Shrouds (slogan: stop coffin, if you can believe it) has an extensive library and no windows, I'm told. The beds are for purposes other than sleeping. There's a curfew in the sense of a refusal to open its doors after sunrise or before sundown.
"Is there a brochure I could peruse?" I asked Will after he made the arrangements over the phone. He told me to shut up. I pointed out that the place might not be suitable for my tastes.
"You'll only be there for a couple of nights; what do you care?"
"I'll be awake all that time; it better be comfortable."
"It will be, don't worry," Will assured me.
"Through the day you can sit in your room reading, or go down to the television room and watch a DVD---"
"Is this where I make an Interview with the Vampire joke?"
Will's assurances transformed into a scowl. I think my (bad) joke threw him; he wasn't used to me making jokes at the best of times, let alone when we were discussing Adam Locke.
"And at night..." His voice trailed away.
There was no need for him to offer further explanation.
At night, I would be tracking down my ex- boyfriend, the one who was responsible for me being dead now, and letting him know, "Surprise! I'm still around after all! Aren't you shocked?"
I shift in my seat, not for the first time. Try as I might to get comfortable, it's not happening. Oh, physically, I'm okay. It's the thought of what I'm setting myself up for that prevents me from settling.
There's someone across the aisle who keeps looking up at me from his e-reader, glances that by their very frequency make themselves conspicuous.
I wonder if he's reading one of those dummies' guides to spotting vampires in public. Fifty Signs Your Fellow Passenger is Undead. Or Making Conversation with a Vampire.
Or maybe he's idly trying to concentrate on the latest John Grisham while figuring out for himself what I am; that's why my friend from decades past, the one from the bus station came to mind. Public transport, being eyed up by someone I've never met before, it being pretty clear to anyone with two brain cells to rub together that I'm no longer human. No wonder I was dragged back into the past.
I'd better not keep looking. He might think I'm interested, and that would be a most unwelcome distraction. I'm not. He's not my type, and one could say I'm a man on a mission.
A suicide mission, if I weren't already dead.
* * *
"Enjoy your stay at Shrouds, sir," the receptionist says, dropping my room key into my outstretched palm. "Do you require a porter to---?"
"No." My reply sounds a little too abrupt, even to my anti-social ears, so I add a quick, "Thank you," wondering why I care what this fellow vampire thinks of me. He must see all sorts passing through these doors. A grumpy man who died somewhere around his thirties probably doesn't even register.
"We have some fresh supplies being delivered later from the local blood bank; would you like...?" His voice trails away, as if he's expecting me to interrupt again.
I shake my head no. "I drank recently."
"Vintage?"
Oh Christ; he's one of them. Making a strong effort not to shudder, not knowing whether said shudder is because of disgust at the receptionist or horror at my own recent actions, I say, "Young man, late twenties."
"Ah." The receptionist nods, approving. "Not a favourite of mine, but willing, I assume."
"Of course," I snap, this time not caring whether or not I sound rude. "Always."
"Right you are, sir. One never knows these days. We see a lot here. My apologies. Just the other day, we had an Undead Liaison Officer in asking if we'd---"
I clear my throat simply to interrupt him without having to come up with anything coherent to say.
"I hope you enjoy your stay," he says again, and I wonder if he realises he's repeating himself.
Half-turned from the reception desk, I look back. "It was a turning, actually."
His eyes almost light up, I could swear to it.
"No shit." Bang goes his already tenuous professionalism. "For real? You turn---"
"Ssh."
"What? You don't want anyone to hear?" He glances around, but there's no one else here. No one within earshot, anyway. On the other side of the foyer, a fellow guest makes his selection at a vending machine, which dispenses liqueurs in small packets. Chocolates that have a drink other than alcohol at their centre. The things they sell these days make my head spin. "If I'd turned someone, I'd want everyone to know about it," he goes on. "Unless...wait..." He leans across the desk, making a cursory attempt at discretion, and I take a step closer. "It didn't go wrong, did it?"
Given his earlier question about whether or not Kieran was willing, I'm not sure which answer he'd prefer. "No. It went like a dream."
"Oh." If the receptionist---and it's only now I notice he has a name badge, proclaiming Jason--- had need of breathing, I'm sure he'd sigh right now. As it is, he merely appears to physically slump, to shrink. "Good." There's no enthusiasm in his voice. God knows what he'd make of the story of my own transformation. Probably get a boner over it.
"I'm going up to my room to rest now." It's the only way I can think of to put an end to this conversation.
"And if there are any calls for you?"
"There won't be."
"But if there are, should I put them through?"
"There won't be," I say again, and the only reply I choose to hear is the door slamming behind me as I exit to the stairwell.
I can't believe I let you talk me into this.
It's not one of those text messages I hesitate to send. I'm angry at Will and don't think twice about
