Page 17 of Bitten Vampire
“After I had that run-in with Theresa, I pressedaccepton a delivery without looking and wound up in the Vampire Sector,” I confess. The entire table rattles. “It was okay, I’m okay, I’ve seen worse creepy places on the other side of the city. The Vampire Sector, at least during the day, is not as bad as I thought.” I nibble on the spear of asparagus. “I wanted to go to the restaurant—the one where Amy and Max went before they were murdered—ask some questions.”
A fork appears out of nowhere and pokes me on the hand.
“Hey, ouch, no need to use weapons. I didn’t go. It wastoo close to dusk. But I wanted to. I want to go again. It just seems daft to drive all the way to the city when the Vampire Sector is basically in the back garden. I think, I think I might go back tomorrow, work the area and have a poke about.”
I move my hand as the fork comes at me again. Inwardly, I smirk—the house is trying to train me like it does Baylor.
“I will be careful, I promise. I just want to… I don’t know. I don’t know what I can do. I’m a small cog in a very big machine, and there’s nothing that I can do. Not against vampires, I know that, but for my own sanity, I need to at least try.”
The fork wobbles; I slap my hand on it, trapping it against the table.
“I know, I know. Yeah. It’s silly, I will not go.” I lie. I snatch the rogue fork and my empty plate to take to the kitchen, but before I can move, they disappear, vanishing from my hands, the house unwilling to let me do the dishes. I know they will be back in their respective places later, washed and tucked neatly away.
I never have to lift a finger to clean; the house sees to everything. Every surface remains immaculate, and my clothes reappear in the wardrobe—washed, folded, and pressed. I love it.
Amy would have hated it.I smile, though the thought stings. Keeping her memory alive is important. I need to remember her because, as long as I do, she’s not truly gone. You can’t be truly dead if you are not forgotten.
Amy was an emotional cleaner. Whenever she was sad,she’d clean. Mad? She’d clean. Happy? You guessed it, she would clean.
I can almost hear the battles she would have waged against a house that tidies itself: the housework wars.
“Are you up for watching a film?”
The television pops on in the living room, and the scent of popcorn wafts in. Movie night it is.
Chapter Seven
I wasright about working in the Vampire Sector: almost no humans here deliver food, and the fees—even in daylight—are nearly double what I earn across the border. So why would I not work here? Less time on the road, less fuel, more money. Easy peasy.
This morning, instead of heading for the city, I turned towards the vampires.
Now I’m outside One Bite Won’t Hurt, the ‘themed bistro’ where Amy and Max ate their last meal. Goosebumps pepper my arms. From the pavement, it looks more haunted house than haute cuisine, but the neonopensign burns true to the website’s promise of twenty-four-hour service.
After a long walk to tire Baylor out before work, I skipped breakfast, so at nearly eleven, a meal feelsjustified. And if I have a quick chat with the staff about a very public murder, it’s perfectly normal. Right?
I draw a shaky breath, wipe my damp palms on my jeans, and straighten my newly dubbed ‘vampire-hunting’ top—really just a black, sweat-wicking exercise shirt with long sleeves and a high neckline that hugs my throat. Fabric against my neck feels safer—who knows whether vampires study bare throats the way chocoholics size up a slab of cake.
Not that I plan to meet any vampires.
The bell over the door cackles like a Halloween toy, and I jump. Ahead, a host station shaped like chrome fangs guards the entrance, and behind it, thepièce de résistancedominates the room, a faux-blood fountain.
A wall of crimson liquid slides down smooth glass, backlit to suggest a pulsing vein, and the soft, rhythmic drip into the shallow pool below is oddly soothing. For a moment a charm thickens the air with a faint metallic tang, artificial yet disturbingly convincing, before the scent fades.
Velvet drapes and cobwebbed chandeliers complete the kitsch. Online photos never captured the full commitment. Amy, the horror buff, would have adored it.
A member of staff sweeps in, cape swirling, plastic fangs distorting her smile. The same dull glaze I noticed yesterday in others clouds her eyes. She looks exhausted. Perhaps life here does grind people down. I should head home—money isn’t everything—but the truth matters more than comfort.
“Good morning. Welcome to One Bite Won’t Hurt,” she lisps around the fangs. “Table for one?”
“Yes, please. Are you still serving breakfast?”
“Certainly. This way.” She leads me to a table at theback—perfect for observing the room—then hands over a menu.
When she returns, I order the breakfast special.
The plate, when it comes, is pure theatre: scarlet beans, an egg moulded into fangs, sausages shaped as stakes, and a heap of crispy bat-wing bacon. All gimmick, yet perfectly cooked.
While I eat, I note the other diners. An elderly couple—mid-seventies, perhaps—sit hand in hand, giggling over their plates. Adorable. The sight makes me smile.
