Bloodlines

With all this talk of clubbing and girls, an unsettling thought was building in my mind. “Jill, just how much of that did you actually experience?”

She was still avoiding my gaze. “It’s not important.”

“It is to me,” I said. The night Jill had woken in tears . . . that had been when Adrian was with those girls too. Was she living his sex life? “What was he thinking? He knows you’re there, that you’re living everything he does, but he never stops to—oh God. The first day of school. Ms. Chang was right, wasn’t she? You were hung over. Vicariously, at least.” And almost every other morning, she woke up feeling semi-sick—because Adrian was hung over too.

Jill nodded. “There was nothing physical they could’ve tested—like blood or anything—to prove that’s what it was, but yeah. I might as well have had one. I certainly felt like it. It was awful.”

I reached out and turned her face toward mine so that she had to look at me. “And you are now too.” There was more light in the room as the sun rose higher, and I could see the signs again. The sickly paleness and bloodshot eyes. I wouldn’t have been surprised if her head and stomach hurt too. I dropped my hand and shook my head in disgust. “He can stay there.”

“Sydney!”

“He deserves it. I know you feel . . . something . . . for him.” Whether it was sisterly or romantic affection, it really didn’t matter. “But you can’t baby him and run to every need and request he sends to you.”

“He’s not asking me, not exactly,” she said. “I can just feel that he wants it.”

“Well, he should’ve thought of that before he got himself into this mess. He can figure out his own way back.”

“His cell phone died.”

“He can borrow one from his new ‘friends.’”

“He’s in agony,” she said.

“That’s how life is,” I said.

“I’m in agony.”

I sighed. “Jill—”

“No, I’m serious. And it’s not just the hangover. I mean, yeah, part of it’s the hangover. And as long as he’s sick and not taking anything, then so am I! Plus . . . his thoughts. Ugh.” Jill rested her forehead in her hands. “I can’t get rid of how unhappy he is. It’s like . . . like a hammer banging in my head. I can’t get away from it. I can’t do anything else except think about how miserable he is! And that makes me miserable. Or think I’m miserable. I don’t know.” She sighed. “Please, Sydney. Can we go?”

“Do you know where he is?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“All right, then. I’ll go.” I slid over to the edge of the bed. She stood up with me.

“I’ll come too.”

“No,” I said. “You go back to bed. Take some aspirin and see if you can make yourself feel better.” I also had a few things I wanted to say to Adrian in private. Admittedly, if she was constantly connected to him, she’d “overhear” our conversation, but it’d be a lot easier to tell him what I wanted to when she wasn’t actually there in the flesh, looking at me with those big eyes.

“But how will you—”

“I don’t want you getting sick in the car. Just call me if something changes or if he leaves or whatever.”

Jill’s further protests were halfhearted, either because she didn’t feel up to them or was just willing to be grateful for anyone “rescuing” Adrian. She didn’t have an exact address, but she had a very vivid description of the condo he was at, which was right next door to a notable hotel. When I looked it up, I saw the hotel was actually in Long Beach, meaning I’d have to go past Los Angeles proper. I had a two-hour drive ahead of me. Coffee would be required.

It was a pretty day, at least, and there was almost no traffic out so early on a Sunday. Looking at the sun and blue skies, I kept thinking about how nice it would be if I were making this drive in a convertible, with the top down. It would also be nice if I had been making this drive for any other reason besides retrieving a stranded vampire party boy.

I was still having a hard time wrapping my mind around the idea that Jill and Adrian were spirit bound. The notion of someone bringing another back from the dead was not one that meshed well with my religious beliefs. It was just as troubling as another of spirit’s feats: restoring Strigoi. We had two documented cases of that happening too, two Strigoi magically changed by spirit users back to their original form. One was a woman named Sonya Karp. The other was Dimitri Belikov. Between that and all this resurrection, spirit was really starting to freak me out. That much power just didn’t seem right.

I reached Long Beach right on schedule and had no problem finding the condo complex. It was right across the street from an oceanfront hotel called the Cascadia. Since Jill hadn’t called with a change of location, I assumed Adrian was still holed up. Street parking was easy to find at this time of day, and I paused outside to stare at the blue-gray expanse of the Pacific on the western horizon. It was breathtaking, especially after my first week in the desert of Palm Springs. I almost wished Jill had come. Maybe being near so much water would have made her feel better.

The condos were in a peach stucco building with three floors, two units on each floor. From Adrian’s memories, Jill remembered going to the top of the building and turning right. I retraced those steps and came to a blue door with a heavy brass knocker. I knocked.

When no answer came after almost a minute, I tried again more loudly. I was nearly on the verge of a third attempt when I heard the lock unclick. The door opened a crack, and a girl peeked out.

She was clearly Moroi, with a skinny runway model build and pale, perfect skin that seemed particularly irritating today, considering I was pretty sure a pimple was going to break out on my forehead soon. She was my age, maybe a little older, with sleek black hair and deep blue eyes. She looked like some otherworldly doll. She was also half-asleep.

“Yeah?” She looked me over. “Are you selling something?” Next to this tall, perfect Moroi, I suddenly felt self-conscious and frumpy in my linen skirt and button-down top.

“Is Adrian here?”

“Who?”

“Adrian. Tall. Brown hair. Green eyes.”

She frowned. “Do you mean Jet?”

“I . . . I’m not sure. Does he smoke like a chimney?”

The girl nodded sagely. “Yup. You must mean Jet.” She glanced behind her and yelled, “Hey, Jet! There’s some saleswoman here to see you.”

“Send her out,” called a familiar voice.

The Moroi opened the door wider and beckoned me in. “He’s on the balcony.”

I walked through a living room that served as a cautionary tale of what would ever happen if Jill and I lost all sense of housekeeping and self-respect. The place was a disaster. A girl disaster. Laundry piles littered the floor, and dirty dishes covered every square inch that wasn’t occupied by empty beer bottles. A knocked-over bottle of nail polish had created a bubblegum pink splotch on the carpet. On the couch, tangled in blankets, a blond Moroi girl peered at me drowsily and then went back to sleep.

Stepping around everything, I made my way to Adrian through a patio door. He stood on a balcony, leaning against its railing, his back to me. The morning air was warm and clear, so naturally, he was trying to ruin it by smoking.

“Tell me this, Sage,” he said, without turning back to face me. “Why the hell would someone put a building near the beach but not have the balconies face the water? They were built to look at hills behind us. Unless the neighbors start doing something interesting, I’m ready to declare this structure a total waste.”

I crossed my arms and glared at his back. “I’m so glad I’ve got your valuable opinion on that. I’ll be sure and note it when I file my complaint to the city council for their inadequate ocean views.”

He turned around, the hint of a smile twisting his lips. “What are you doing here? I figured you’d be in church or something.”

“What do you think? I’m here because of the pleas of a fifteen-year-old girl who doesn’t deserve what you put