I stayed huddled behind the heavily screened windows, napping, while Zeb ventured inside. I was tired, drained, all of my being focused on my raw, healing skin. When your mortality is taken out of the equation of life, you tend to take certain things, such as paralyzing agony, for granted. Is that what it would feel like to go out during the day? I imagined it was only a fraction of the pain an unprotected vampire would suffer in full sun.
And even that small portion was torture. Of the few ways vampires could die, death by suntan was definitely at the bottom of the list.
A short time later, my partner in crime startled me awake with a sharp knock on the window.
“I just barely convinced them that I was the great-grandson of the oldest guy there, whose name I did not know. I had to keep calling him Pappy.”
“What did he say?” I asked, rubbing my tired eyes. “Had he heard of Wilbur Goosen?”
“No, he was far more interested in a rerun of Matlock than talking to me. And then some other guy heard me say Wilbur’s name, and he made the weirdest, wrinkliest face I’d ever seen. Then he cursed at me in Lithuanian and whacked me with his cane,” Zeb said, rubbing his arm gingerly. “He then switched to English and suggested I perform various sexual acts on myself.”
“If you could do that by yourself, we would never see you,” I said, despite the glare Zeb sent my way. “How did you know it was Lithuanian?”
He seemed offended. “Like you’re the only smart one around here.”
“Sorry I put you through all of that for nothing.”
“No, on the way out—while I was dodging the cane—a much nicer lady stopped me. She apparently had her hearing aids turned all the way up and heard our conversation. She was an old flame of Wilbur’s.”
“Say what now?”
“When Wilbur Goosen lived at Sunnyside, he was quite the Don Juan. Ila Faye Pogue, the lady in question, was one heart torn asunder in the swath he cut across the Shuffleboard Circuit. At one point, there was a catfight in the rec room among three of his interests.
Wigs and walkers and glass eyes flying everywhere …”
“I don’t need to think about that.”
“Mrs. Pogue had photos in her album. The administration was on the verge of asking Wilbur to leave when he just passed away in his sleep. It was very sudden.”
“He died? Are we sure she had the right Wilbur Goosen?”
“How many Wilbur Goosens could there be?” he pointed out. I nodded. “Besides, she had pictures of the two of them. Kissing.”
He showed me a sample photo. I winced. “Bleh. Don’t I have enough randy geriatrics in my life? And she was sure he died?”
“Well, they buried him,” he said, starting the car. “So, what would that make him? A vampire? A zombie?”
“This isn’t really my area of expertise,” I said. “But it explains the health shakes.”
“Well, have you ever seen him during the day?”
“I don’t see anybody during the day.”
“Aren’t there some vampire tests we can do? We can make him touch silver, put him under a sun lamp. Oh, we can force-feed him garlic bread.”
“I like your enthusiasm. But why don’t we just ask him?” I suggested.
“Well, where’s the fun in that?” Zeb pouted. “Besides, what are you going to say, ‘Hi, I know you want to marry my grandma, who I’m not on great terms with, but I was hoping you could tell me whether you’re, you know, an undead gigolo hell-bent on killing her and taking the family fortune’? I’m sure that would improve your relationship with Ruthie.
Come on, let’s sprinkle silver shavings in his pants.
“Well, what are you going to do?” he said when I ignored his proposal. “Find his lair? Do your best Peter Cushing imitation?”
I shot him the Arched Eyebrow of Bewilderment. He responded by wrapping his fingers around a pretend stake and made stabbing motions. At least, I hoped it was a pretend stake and stabbing motions, because otherwise our relationship just took an upsetting and inappropriate turn.
“Why would I do that?” I asked.
“Because he’s evil!”
I gaped at him. “Because he’s probably not one hundred percent human, we should assume he’s an evil monster?” Zeb’s face sagged into “oops” lines. “Yeah, how’s that foot taste?”
“Sorry,” he said. “Sometimes I forget that you’re not one hundred percent human.”
“Hmph.”
On the drive back to town, I tried to work up the nerve to bring up Zeb’s odd behavior, the unexplained absences and “chores” at his mama’s house. Was Zeb thinking about leaving Jolene at the altar? Was that even possible when you were mated to a werewolf?
Zeb avoided the fully exposed highways in favor of the more shaded backroads, where we were treated to fantastic scenery. Weeds almost high enough to hide the junked cars and defunct riding mowers. Trailers with rotting underpinning flapping in the wind. And there was a school bus parked next to almost every house, most of which did not appear able to run. I kept telling myself I would just blurt out the first question at the next trailer we saw, and the next, and the next. But I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to know if Zeb was capable of jilting Jolene. I didn’t want know if he was capable of hurting someone that way, of that level of deceit. These aren’t thoughts you want to have about your best friend.
We were halfway back to the Hollow when I started feeling a little dizzy. I ignored it until the sensation turned into full-on vertigo. My throat was so dry. I looked at the clock.
Crap.
“What’s wrong?” Zeb asked. “You look pale … er.”
I covered my mouth with my hand and shook my head as a hot iron fist closed around my belly.
“Remember when we were nine and we rode the Tilt-A-Nator until you threw up cotton candy in my lap?” he asked. “You looked better then.”
I braced myself against the dashboard, palms against the worn, warm faux leather. “It’s just that I—I’m getting a little, um, hungry.”
“I thought you had a special little fridge in here for blood. Didn’t you bring anything with you?”
“I didn’t think a bag lunch would be required,” I said. “I ate right before we left, but being out during the day—I didn’t realize it would be so draining.”
“What about a store? Can we stop somewhere?”
I doubled over as another cramp clenched my belly. I wheezed, “The closest store is Bubba’s Beer and Bait, and that’s about ten miles away. I don’t think he carries bottled blood. In fact, Bubba has a little sign on his door that says, ‘No Shoes, No Pulse, No Service.’ “ Zeb mulled that over. “They used to use the milk of young coconuts for a plasma substitute because of its high iron content. I saw it on the Discovery Channel.”
“Well, that will be really handy to know if we’re ever stranded on a desert island.” I smacked him. “If I can’t get blood, how the hell am I going to get a young coconut?”
“I know! I’m sorry! I’m panicking!” he cried.
“Just keep driving.” I panted. “Talk to me. Keep me thinking about something else.”
“What do you want me to talk about?”