Fungal Halo

If the hand on my shoulder belonged to a lookout I missed, someone come for revenge on the hunter who slew their kin, right now I’d let them have it. I find myself unable to muster relief that the hand belongs to Carmen instead.

Carmen seems more withdrawn than before after sharing that story, as though even she was caught by surprise that those memories still have some power over her. A little fun in bed helps distract her for a moment, but I get the feeling she also uses it to distract me from the topic.

Carmen spoils me. She treats me like a princess, taking me out to eat at fine restaurants, lavishing gifts of beautiful clothes and shoes and bags and jewelry on me. It’s almost too much. Too fancy, too elegant, too high femme.

As the two of us wait outside the restaurant for the valet to bring her car around, Carmen produces a small case from inside her jacket. She removes a cigarette, hand-rolled by the looks of it, and extends her arm to offer me the option of taking one.

Tears. I wondered if there would be tears. A bloodbag, a human girl—a vampire hunter by blood—dies. What does that mean to the vampires who called her sister?

I guess it means tears. That’s something.

The way Carmen looks deep into my eyes, it’s like she sees all the way down to the depths of my soul, like she already knows all there is to know about me, and it’s just a matter of being willing to confess the truth and thereby earn her trust.

Four people dead in one night. One person missing, along with her clothes and valuables, making her the obvious suspect.

The man shouting at me imagines himself to be someone important. Though I barely pay attention to his ranting and raving, I gather that my error has not only inconvenienced him, it is but the first domino in a chain reaction that will end with his company collapsing, people losing their jobs, and the entire United States economy falling into ruin, all because I neglected the extra shot of espresso in his extra large caramel turtle mocha.

A man kneels on a stone floor, coughing blood. His face is a battleground of despair versus anger, and he clenches his fists in a futile gesture of resistance.

“If it helps, I’m sorry in my own way. I’d hoped to let you live, but I cannot do that if you will not play your role in this story.” A figure, cloaked in darkness, circles the dying man like a vulture.

When I was 15 years old, my father killed the first girl I ever loved.