Page 36 of Even Vampires Bleed
Ihave a weird feeling that I’m forgetting something.
Maybe I got drunk last night, and I’m still recovering—that could explain things.
Some part of my brain is telling me that getting drunk to the point of forgetting things isn’t a habit of mine, but there are always exceptions.
It seems like yesterday was that kind of exception.
I’m sitting on my bed and the room smells like someone else. I don’t recognize the smell. It smells inherently feminine, but I can’t place it. It’s sweet and spicy at the same time. A mix of passion fruit and cinnamon. It should be weird, but it works. Except the smell is everywhere, and as much as I like it, it annoys me because I don’t know where it comes from.
There is a knock at my door.
I finally get my ass off from my bed and go open the door.
“Yes?” I ask.
The woman at my door looks hardened. She has porcelain skin and eyes of the deepest blue. She would look lovely if only her hair weren’t shaved and her pouty lips weren’t drawn in a hard line.
Her eyes look like they’re wet. Like the other woman, she looks like she either has already cried or is about to.
I don’t know what’s going on around here, but there might be something in the air because I barely just woke up, and yet it’s the second person I see that looks emotional.
I’m not surewhereI am, though.
Why can’t I remember?
I try, and try, and try. All it gives me is a damn migraine.
I want to close the door in the face of the stranger in front of me and go back to sleep—maybe the headache will finally disappear—but instead, I plaster a smile on my face and wait for the girl to tell me why she’s at my door.
“Léandre?” she asks, and I remember that’s how the other girl called me.
It sounds right.
“Yeah?” I retort, and it seems to illuminate the girl’s face.
“Oh gods, Cassiopé was wrong—you do remember,” she says.
“Cassiopé? Who is Cassiopé?”
I have the vague idea that I might know who Cassiopé is, but it’s a fleeting thought and as soon as it grazes my mind, it’s already forgotten.
The girl’s face falls. She schools herself quickly, but I saw it there on her face for a second—the look of disappointment.
It pinches my heart, but I have no idea why.
“You don’t remember me, either, do you?” she asks cautiously.
I want to tell her that I have no idea who she is, but somehow I feel like she’s expecting more and that it would be rude.
“Should I?” I question as cautiously as she did.
I see her shoulders drop, and it answers my question without her having to voice it.
Maybe it’s not just a nasty hangover.
“Come in,” I tell the girl. “I feel like I’m not going to like what you tell me and that I shouldn’t hear it at a doorstep.”
I sit on my bed, and she pulls the desk chair to sit on it backward, as if she doesn’t want to stay too close, as if she’s scared of what I could tell her or maybe she’s scared of how I’m going to react to what she’s about to tell me.
