Blood Calling (The Blood Calling Series, Book 1) Read online

  Which wasn’t true.

  I needed to crawl out of my own head and couldn’t do it.

  I went to bed, got up, went to my internship, to school, home, and then the day was over and I was on a bus back to Sundown.

  Wash met me at the door, and asked for some help with the beds, after which I went to man the computer.

  Only no one came in. Followed by no one else. Followed by not one single person.

  I remembered a bookshelf in the laundry room. Actually, it was three bookshelves, huge ones, crammed from top to bottom with paperbacks of every shape and size.

  I went to the front door and looked outside, verifying I wasn’t about to vanish from the front desk just as dozens of people needing a place to sleep for the night were coming up the street.

  Then I walked to the laundry room.

  Wash sat on a chair, books stacked on a small table next to him. Sheets and towels tumbled in the washer and dryer.

  “So what’s the deal with the books?” I pointed to the shelves.

  Wash looked up from his novel. “Homeless people don’t have much in the way of luggage. Back when this place opened up, people would bring in books and leave them here. Mostly because they finished reading them and they didn’t want to drag them around.”

  “And?”

  “I bought a cheap shelf, and put the books on it. When that one got full, I bought another. You can guess what happened next.”

  “You were forced to create a library system.”

  “Too time consuming. I told people if they wanted a book, they should take it. If they finish a book, they can leave it. The system works out okay. Except when someone accidentally makes off with a book I’ve only half-finished.”

  “Why not just keep the books you’re reading off the shelf?”

  “It seemed uncharitable.”

  “Do you mind if I take one?”

  “Go ahead.”

  I eyed the shelves for a moment. The breadth of the collection was fascinating. Many of the books very obviously passed through a dozen or more owners, their failing covers patched with duct tape, titles scrawled on the spine in permanent marker.

  I plucked a book from the shelf. Wash snorted.

  “What?”

  “That book…” he said, trailing off. “You know what? Never mind.”

  I looked at the cover, then back at Wash. “I’m not gonna say it’s great literature or anything but my friend Becca…” It was my turn to trail off, a fresh reminder of my damaged friendship on my lips.

  “I’m just saying it’s not a good book.”

  “Well, it’s not really for you, is it? I mean, it’s chick lit, after all.”

  Wash lifted the book in his hands to reveal the cover. “As you can see, I have nothing against chick lit.” I glanced over at the pile next to him. Sure enough, the book he held was the first in a series of lady-detective novels, the next four installments sitting at his side.

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  “The things in those books are not vampires,” he said. “They are superheroes with special dietary needs.”

  “It’s called fiction.”

  “Yes, but it isn’t good fiction. If you want to read a vampire story, trust me, I can recommend several that are much better than that one.”

  “You like vampires, huh?”

  “I have an interest.”

  I was about to reply when a loud bang echoed from the lobby. It was followed, moments later, by a four-pack-a-day voice. “Wash? Wash!”

  CHAPTER 8

  That was how I met Smitty.

  That name sounded stupid and made-up, and yeah, that was the case. Wash was the one making-up names, actually, because the first time the guy came in, he refused to give any information at all.

  If you went on our computer and looked up his address, you saw he only had the one name, and his address was the same as Sundown’s.

  Wash told me later it was because he couldn’t think of the address for the local park where Smitty usually slept when the weather wasn’t dangerous. And sometimes when it was.

  I ran into the lobby. Wash didn’t. He knew the drill.

  Lying on the floor was what first looked like a bundle of rags with some flesh mixed in. Then, when your eyes refocused, there was Smitty, lying on the floor amongst clothing that had been patched so much you couldn’t be sure if there was anything original, or if it was just various strips of cloth sewn together.

  Splashes of red marked his rags.

  I froze. I wasn’t proud of it but I didn’t really know what to do in circumstances like that. If the guy was dead, I could have whipped out my CPR skills but he was clearly okay. Just bloodied.

  Wash walked into the room and took in the situation. He looked at me. “There’s an extra set of clothes for Smitty in the back room. Get them for me. And a wet washcloth. And a towel.”

  I dashed off. Wash’s words followed me, “I’ll be in the back!”

  When I got to the laundry room I realized I wasn’t sure just where, exactly, Smitty’s clothes were supposed to be. I glanced around the room at the few random boxes and saw one of them had the word Smitty written on the side.

  I lifted up the box. Inside was a second set of patches-on-patches clothing. But they had the advantage of being not blood-or-wine-or-whatever-that-was soaked.

  I grabbed a washcloth and wet it in the sink, then decided to go all-out and wet two. I doubted every ounce of grime could be scrubbed off Smitty with just one.

  I grabbed two towels as well. The place was quiet, there was no reason to be stingy, and I suspected, based on Smitty’s smell, he hadn’t bathed in a while.

  I jogged to the back room.

  I knocked on the door, unsure what the protocol was when dealing with people who were hurt. Or drunk. Or more likely, both.

  Wash opened the door about six inches and I passed him the towels and washcloths.

  “Good thinking,” said Wash, smiling at the extra washcloth.

