The guitar player from Rasputin appeared without a sound. One minute, I was alone, edging my way along the wall toward the fire door. The next, he was right beside me, glowing weirdly under the green exit sign.
He nodded to where Alice stood, smiling like he knew something funny. “She’s lovely. But you need to watch out for girls like that. She might ambush you in the parking lot. Kiss you with that cold iron tongue.”
I took a step back and he grabbed me, catching me by the jaw, digging his fingers into the soft place under my chin. He pulled me close so that my neck was bent at an awkward angle. His breath was hot and smelled like burning leaves.
We stood in the green glow of the sign, staring at each other. His grip hurt, but I let him hold on. Maybe he was camouflaged onstage, but down on the floor, it wasn’t smart to be so exposed. I could pass most of the time, but his eyes were too dark. His teeth were sharp and narrow, crammed close together. I kept still, ready to do whatever it took not to make a scene.
He leaned over me so the brim of the hat shadowed us both. “You’re pale and you’re cold, and you reek like steel.” His voice sounded tight, like the words were getting stuck behind his teeth. “Don’t pretend you’re not infected or that it doesn’t hurt. It’s on your breath and in the whites of your eyes. It’s in your blood.”
I stood there, helpless to look away as he leaned in closer. He tightened his grip on my jaw and whispered hoarsely, “Do you really need a wretch like me to tell you that you’re dying?”
My pulse hammered and I put out a hand to steady myself. The whole building seemed to surge in on me and then roll out again. I just kept my eyes on the guitar player and my hand on the wall. I didn’t want to do anything that might suggest to him that he was right. Dying? The idea was so enormous it was disorienting. I might be sick, but dying?
Deep down, though, I knew the declaration had some truth to it. I thought about all the times I’d had a bad reaction to a car ride or the steel counters in the science wing, how it was always a little worse than the time before. When you got down to facts, I wasn’t actually supposed to be alive. Under ordinary circumstances, I should have just worn out my welcome, buried years ago like Natalie Stewart.
No. Not like Natalie—like the thing that had been buried with her name.
The air was cold suddenly, and I started to shake. The man hunched over me and smiled—almost kind. His nose was uncomfortably close to mine. “I could change your life,” he whispered. “Come with me tonight and I’ll save you.”
