused no discomfort. The dragon tattoo snaking up her arm appeared completely healed, the scabs flaking away as she’d slept through the afternoon. She rotated the small silver bars piercing her nipples with little resistance. A tingle of arousal spilled through her, and she did it again for good measure. Whoa. That’s cool.
    Taking her shirt, she stepped back into the bedroom. The grubby decor matched the bathroom—nondescript brown carpet, white walls with odd splotches of dingy color here and there, and permanent shelves in place of nightstands and desk. The only true pieces of furniture in the room were the dresser and the bed; the dresser drawers were nailed shut to deter clientele from use of them. The sheets and blanket had been so dirty, Whiskey had used her new sleeping bag on the bed.
    She turned on the lamp bolted to the shelf masquerading as a desk, and lit a cigarette. While she smoked, she rummaged through her pack for clothing and toiletries. After speaking with Castillo and mailing the envelope, she’d returned downtown and bought her boots. They’d cost almost two hundred dollars. She’d expected the purchase to raise her spirits, but it had physically hurt when she handed that much money to the clerk. In a wave of guilt at her extravagance, she had stopped at a drugstore to pick up the essentials she’d need for the next week. She also selected a belated birthday card for Gin, stuffing fifty dollars into it as a gift.
    Whiskey brushed out her hair, examining the black-streaked tips. She could probably do with a trim and another dye job, and debated the wisdom of spending her dwindling cash supply. Swiping deodorant under her arms, she turned to her clothes and dressed. Not wanting to hide the dragons under cloth, she wore the deep red camisole she’d gotten from Fiona. She sat on the bed to put on her newest pride and joy, shiny black Dr. Marten boots that swept up her calf to her knees. She laced them over the top of her cargo pants.
    Standing, she went to the window and opened the curtains. The motel she’d found wasn’t far from where she’d done the majority of her shopping. Few hotels allowed guests to register without identification, so she’d had limited choices. She could have paid the offered hourly rates instead of a full night. Even now she heard the grunts and thumps of someone fucking in a nearby room. Across the street, a car wash gleamed in the twilight. Behind it, the Seattle sky turned a dark blue-gray.
    With the night came the doubts. During daylight, thoughts of Fiona and her people faded into the distance. They told bizarre stories to freak and frighten people, nothing more. Just a game they played on unsuspecting marks. All the urgency and fear Whiskey had felt in the dark seemed laughable in sunlight. Vampires weren’t real, therefore neither were Sanguire. Fiona and the rest perpetuated this delusion upon themselves and others around them. Whiskey’s reality revolved around food vouchers, bus tickets and flops. Fiona was nothing but a rich bitch who’d targeted Whiskey for— For what? A massive joke? A new toy for her friends to tease and torture?
    As the sky darkened, the idea of a race of vampires became more plausible, more concrete. Whiskey’s sunlit rationalizations drowned in the spreading shadows. What if it is true? Why else would I