Blood Memories

Philip's communication skills with the kid actually surprised me. I don't know what I expected. But the sight of him sitting on the grass smoking and making small talk didn't fit my mental image. Pewter Skulls introduced himself as Culker. The rest of the group included a boy named Scott with a green mohawk, a blond girl named Becky with small eyes and a blue leather miniskirt, and an African American girl named Jet in a pink, tie-dyed dress under a loose jean jacket. They were all about the same age. I thought the mohawk was passe. Becky seemed to have about four working brain cells, but Jet's face caught my attention, clean and straightforward. Part of me actually wanted to talk to her, but that wasn't my place here, not my gift. Philip had them eating from his hand.

He leaned back on his elbows. A mass of silky red-brown hair hung to the ground.

"Who's that with you?" Culker finally asked him.

I'd been sitting quietly behind Philip, hiding in his overwhelming shadow. A safe place, almost pleasant.

"Eleisha, say hello to our new friends."

I fell into my routine and focused on the ground. "Hi."

Scott turned to Philip. "Hey, if we give you the money, will you buy us some beer?"

"Where did you plan to drink it?"

"At Becky's. Her folks are gone. You want to come?"

This was too easy. Although if we trotted down to the nearest 7-Eleven, picked up a case of cheap beer, and then headed to Becky's, how would Philip manage to get someone off alone?

As we fell into step toward a store, I noticed Jet walking beside me and gave her an honest smile.

"How old are you?" she asked.

"Seventeen."

"How old is he?"

"Twenty-nine."

She wasn't dumb. Due to our unnatural skin tone, our ages are often difficult to place. But Jet's questions struck a little deeper. Why would an incredibly beautiful, well-dressed, adult Frenchman want to hang with them when he had a pretty, seventeen-year-old girlfriend for company? It didn't make sense.

"You going out with Culker?" I asked to change the subject.

"Culker? No way. These guys are just my friends. I like your coat."

"Oh, thanks… Did you dye that dress yourself?"

"Yeah." She seemed pleased. "I do all kinds of stuff. Sell clothes at the Folklife Festival."

"What's that?"

"You don't know 'bout the festival? Where're you from?"

I smiled. "Portland."

She smiled back, and we talked all the way to a run-down mini-mart. Philip glanced back at me once. He went inside and came out with a case of Henry Weinhard's Ale that must have cost twice what Culker gave him. Didn't this situation seem unusual to any of them?

"Awesome," Scott said. "My car's two blocks south."

Becky kept moving closer to Philip. I'm sure he noticed.

We all piled into a rusted Buick Skylark with cigarette butts falling out of its ashtray. We ended up driving to Capitol Hill, but Scott spent twenty minutes trying to find a place to park.

Piles of dirt and garbage had been plowed to the sides of the road. One decrepit apartment building melted right into the next one. Every available parking space seemed filled with a dented Volkswagen Golf. Babies cried through open windows, and some guy down the block kept yelling, "You bitch!" over and over again.

I wanted to go home, but we didn't have one.

Scott finally managed to squeeze the Skylark between two cars, and everybody climbed out. I'd figured out by then that Becky's parents didn't live in a house.

"We can't be too loud," she said. "The guys below us are crack dealers. One of them gets mad easy."

Charming.

Something about her apartment's interior touched more sorrow than its outside. Small arrangements of dried flowers sat on paint-splattered tables. An old mattress was covered by a hand-stitched quilt. Cheap lace curtains blew out from chipped windowpanes. Someone cared about this place enough to try to make it a home.

Culker broke open a Henry's. "We should've bought some chips or M amp;M's."

"Order a pizza," Philip said. "Isn't that what you Americans do?"

"Can't, I'm almost broke."

"I'll pay."

Could they possibly be this blind? Jet sat alone. What was she thinking? It's funny how Wade had given me a different perspective of mortals. On impulse, I reached out and touched her mind-as I would have with Wade-not expecting to get through. Psychic pictures come to us only when feeding or when another vampire dies. But to my surprise, her immediate thoughts flowed into me as though she were speaking.

Philip was the most perfect thing she'd ever seen, and she usually didn't go for white guys. But what was he into? Why was he here? If he was looking for some kind of threesome, he'd pick Becky. That was obvious. Not that Jet cared. Her baby boy was with a sitter, and she ought to get back soon, anyway. His ears were bothering him, and she'd need to take him to the doctor tomorrow.