Jeanne Stein - Haunted

I, the human me, was there inside, but I didn’t try to surface. Didn’t try to temper or restrain vampire. It felt too good to let go. Adrenaline and blood make a heady vampire cocktail.

Then there was Luis. I was strictly human when I shot him to make him talk. I was human when I dropped that grenade on the drug truck, knowing there were men inside.

Do I regret doing any of those things?

No.

Should I feel guilty?

I look at Max, as pale as the white hospital sheets. Tubes in each arm.

If I’m honest, no. I don’t regret one drop of blood I spilled—or drank.

My thoughts turn to Culebra. The way he telegraphed an inner peace when he left with Adelita. It strikes me that he may see her as a chance to make up for losing his own daughter. For being responsible for the death of his family.

My cell phone vibrates, telling me I have a message. I turned off the ringer when I came into the hospital. Now I check the display and when I see who the call is from, my shoulders bunch.

Stephen.

We’ve been playing telephone tag since I got to McAllen. I checked into a motel near the hospital and tried to call him right away. The call went directly to voice mail. Then I called his sister in San Diego. I got a very chilly reception from her. “Stephen is in Washington,” she said abruptly. The “as if you care” part left hanging in the air like an icicle.

Since then, Stephen and I keep missing each other.

I sigh and get to my feet. If I call back right now, I should reach him.

It’s time.

I step out into a sunny Texas afternoon and walk to an outside patio area off the hospital cafeteria. There are a few occupied tables but most are empty so I choose one in a far corner and press Send.

Stephen picks up right away. There is a long silence before he finally breaks it. “Anna.”

I let another long moment pass before I get the courage to say, “Hi.”

Hi. Really great.

Stephen’s sigh resonates so much emotion through the phone line that I cringe. Disappointment, sadness, anger, disillusionment. All in one exhalation of breath. All directed at me.

I say the only thing I can. “I’m sorry.”

No reply.

“Are you in Washington?”

“Didn’t you speak with my sister? You know I am.”

Crap. “Well. I just called to tell you I’m sorry. I never intended for this happen.”

“For what to happen, Anna? For you to disappear out of my life with no explanation? For you to go days without letting me know what you were doing or if you were living or dead? You know, it’s been in all the newspapers. How you and your DEA buddy were involved in taking down Luis and Pablo Santiago and dismantling their cartel. Quite a story. I wish I could have covered it.”

“Stephen, I didn’t know it was in the papers. I was never interviewed by anyone except DEA agents. I never spoke to the press. We didn’t dismantle the cartel. You know how impossible that would be. It’s all hype.”

Another loud sigh. This one of impatience and fury. “It doesn’t matter. I’m glad you are safe. I’m sorry about your friend, Max. I hope he recovers and I hope things work out for you.”

“Work out? You hope what works out?”

“You and Max. That was an interesting human-interest element of the story. Two former lovers reunite to battle against the forces of evil. Nice touch.”

Now it’s my turn to breathe fire into the phone. “There is no Max and I. Goddamn it, I don’t know where the papers got this shit. But that’s what it is. Shit.”

“Yeah. Well, whatever. Nice knowing you, Anna. Maybe our paths will cross again someday. I just hope it’s here, on Earth, in a restaurant maybe and not in a fight to the death battle against some otherworldly creature you’ve pissed off. One of those in a lifetime is enough.”

“Stephen, you are not giving me a chance to explain—”

But he’s gone. The click of his disconnect is final. As final a sound as I’ve ever heard. Fucking final. Fucking final. Fucking final.

I’m left staring at the phone, emotions running the gamut from rage to immense sadness to . . .

Relief.

RELIEF?

Stephen broke up with me. I didn’t have to break up with him. I didn’t have to come up with the thousand reasons I couldn’t make the move with him to Washington.

I don’t have to feel guilt. I don’t have to feel remorse.

When I realize what I am feeling, that I’m off the hook, another emotion wells up.

Alarm. Because I must be crazy. Certifiable. I just lost one of the most wonderful men I’ve ever known and all I want to do is breathe a huge sigh of relief.

And celebrate.

I am seriously deranged. Or am I in shock?

I push myself up from the table and start back to Max’s room. On the way through the hospital lobby, I stop at the gift shop to check out the newspaper headlines. There it is on the front page of the Monitor . Two days and the battle against Pablo’s men and his subsequent arrest is still front-page news.

Along with a photo of me sitting at Max’s bedside in the hospital.

I stomp to the elevator. Fucking cell phone cameras. Anyone could have taken that picture of me with Max and I’d never have known it. I didn’t know it. It could have been someone on the staff, one of Max’s DEA buddies, a reporter.

Anyone.

No wonder Stephen was so pissed. The expression on my face, the way I’m bending toward Max. It would be easy to misinterpret concern for something else.

And yet . . . Why am I getting angry?

I’m halfway down the hall when my phone rings. I’d forgotten to turn it back off. I duck into a waiting room and check the caller ID. It’s David with a text message.

It’s simple. Sorry to hear about Max. Take as much time as you need. Call if you need anything.

Good old David. At least he’s one man I don’t have to worry about disappointing.

We’re way past disappointment.

IT’S BEEN THREE MORE DAYS AND MAX STILL HAS NOT regained consciousness. I’m going crazy from the anxiety, the boredom, the hopelessness.

My own wounds have healed, the bullets working their way to the surface of my skin as I expected and pushing their way out. It hurt like hell when they erupted like pieces of shrapnel. I have them in a little glass jar. Macabre, but I figure Max will get a kick out of seeing them when he recovers.

Once he gets over being pissed because my wounds healed so much easier than his.

If his wounds heal . . .

An annoying, worrisome thought has worked its way into my head the last few days. I could save Max. I could turn him.

But at what cost? If I could be sure he would not condemn me for turning him into a creature he once ran away from, I would do it.

When I try to ask him, to whisper the question in his ear, I get no response.

I have never turned another human. I realize I am not ready to take the responsibility without his consent. I am too much of a coward.

And so I sit and watch and hope I’ve made the right decision.

On the sixth day, Max’s doctor tells me to go home. That Max’s condition is not likely to change soon—if at all. The damage to his internal organs is severe. The loss of blood, the trauma, has led to pneumonia. The fact that he is unconscious is really a blessing. At such time as they deem it safe to move him, he will be transported to a hospital in San Diego. I can check in every day by telephone and if his condition does change, they will notify me.

I hate to leave. I don’t want Max to wake up and be alone. His DEA buddies assure me that someone will visit every day. The same agent who embarrassed himself by telling me how crazy in love Max had been with me promises to keep in close touch with the hospital and with me.