  I peeked through the door, glancing at our emaciated guest. Smitty was lying on the cot, naked to the waist. His chest was sunken, and I was pretty sure I saw all of his ribs. I could tell Smitty was taller than me by four or five inches but I suspected he weighed twenty or thirty pounds less.

  It was obvious, to me anyway, something was wrong with Smitty that couldn’t be fixed by a month of good meals. Or even a year of good meals. Smitty needed medical care, or possibly an undertaker.

  “Lucy?”

  I blinked. I had been staring. Wash nodded and stepped back, preparing to close the door. “Thanks,” he said, indicating the towels.

  And the door closed.

  CHAPTER 9

  The rest of the evening passed by slowly. No one else came in, and after an hour, I started to get restless and realized I forgot to grab my book.

  I went back to the laundry room, my mind a million miles away, and almost ran smack into Wash. He was loading Smitty’s dirty outfit into the washing machine, along with the washcloths and towels. All of them seemed impossibly filthy.

  I stood for a second, pretending to look at the bookshelves, as though I was sure there was a book I really, really, really wanted to read, only I couldn’t find it at the moment.

  A minute passed. Then two. Then a third. I looked over every shelf so carefully I was getting close to memorizing individual titles.

  Wash, meanwhile, had added soap to the washer, started the dryer, and returned to reading his book. Well, looking at it. I noticed he hadn’t turned the page since he sat down.

  Finally, I turned to him.

  “Is that man going to be okay?”

  Wash looked up at me. “I presume you’re talking about Smitty?”

  “Smitty?”

  “It’s a fake name.”

  “Obviously.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Shouldn’t we call the hospital or something?”

  Wash set his book down. “You can try.”

&n
bsp; I felt something like a sneer cross my face. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Wash thought for a second. “Smitty’s going to die, I know it, and he knows it. Only he doesn’t think it’s going to be soon. You have CPR training, right?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, when you were getting that training, you probably learned the Heimlich Maneuver, right?”

  I nodded again.

  “Do you remember the first thing to do when approaching someone who’s choking?”

  It was my turn to pause for a moment. “Ask them if they’re all right.”

  “Correct. What do you do if they say they’re okay?”

  “Well, if they can talk, they can breathe.”

  “Right. What if they can’t breathe? What if the person is turning blue in front of you, you’re trying to help them, and they stick a hand in your face and make it clear to you that they don’t want your help?”

  I smiled. “You wait for them to pass out. Then you help them anyway. It’s some legal thing, if I remember right.”

  Wash nodded. “You do.”

  “So Smitty is turning blue, and we can’t do anything about it, is what you’re trying to tell me.”

  Wash sighed and ran his hand over his head. “Personally, I think Smitty is passed out on the floor, as far as this metaphor goes. The guy is sick. He rarely eats. When he does, it isn’t anything approaching a balanced meal, because he doesn’t like going to the place where they hand out free food. Something about pride. It took months before I could convince the guy to come sleep here, and most of the time he won’t do it, no matter how bad the weather gets.”

  The more Wash talked, the more I saw flashes of pain in his face. It was clear the dude felt more than a little torn up over the state of Smitty.

  I realized things had gotten quiet again and I rushed to fill the silence. “I take it you’ve called the hospital before?”

  “Me and the medics and Smitty have a history, yeah. One time I found him passed out in the park, in the middle of the snow, of all things, and I took him to the hospital. He didn’t wake up for three days but I didn’t find out until the next spring when I found him sleeping on the bench again. I tracked down someone at the hospital and right after he woke up, he snuck back out. No one even saw him wake up, he got out that fast.”

  “But it sounds like you tried again.”

  “Oh sure. Once he came in and he’d been beaten half to death by some punks who thought it might be fun to rough up a hobo. I called the ambulance, they came, and Smitty refused to get in. He was here for a week before he could move without screaming. Then he just left. Another time, he slipped on some ice and I thought he broke his ankle. Maybe he just sprained it but he was here two weeks and walked out using a cane someone left in the lost-and-found box.”

  I thought for a second, trying to formulate what I wanted to say. All I came up with was, “Why?”

  Wash shook his head. “I’m not sure. I’ve asked but Smitty is a man of a lot of years and few words. I asked him once why he didn’t go get a free meal, instead of dumpster diving, and all he said was debt. It probably has something to do with not wanting to owe anyone anything.”

  “So why is he okay with you?”

  “It’s not for me to say.”

  I blanched. “I guess it’s none of my business.”

  I couldn’t read the look on Wash’s face. “It’s between me and him. I can’t…” I could tell there was more to the story. Possibly a lot more. But the slight furrow between Wash’s eyebrows indicated that I got all I was going to get out of him.

  I was stuck for words at that point. I took a moment to glance over the shelves, picked up the vampires-in-love novel Wash had recommended I avoid, and walked back to the front desk.

  That night, he walked me to the bus stop without a word.

  CHAPTER 10

  Another week passed, and things stayed uncomfortable.

  Smitty was there, refusing to get any better, and eventually getting marginally worse. I asked Wash a couple times if he wanted me to do anything for Smitty, or if I could bring anything from home to help Smitty get better. Wash told me, firmly but not unkindly, getting Smitty to stay was a struggle, and he would appreciate it if I would stay away from him.

