Page 56 of Surface Scratch
Caleb tried to force the feeling away as he nodded, holding a trembling hand out to him. “I’m okay,” he said as Tariq pulled him to his feet.
“In here, guys,” Ophelia called. She sounded like she was banging something against the counter.
Tariq kept a firm grip around Caleb’s shoulders as he guided him into the kitchen behind Vincent and the other man in a ski mask. Ophelia dangled a baggy filled with ice behind her without turning around.
Vincent nudged the man in the ski mask, prompting him to remove it and reveal the clean-shaven face of Matteo Jovanovska. Matteo grabbed the bag and held it out toward Caleb, motioning to his neck.
“Thanks.” He accepted the bag and pressed the frigid plastic to his throat, wincing as it made contact.
“So, as you guys can see, we have a bit of a situation,” Ophelia began, turning around to sign to Matteo.
“Jesus Christ,” Tariq muttered under his breath at the same time Vincent rushed forward, grabbing her bloodied face.
A large gash still oozed across her temple, the side of her face and her mouth and chin so smeared with blood her natural skin tone wasn’t visible. Her right eye was swollen completely shut, just the tips of her eyelashes poking out between the folds of inflamed skin.
“Your dad is going to kill me,” Vincent said, manipulating her face as though he were examining a priceless vase. “How did he get the drop on you? We taught you better.”
“Pinky over there distracted me,” she said, scowling as Vincent continued to fuss over her. She slapped his hand away. “I’m fine.”
“You’re concussed,” he insisted.
“I’ll be fine. We need to deal with the dead guy,” she said, continuing to sign. “Uncle Vinny, I need you to go check his bedroom for the information we came here for. Tariq, you’re going to help me get his body out of here. Back the truck up to the back of the house. Matteo, take Caleb to the bathroom and get him cleaned up.” She pointed to her left, toward another doorway.
Matteo nodded. He gestured for Caleb to follow him, but Tariq squeezed his shoulder, keeping him in place. “I’ll take him,” he insisted.
Ophelia rolled her good eye. “It’s fine. Matteo is going to play nice, right?”
Matteo nodded again. He held up a finger and shut his eyes, his brows pinched together as he looked like he was concentrating on something. When he opened them again, the whites of his eyes had returned. He tapped below his eye and held his palm out, the other hand sliding over it horizontally.
Tariq sighed, then leaned closer to Caleb. “I don’t know when he ate last, so be careful. He is dangerous. If he tries anything, yell as loud as you can as fast as you can,” Tariq whispered into his ear.
If Caleb had been given the information twenty minutes earlier, maybe he would have been frightened, but for some reason, he couldn’t bring himself to care. His tiredness made his bones ache, his mind flashing with images of V’s brain splattered on the carpet, and after his night with Marcus, being bitten again didn’t seem like that big of a deal.
He just wanted to get out of the house. It seemed so much smaller now that there were more people in there, and the smell of blood was becoming overwhelming.
Matteo gave him a weak smile that seemed genuine, reflecting in his green eyes, and motioned for Caleb to follow him.
“It’s not nice to whisper in front of Matteo and not translate,” he heard Vincent say in a low voice.
“That’s the point of whispering, for others to not hear,” Tariq countered. “I don’t know what his situation is right now or if he’s close to a frenzy. I don’t want to be the one to explain to Marcus why his new squeeze is dead in the home of a D-list drug dealer. You know, on top of explaining that Ophelia stole my truck and ran off to do this on her own.”
A frenzy. That must have been what Marcus meant when he said they lost their minds when they went hungry. He looked back at Matteo, finally getting the chance to examine him in the normal incandescent lighting of the bathroom. His reddish-brown hair complimented the jade green of his eyes. Both times he’d met Matteo and his brothers had been under a black light, and in both situations, they weren’t exactly the most friendly. But there was a kindness about his face that made Caleb wonder what on earth Tariq had meant by Matteo being dangerous. Then again, Marcus was warm and pleasant, but that hadn’t stopped Marcus’s ‘beast’ from taking a literal chunk out of him when things took a turn south.
Matteo’s facedidseem ashen and gaunt, like someone who hadn’t eaten or slept in a long time. He wondered how long they could go between feedings before they lost themselves to the beast. Was it weeks? Months? How long had it been for Matteo?
Matteo patted the lid of the toilet, mouthing “Sit.” Caleb practically fell against the hard ceramic, his body tired but his eyes watchful and wary as Matteo ran the water in the sink and grabbed a washcloth. He shifted his body toward Caleb and began moving his hands.
“I’m sorry… I-I don’t know…” Caleb began. He clamped his mouth shut, realizing he was speaking out loud to someone who couldn’t hear him.
Matteo produced a small spiral-bound notepad and began writing. He handed the notepad and pen to Caleb.
“You have blood on your face,”it read. Caleb felt his stomach roil, another wave of nausea washing over him. It wasn’t his blood.
When Caleb looked up, Matteo was holding out a washcloth, steam rising from it. He held his breath as Matteo dabbed at his face, carefully watching his eyes for any sign of the inky blackness creeping back in. After a few more moments of the hot washcloth gently rubbing against his face, he relaxed, realizing the intensity of Matteo’s face was just him concentrating.
Matteo straightened and motioned to Caleb’s coat. It took him a few seconds to realize he was asking him to remove his coat. He glanced down, realizing there were large, dark splotches of blood on his chest. He quickly unzipped. Those spots weren’t from what Ophelia did. They were the direct result of his actions.
He let Matteo take his coat and checked his T-shirt to see if any of the blood had seeped through the thick coat, feeling another small wash of relief fall over him when he realized it was clean. He held out his injured hand, his fingers curled inward in a halfhearted attempt to contain the blood, looking away as he did. He hadn’t been willing to see the damage the switchblade had done to his fingers and palm, but he knew it was bad. It was still dripping—not a lot, but enough that he knew if an injury bled that long it was probably deep.
