“But here’s the part I want to know,” Guthrie continued as though I hadn’t spoken. “Why the hell am I already sober after drinking blood with that much alcohol, ecstasy, and cocaine swimming in it? That was pretty much the entire point of the exercise.”
“You’re saddled with an undead metabolism now,” Rans told him. “Sorry.”
“Fuck.” The word emerged flat.
“Evidently, yes,” Rans quipped.
I raised a finger like a nervous student requesting the teacher’s attention in class. “Can we please fast forward to the part where Guthrie’s wearing clothes and I can pretend I didn’t just walk in on this?”
Guthrie gave an audible sigh. “I’m wearing clothes, Zorah. And for what it’s worth, those three didn’t seem terribly hung up on the whole modesty thing last night.”
I cautiously turned around and peeked over my fingers to find him wrapped in a white terrycloth robe. “Okay,” I said slowly, lowering my hand, but resolutely not looking at the bed. “Next question. Is this, like, way out of character for you, or do I just not know you at all?”
Rans snorted. I glared at him.
“I’m not a saint, Zorah,” Guthrie said, sounding tired. “And given that I’m currently living—or rather, being undead—on borrowed time, does any of it really fucking matter?”
I thought of Rans last night, obsessing over the possibility of my death. Not only was Guthrie stuck in the same shitty no-win scenario Rans and I were, he additionally had to worry about an unhinged demon with anger management issues deciding to reach across the world with her mind and snuff him out of existence without an instant’s warning.
“No. I guess it doesn’t. Not as long as you aren’t hurting anyone else,” I told him, softening my tone as I consciously quashed my irrational mortification. “I’m sorry, Guthrie. I pull life-force from random strangers at sex clubs. I’m not exactly in a position to judge.”
“So,” Rans interrupted smoothly. “If that’s settled, shall we go find some brunch for you, Zorah? It feels like we’ve docked, though I’ve no idea where. I suppose we might as well stretch our legs and enjoy someplace tropical.” He paused, his attention shifting to Guthrie. “Unless you need to see to your... guests, first?”
Guthrie slid a hand over his face, rubbing at his eyes. “No. Just let them sleep it off. Give me half an hour and I’ll meet you in your room, you asshole.”
FIFTEEN
GUTHRIE SHOWED UP thirty minutes later on the dot; his duffel thrown carelessly over one shoulder. I still had to fight the heat of embarrassment that tried to rise to my face when I looked at him.
Geez—I was literally the lamest sex demon ever.
For his part, Guthrie appeared to be rockin’ his standard blend of bitterness, sadness, resignation, and the desire to kick Rans’ ass for dragging him into this impossible situation in the first place. I couldn’t help thinking that if last night’s festivities hadn’t managed to cheer him up, maybe it was really a lost cause after all.
Rans, by contrast, seemed totally unfazed by the morning’s events. Of course, he’d known Guthrie for decades longer than I had. For all I knew, this wasn’t the first time he’d walked in on his friend at the center of a drunken foursome. I mean... the guy had slept with Myrial, after all.
After slinging his own bag over his shoulder, Rans gestured to mine. “First rule of being on the run. Don’t leave anything behind that you might need if things went pear-shaped.”
Since I’d violated that particular rule before—to my detriment, I might add—I didn’t argue. I was in no hurry to find myself stuck with nothing more than the clothes on my back for days on end, like I had the last time I’d run off somewhere without taking my belongings with me. It was a bit awkward to lug the carryon bag around, and it did garner some odd looks from the ‘rich douche’ brigade as we made our way off the ship. But I’d grown at least somewhat accustomed to the heavy weight hanging from my shoulder over the past few weeks.
Apparently our current port of call was the island of St. Kitts. The first thing I noticed was that it had considerably more of a touristy, built-up feel than Anguilla. After traversing the long dock leading from the ship to the cruise terminal, the three of us wandered around the bustling city of Basseterre until we found a food shack with a line out the door.
Guthrie was hiding behind a pair of Ray-Bans, giving the general impression that the blazing sun overhead was stabbing directly into his brain. I didn’t think it would be polite to ask whether his discomfort was caused by a hangover from alcohol-laden blood, or if it was a ‘newly turned vampire’ thing.
Rans’ pale skin stood out like a sore thumb among both the Afro-Caribbean natives and the tanned tourists. He’d once joked about vampires needing SPF-gazillion sunscreen; I hoped the SPF-50 he’d slathered on this morning was up to the task. I’d done the same, figuring the last thing I needed on top of dodging our enemies was my nose peeling from sunburn.
When I got to the front of the line, I looked over the simple menu placard and ordered a johnnycake with fried conch and star-apple juice, because I’d never had any of those things. If I was maybe possibly going to die soon, I figured I might as well expand my horizons while I still had the chance. Food and drink procured, I sat at a shaded outdoor table between two vampires and tried to ignore the chittering monkey begging for scraps—apparently a regular fixture of the place, based on the reactions of many of the other patrons.
The meal was delicious; far more so than the hoity-toity truffle burger I’d had on the ship last night. When I was done, I tossed a tiny piece of johnnycake to the monkey, hiding my