  I assumed he meant Smitty but after a week of almost total silence, I wasn’t sure.

  Unfortunately, this left me with nothing to take my mind off anything. At school, I was still mostly an outcast, although people would at least answer direct questions now. I threw myself into college applications for a while but I only had a few schools I was interested in. My mom was an alumna of one of them, my dad was an alumnus of the other (the schools were football rivals, and my parents met at one of the games), and a third and fourth had come recommended by people who knew where you should go if you wanted to get into the graphic arts. I could have just gone to a tech school, I guess, but whatever. My mom was paying, and I wasn’t happy with her, so the idea of spending a couple extra years at school and having her foot the bill seemed like a swell idea most days.

  Ultimately, only one thing took my mind off everything else: my grandfather’s vampire slaying kit.

  The kit had been sitting in the trunk of my car when I had my accident and when the fix-it place declared my car not worth the cash it would take to fix it, they called and left a message about picking up some leftover personal effects.

  Of course, between school, the internship, and community service, I didn’t have time to go pick up my lost items. And then I sort of forgot about them. After all, who needed a pair of awesome driving sunglasses when you weren’t driving?

  Then one afternoon the phone rang and the nice man on the other end told me if I didn’t come get my stuff, they were going to give it away to Goodwill.

  I almost let him. Between the hassle of looking for a way to get there and back, and the fact that most of the junk wasn’t really worth keeping, I was about a second away from telling him to donate it.

  Then I remembered the kit and told him I’d get there within the week.

  I didn’t want to ask Chuck or my mom for a ride. And while I was still talking to my dad every couple days, something about our emotional landscape became clouded. I could tell my dad was tired of the job search, tired of living in a terrible apartment, and not to be too Freudian about it, feeling pretty emasculated by the fact that he had gone from being a great husband and father to being a jobless middle-aged man in the space of what felt like a blink.

  So I took the bus.

  It took me forever to get to the car place, and forever to get back. Even worse, though I’d brought along a huge bag we usually reserved for groceries, the stuff fit into it awkwardly. The blanket my dad insisted I keep in the car for warmth in case of emergencies didn’t fit into it at all.

  By the time I got home I was a wreck. Plus I had the night off from the shelter, which meant I had a bunch of brooding time to myself, with no one to break up the monotony by asking for a warm place to sleep for the night.

  I went through all of my car’s flotsam within five minutes, sticking the bits and pieces of detritus wherever they fit into my room. I tossed the blanket in the laundry, figuring it could use a good washing after a bunch of time in my trunk, and then sitting around in an old cardboard box at the automotive place.

  Then I opened up the vampire slaying kit again.

  It wasn’t any worse for wear, even after the accident. None of the holy water bottles had broken, and all the stakes and silver balls and everything were all in their place.

  Stuffed in the top was the note: THEY’RE REAL. FIGHT THEM.

  I picked up the note and turned it over in my hands a few times, staring at the lettering, which was big and blocky and unlike my grandfather’s handwriting in every way.

  Then something occurred to me, and I held the note up to the light. Sure enough, there was a reason the writing was so big and blocky. There was other writing there.

  When I was little, m
y grandfather was always trying to find ways to entertain me. Whenever I’d spend an afternoon at his house, we’d head to the library and pick up science, magic, and arts and crafts books, hunting through them for the easy things to do that weren’t lame.

  It was harder than you’d have thought.

  One of our favorites was so simple that it shouldn’t have entertained us as much as it did. Lemon juice messages.

  There wasn’t much to it. You took a toothpick and wrote something on a white piece of paper using lemon juice. After it dried, you held it up to a candle, gently, and the message would appear, burning into the paper before the paper ignited.

  At some point, we learned you could also use a high-watt light bulb to do the same trick but why do something safe when you can let a little girl play with an open flame?

  After the first time we tried it, my grandpa used our invisible ink whenever the mood struck him. One time, for my birthday, he sent me a check in the mail using the ever-popular trick of hiding the check in a “blank” sheet of paper.

  The notes weren’t important, though I’d saved every last one. They usually just had a goofy joke on them, or a note like, Smile! But they were mine and his, and I never showed them to anyone. Not my best friend, not my parents.

  The trick with the notes was you held them up to the light and saw, ever so vaguely, where the acid of the juice weakened the paper. While I couldn’t read the note, I saw that he’d signed it “Grandpa D.” The same way he signed every note, card, and letter he’d ever sent to me.

  My mind buzzed, and my skin followed. I had to know what was on the note—the very last note my grandfather ever wrote to me—but there was no way to do it. All the light bulbs in the house were fluorescent and didn’t put out enough heat.

  If there were candles in the house, I didn’t know where they were. Same with the matches. There was a junk drawer downstairs but last I knew, all it contained was a flashlight and seven thousand expired coupons.

  I stared at the note and tried to figure out what to do next.

  CHAPTER 11

  As it turned out, a lighter was the solution to some of my problems, and the creator of a few more of them.