Page 5 of Sore Throat, Slight Fever

Since Rory arrived three years ago, the lake’s only inhabitants have been fish and the occasional snapping turtle. The surrounding trees are not without their own inhabitants, which occasionally find their way to the lake, wood ducks and warblers and even a Cooper’s hawk once or twice.

But beyond the fish, nothing trulylivesin Graeme Lake—until two days ago, when Rory, fresh home from the night shift at the gas station, watched the sun rise over the top of the trees, and, as the light spread to the lip of the lake and beyond, saw a slight disturbance in the facade of the water. Just a hint of something, really, a ripple of a shadow beneath the water, but it was enough to make him worry. He asked Kane to fly overhead, hoping the bird’s eyesight could penetrate the murky depths of the lake, but to no avail.

The creature remains a shadow.

Rory turns from the window and reaches for a blue bottle from the refrigerator, breaking the wax seal on it as he pulls the cork. He doesn’t bother with a glass, taking a swig directly from the bottle.

“Didn’t get enough from her?” Kane asks.

He gives the bird a curt shake of his head. “I didn’t drink her blood.”

What he truly means is that he didn’t drink enough to satisfy his hunger. After all, it’s not the bite or even the consumption of a person’s blood that incites the Turn; it’s reciprocity, as the person who is bitten consumes the blood of the vampire who is doing the biting.

He closes his eyes as he takes another sip, the blood flowing down his throat with a burn like whiskey. When he settled down in Willow Park, he knew he needed a reliable, discreet source of food and was grateful to find a farm a few miles to the east whoseowner cares more for money than explanations. Animal blood will never be as good as human blood, but Rory has worked hard to reign in his appetite, and he finds the chicken’s blood palatable, if not somewhat pleasant.

Kane is eyeing him curiously, head tilted to the side. Rory challenges him with a raised eyebrow, but the bird just looks out the window again.

Rory knocks back the rest of his drink and then places the empty bottle in the sink. “And we’re sure it’s not just another gator?” he asks, even though he knows the answer.

“We’re sure,” says Kane. “I can feel it.”

Kane’s background may be as murky as Graeme Lake, but if there’s one thing Rory can trust, it’s Kane’s ability to sense other creatures like him: cursed spirits, so twisted by magic that they’ve forgotten their true form.

That’s really all Rory knows about Kane, though.

The great-tailed grackle showed up at the house shortly after Rory, looking for the last witch who lived here. When Rory informed him that she retired to a senior citizen community down south only to succumb to a sudden case of pneumonia shortly thereafter, he expected Kane to take off again. He hadn’t though. Instead, he cawed out some excuse about the quality of frogs nearby and suggested that he could pay for his rent by ensuring that no small rodents infiltrate the house.

Rory pointed out that he’s never seen any rodents scurrying about the house. Kane ensured him that maintaining the same level of rodent-to-vampire ratio will be top on his list of priorities should he be selected for the role.

Rory still hasn’t seen or heard any rodents in the house, so, in a way, he supposes that Kane has made good on his promise.

“I don’t like this,” says Kane. “First the creature in the lake and now…” He glances back at the door that leads to the basement.

“It’ll be fine,” Rory says with more confidence than he feels. “Watch the door. I’ll be back soon.”

* * *

The air is thick with moisture, the sun already making its way over the tall, skinny oak trees, ineffective against the humidity. He marks a route that avoids direct sunlight, preferring to stick close to the trees and their shadows.

The sun isn’t as detrimental to his kind as various cultural and literary references will have one believe, yet there is some truth to the myth, of course: vampires who stay too long in the sun can sometimes succumb to sun sickness, like how humans fall prey to heat stroke. The difference, however, is that sun sickness in vampires can set in after only a few hours of direct contact.

So, he sticks to the shadows, his sleeves unrolled and buttoned firmly at his wrists. The heat is uncomfortable, and made doubly uncomfortable by the body, cold and rigid, slung over his shoulder. The shovel he carries scrapes against the dried brown leaves that cover the ground, hiding the halfhearted trail. He finds a spot beneath a tree where a yarrow plant is making a valiant attempt at life.

He gently places the bundle of blanket and body against a nearby tree and begins to dig. The slide of rusty metal against hard-packed earth is a song he wishes he didn’t already have memorized. With each thrust of the shovel, he tries and fails, as he so often does, to not recall tears streaming down dirty cheeks, mouths open in terror, words—random and embarrassing—tumbling out in an attempt to change his mind, to prevent his hands and his teeth fromtaking.

As the cavity in the earth gets bigger and bigger, he thinks about the last time he buried a body. The cries of battle had faded, the war was ending, and he had reached his breaking point. An image of his brother’s eyes flashes in his memory, and he tries not to compare the smooth wood handle of the shovel to the stake he once held to his brother’s chest. He tries not to remember the smell of the ocean, and the coppery tang of blood.

When the hole in the ground is deep enough, he drops the body in and begins to cover it up, asking for forgiveness from a nameless deity—maybe even thatgood luck gremlin who must be looking out for him. When he is done, he lets the shovel fall with a clatter and realizes that his hands are shaking, the regret and guilt hanging over him like a gray veil.

He shouldn’t have killed the Kid.

Because that’s all he was: just a kid.

A lost child. There’s a niggling, rotting thing in his chest that whispers scathing rebukes, telling him that Kid was going to turn his life around, that he would do good things. Telling him that the woman will hate him for Turning her. That he should have just called the cops like a human. That he is evil, and he’s taken one life and ruined a second.

And what else is new? He fell into a habit, a trap of his own making. It’s a reminder that the darkness is inside of him and hiding out in the middle of nowhere will do nothing to bring light to the dark.

He stuffs his hands in his pockets, only to find a forgotten pack of cigarettes and a cheap, plastic lighter. He pulls out a cigarette, lighting it without thought. It’s a terrible habit, acquired sometime in the seventies while squatting in New York City. The nicotine does little to his body, but the ritual of it is soothing. He blows out a steady stream of smoke, tasting a hint of sweetness on the tip of his tongue as he looks down at the mound of earth, freshly packed.

---