She cried. Stupidly, like a child. Izel would not have cried, but she was not Izel. The tears rolled down her cheeks and she had not cried when they killed her mother or when they killed Izel, but somehow she was able to drown in her self-pity and cry over her stupid hand.
Domingo tugged at her, pressing her against him, embracing her. A hug. A ridiculous hug, as though that could offer her any comfort. But she let her head rest against his chest, reclined against his skinny frame.
“It’ll be okay,” he said. “They’re not going to catch us.”
“How do you know?”
“It’s a hunch. I’m really good at hunches, you know?”
“Ha,” she said.
Atl tilted her head slightly. He was very close to her. He was so silly. And sweet. She couldn’t think of anyone sweeter.
She shifted, moving closer still, her lips against his neck. He clutched her good hand.
That voice, that sensible voice that sounded like Izel, spoke to her. Don’t.
It was as if she suddenly realized she was drinking salt water. She pushed him away. Not gently. Hard.
Domingo’s eyes flew open wide. His face was pained, confused. He blushed and looked down at his feet.
Atl was equally confused, because as soon as she’d shoved him away she wished he’d touch her again.
“You should clean up too,” she muttered.
“Yes,” he said. “I will. I’ll come back.”
CHAPTER
27
Domingo wandered out of Atl’s room and almost bumped into the old servant, who looked ripe for a starring role in a Frankenstein movie. She handed him a bundle of clothes and Domingo went to his room, which Bernardino had shown him just a few minutes before.
The bathroom was huge, intimidating. The tub was made of porcelain, although time had eroded its shell, revealing the cast-iron interior along different patches. He spotted silverfish scuttling inside it, but when he opened the tap the water was nice and warm. He appreciated the soak and he liked even better the clothes that Bernardino had picked for him. The shirt was a pale cream with mother-of-pearl buttons and the trousers were of a nice black material. He put a vest on top and thought that he looked very polished and the sizing wasn’t too bad.
She’d like me like this. Of course she wouldn’t like me dirty and smelly. No wonder she pushed me away.
In the kitchen he found bread and cheese, and ate quietly by the sink. But then, glancing at his reflection in a pot, he felt doubt.
It doesn’t mean she’s going to like me.
He reached the living room, which was gloomy, lit by a number of candles, and sat down on an overstuffed couch. Cualli followed him in, lying at his feet. Domingo patted the dog’s head, letting out a sigh. A cat sat high upon a bookcase, eyeing the dog with an irritated stare.
A big clock stood against the wall next to him, ticking loudly. He’d never quite seen a clock like that in real life. It had a wooden case and everything. Domingo listened to it, following its ticking.
The tick-tick went on for a long while and its rhythm gave him enough courage to stand up and seek her out.
“Bad idea. You and Atl,” Bernardino said. “Your attempt at a romance.”
Domingo raised his head and looked at the vampire, who was standing by the door, holding an oil lamp between his hands. He looked the part of a vampire who had ventured forth from Dracula’s castle.
“I’m sorry?” Domingo replied.
“Don’t bother denying it.”
Domingo shrugged, unwilling to commit any words. Bernardino set his lantern upon a table and smiled at Domingo, though the smile was hollow and held no mirth. It was a copy of a smile. A fake.
“She seems to enjoy your company, she may even like you, and yet. Don’t deceive yourself, my boy, this is not a love story.”
Even in this dim light he knew the vampire could probably see the silly expression on his face, his open mouth, the surprise that made his cheeks burn and then quickly turn his face away. Too late, though.
Bernardino rested a hand against the lantern, and this time when he smiled it was different. It was a cutting gesture. Real and full of mockery. “Vampires, we are a diverse lot. So many differences. Yet we are united by one simple unavoidable fact: we are our hunger. It is no surprise, when you consider it. We have been surviving for a very long time against a rather cunning and adaptable foe. Humans are nothing if not adaptable. I can’t claim the same of us, though we are persistent. Yet we make it through, despite being outnumbered by your folk, despite times that change too quickly, because of that undeniable truth. In the end, we are always our hunger.”
Bernardino’s hand, splayed against the glass of the lantern, generated strange shadows that darted across the walls.
“I don’t understand what you mean,” Domingo said.
“Hunger. It is the primal instinct, the vector that guides our actions. Do you know, boy, what Atl would do, if faced with a choice between saving her life or preserving yours? She’d kill you. Love is a strange thing to us. We do not revel in it. We only know hunger.”
“That’s a load of crap,” Domingo said.