“Don’t you do that again,” she whispered, her black-painted lips close to my ear. “Please, don’t. You scared the hell out of all of us. I didn’t know what to do.”
I relaxed into her embrace, and breathed in the rich perfume of her hair, her skin, the subtle tingle of blood beneath her skin. I didn’t like to think about that last part, but maybe Oliver was right. Maybe I needed to stop denying it, or I’d end up in an even worse place, in the end.
“I didn’t know what to do, either,” I whispered back. “I’m sorry. I could have—”
“Stop.” She pulled back, staring at me fiercely. “Just stop it. You could have hurt me, but you didn’t. You didn’t hurt anybody, except that stupid machine. So relax. That’s not you, Mike. That’s some B-movie monster.”
But I was the B-movie monster, too. That was what Oliver meant, in the end; I was exactly that, and I had to remember it. It was the only way any of this would work.
I forced a smile. “I thought you liked B-movie monsters,” I said. My girlfriend punched me in the arm.
“Like, not love,” she said. “You, I love.”
I held out my hands, and she twined her fingers with mine. Warm and cool, together. “I don’t know how to do this,” I said.
She laughed a little. “Dating? Because, news flash, big guy, we’ve been doing it awhile.”
“Being this. Being me. I don’t know who I am anymore.”
She stepped closer, looking up into my eyes. “I know who you are. More importantly, I know what you are,” she said. “And I still love you.”
Maybe she didn’t know. Maybe she’d never looked into the heart of the red and black tormented thing that lurked deep inside me. But looking at her now, at her utter sincerity and fearlessness, I couldn’t help but think that maybe she did, after all. Know me, and love me.
Maybe, in time, she’d be able to help me understand and love my monster, too. Because, in the end, it was always Eve. And always had been.
And I bent close, put my forehead against hers, and whispered, “You make me real.”
From the doorway, Oliver cleared his throat, somehow managing to make it sound as if he wanted to gag at the same time. “You’re free to go,” he said. “Congratulations. You’ve passed.”
“Passed what?” Eve asked, frowning.
“They wanted to see if I’d hurt you,” I said. I focused past her, on Oliver. “You were my test. And I won’t hurt her, not ever. You can count on that.”
He raised his eyebrows, without any comment at all, and left.
? ? ?
The vending machine suffered another accident the next day. And then the next. It wasn’t just me. My best friend, Shane, took to the idea of vandalism with frightening enthusiasm. So did Claire (surprisingly), and Eve . . . but it wasn’t just the four of us sabotaging the damn thing, because at least twice when I went to enact some mayhem, I found it was already nonfunctional.
The last time, I saw someone walking away from the machine, which had a snapped electrical cord. He was wearing a big, flaring coat, but I knew him anyway.
Oliver paused at the door, looked back at me, and nodded, just a little.
And that was the last time they fixed the machine. The next day, it was gone. I felt a little tingle of phantom hunger, of disappointment . . . and relief.
Because some things just aren’t meant to come out of a can.
DARK RIDES
It was probably inevitable I’d get around to writing about carnivals and Morganville, right? Yeah. I thought so, too. But this one is unique, even so, in that I have Michael and Eve off on a mission together, from Amelie. Hijinks and life-threatening danger may ensue. Also, a brand-new vampire character that I really need to explore more, because I liked him a lot.
Fun factoid: I used to work in a haunted house—not a carnival but one of those seasonal death traps that was set up fast and taken down faster, run by virtual amateurs. Working as a character in them is fine for me, because I’m in on the mystery and the joke, but I am completely unable to handle haunted houses any other way as “fun.” They really do creep me out. Also, I got stuck in one of the secret passages of that seasonal haunted house once, and nobody notices or cares if you’re banging on the door and yelling for help when everyone is screaming already. (Yes, I intend to write that murder mystery someday.)