Something in the back of Benedikte’s consciousness flickered.
“Anyway,” Edward added, addressing Sorin, “if you don’t mind, I’d like to dance both of these lovelies past the table, just to get the conversation started. I’ll get ’em right back to you though. Any objections?”
Geneva adjusted the décolletage of her gown to make it even more appealing. “If there’s a role in it for me, let’s go.”
Edward laughed. “All business. I should’ve known.”
As he led the twins away on a stream of pleasant farewells, Sorin stared after the women.
Their skin, he thought to Benedikte. Did you smell their skin?
He had; it was a vampire’s curse and blessing to be aware of appetite at all times.
Their taste, Sorin continued. I could live forever on the taste I imagine they carry. If we only had a home, where I could keep them, I would live off their blood for years.
Although Benedikte had never seen Sorin so taken with a victim—or two—he was much too preoccupied with Edward Waters to respond. It was as if the star had showered a little bit of his presence on the vampire.
He watched the human joking with the producers, throwing his head back after he told a good anecdote. Magic. Pure magic.
Benedikte’s mouth began to water, but not with the thought of blood. The soul. He craved the soul Edward Waters said he would give up for his career.
The vampire’s musings crashed together, falling to pieces that magnetically rearranged themselves into a new order.
Soul. Career. A vampire’s talents.
He glanced around the room again, surreptitiously peeking into the minds of the others, retreating before they could notice he’d even been inside. Benedikte didn’t even need to look into their eyes he was so powerful, and it helped him to see a new world: a dreamscape of plastic surgery, casting couches, deviant schemes. The all-consuming hunger to be loved.
The search for identity.
Closing his eyes, he accepted them all, knowing he was among his own kind.
An hour, perhaps many more, went by, and the lounge slowed to a trickle of activity. The vampires were among the last to leave, though Sorin had charmed the twins into crossing the threshold with him.
I will be in my hotel room, the younger creature thought to Benedikte as they exited.
His son caught a cab and, in a rush of giggles, the twins disappeared inside, dragging an amused Sorin with them. He would be cautious about his bite, Benedikte knew. There was no need to come with him back to the hotel just yet and spoil his anticipated adventure.
There was a lot to think about, and wandering the night streets would offer clarity, as wandering often did. At least, it had back when anything mattered….
Postmidnight silence captivated the town while Benedikte folded his hands behind his back, the same thoughts running through him over and over.
“Sell my soul…” A long career—a very long one…
Struck by the power of the concept, the vampire laughed, glanced around at the empty field he was in, then laughed again. Soon, he was holding his sides, dropping to his knees, laughing to the point of crying.
He peered up, finding the Hollywood sign blazing in eternal majesty from a mountainside. Lore had it that the letters had once read “Hollywoodland” and that it had undergone a makeover to accommodate the town’s changes.
A makeover. Plastic surgery. If Benedikte could find a doctor, then absorb his knowledge and refine it—
Powered by his discovery, he cried out in triumph, then stood, walking at a quickened pace to keep up with the speed of his mind. He traversed streets, walking, walking until his feet hit grass, then dirt. Rocks towered above him, blocking a moon that was arcing through a sky turning lighter and lighter.
He was so engrossed that he didn’t even hear the footsteps behind him.
Crack!
Something had hit his head, catching him so unawares that he stumbled back, losing his footing on rock, tumbling, back, down, darkness—
A figure jumped into the hole after him, raising a crowbar in the moonlight.
Irritated by the interruption, the vampire snapped into pure form, swelling, roaring forward to catch the man’s throat in his jaws. But as soon as his fangs sank into a vein, Benedikte knew the attacker had only wanted his wallet.
Wrong prey.
Furiously, he gnawed, whipping the man back and forth, tossing him away when he grew bored. The anonymous body rolled farther into the rocky depths, but Benedikte’s sight cut through the darkness. A tunnel traveling through rock.
The vampire wavered, then placed his hand against a wall, reading the history of where he was. An abandoned quarry. Its materials had been used to build the surrounding streets. Closed in the ’20s…
With an implosion, everything came together.
He sank against the wall, laughing again until tears poured out of his eyes.
Home, he thought, clinging to the granite. The joke’s on me, but I think I might finally be home….
EIGHTEEN
THE HOUR OF FORGET-NESS