Eve nudged me and looked up into my face, concerned. She wasn’t too much shorter than I was, but enough that even the stacked heels on her big Goth boots didn’t put us at eye level. She’d gone with subdued paint-up today: white makeup, black lipstick, not a lot of other accessories. We were so different, in so many ways; I wasn’t Goth, for starters. I wasn’t much of anything, fashion-wise, except comfortable. And she seemed okay with that, thankfully.
“Swipe?” she said again, and tapped my right hand, which held a shiny new plastic card. I looked down at it, frowning. White plastic, with a red stripe, and my name computer-printed at the bottom. GLASS, MICHAEL J. My dates of birth and death (or, as it was called on the vamp side, “transformation”). The cards were new, just like the vending machine—issued just about two weeks ago. A lot of the older vampires refused to carry them. I couldn’t really see why, but then, I’d grown up modern, where you had to have licenses and ID cards, and accepted that you were going to get photographed and tracked and monitored.
Or maybe that was just the humans who accepted that, and I’d carried it over with me.
It was just a damn glorified Coke machine. Why did it feel so weird?
“So,” Eve said, turning away from me to the not-very-welcoming audience of waiting vampires, “it’s really easy. You’ve all got the cards, right? They’re your ID cards, and they’re loaded up with a certain number of credits for the month. You can come in here anytime, swipe the card, and get your, uh, product. And now, Michael Glass is going to demonstrate.”
Oh, that was my cue, accompanied by a not-too-light punch on the arm.
I reached over, slid the card through the swipe bar, and buttons glowed. A cheerful little tone sounded, and a scrolling red banner read MAKE YOUR SELECTION NOW. I made my selection—O negative, my favorite—and watched the can ride down in a miniature elevator to the bottom, where it was pushed out for me to take.
I took the can, and was a little surprised to find it was warm, warm as Eve’s skin. Well, of course it was: the signs on the machine read TEMPERATURE CONTROLLED, but that just meant it was kept blood temperature, not Coke temperature. Huh. It felt weird, but attractive, in a way.
They were all still watching me, with nearly identical expressions of disgust and distaste. Some of them looked older than me, some even younger, but they’d all been around for centuries, whereas I was the brand-new model . . . the first in decades.
Hence, the guinea pig—but mainly because I’d grown up in the modern age, with swipe cards and Internet and food from machines. I trusted it, at least in theory.
They hated it.
I rolled the can indecisively in my hand for a few seconds, staring at the splashy graphics—the vampire fangs framed the blood type nicely. “How do you think they got away with getting these made?” I asked Eve. “I mean, wouldn’t somebody think it was a little strange?”
She rolled her eyes. “Honestly, Michael, don’t you pay attention? Out there”—meaning, anywhere except Morganville—“it’s just a big joke. Maybe they thought it was for a movie or a TV show or a new energy drink. But they don’t think about it like we do.”
I knew that, even though, like Eve, I’d been born and raised in Morganville. We’d both been out of town exactly once in our lives, and we’d done it together. Still, it was really tough to realize that for the rest of the world, our biggest problems were just . . . stories.
As hard as Morganville was, as full of weirdness and danger, Out There hadn’t been a walk in the park, either. Though I wished I’d been able to go to a really big concert. That would have been cool.
I was still turning the can around, stalling. Eve grabbed it from me, popped the top, and handed it back. “Bottoms up,” she said. “Oh, come on, just give it a try. Once.”
I owed her that much, because the black choker around her neck was covering up a healing bite mark. Vampire bites healed quickly, and usually without scarring, but for the awkward three-day period, she’d be wearing scarves and high necks.
It was typical Eve that she was also wearing a tight black T-shirt that read, in black-on-black Gothic-style lettering, GOOD GIRLS DON’T. AWESOME GIRLS DO.
She saw me looking at her, and our eyes locked and held. Hers were very dark, almost black, though if you really got close and looked, you could see flecks of lighter brown and gold and green. And I liked getting close to her, drawn into her warmth, her laughter, the smooth hot stretch of her skin. . . .
She winked. She mostly knew what I was thinking, at moments like these, but then, as she’d once told me, smugly, most guys really aren’t that complicated.
I smiled back, and saw her pupils widen. She liked it when I smiled. I liked that she liked it.
Without even thinking about it, I raised the can to my lips and took a big gulp.