One Night Burns (The Vampires of Livix, #1) (13 page)

“If pigs were as pretty as you,” he lifted his glasses to look me in the eyes, “they’d be too attractive to slice for sandwiches.”

“Now that’s a goofy line.” I said. His eyes so dangerously charming.

“But of course.” He let his glasses drop back to his nose. Again he watched the roadway.

A shiver glanced across my shoulders and ran up my spine, “So what kind of victims have you drained? Outside of your bottled Massai drinks?”

He grabbed the empty burger wrapper and the napkins from my cone. Hard to believe I had eaten them so quickly. The wrapper crinkled loudly in his fist as he tossed it in the refuse bin, “Let’s go.”

We drove in silence for quite a while. I peered out the window. Watching the trees and streams drift by. Here and there a hawk soared above the tree tops. I thought I saw a bald eagle but it flipped in the air diving at a group of smaller birds that scattered before it. I had to look away before I saw too much.

My half full strawberry slush liquefied in the center console. The other cup holder held the dark blue bottle of Garin’s Massai drink. Beads of moisture clung to the glass below the liquid level.

The road continued as two lanes. Most Friday evening traffic went North while a few traveled South. The road wound and curved as if we floated across the asphalt flying inside a black bird. Swooping around corners and twists. Over knolls and powering through small dips.

“I like how you’re relaxing.” Garin announced.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re not gripping the edge of the seat anymore.”

We came on a whole string of campers. Slow moving dinosaurs. Garin down-shifted and dragged the brakes. I saw a sign that said, ‘Passing Lane 2.5 Miles’.

“I guess I’m getting used to this.”

“A little at a time?”

“Yes.” I looked at him and put my hand on his forearm, “I’m sorry about back there.”

He slid his hand off the shifter and laced his fingers between my fingers and pulled my hand up to kiss it, “I’m sorry too.”

But I hardly heard that. I hadn’t realized how sensitive the inner parts of my fingers could be. We touch and are touched all day and only occasionally so completely there. And the touch of his lips on the back of my hand floated about my mind. He released my fingers. He clutched down to rocket around the line of campers edging over to the slow lane as the passing lane appeared.

“Gah!” The campers became a white and gray blur beside me as I flicked my eyes back and forth from the road ahead to the speedometer needle burying itself. We zipped ahead of the lead camper, an old “dually” pickup with a fifth-wheel camper in tow. Garin slammed the shifter into another gear and without braking he let the engine chew up our forward energy while rumbling angrily through the exhaust system. We slowed to the speed limit in the slow lane.

We crested the hill and there it lay. The arms of the land reached out into Lake Michigan creating the sparkling bay and harbor of Traverse City. The sun sat low on the horizon creating long shadows from the boats at dock and the last of the triangular sailboats still out in the water returning home. We snaked into the downtown city streets then followed the harbor around before continuing again North.

“How far is it?” I saw a supermarket on the opposite side of the road we passed.

“We’ll stop at the market in North Port. Then head west. The house is on the shore of Lake Michigan. This side is Traverse Bay.”

We wend in and out following the curvy road that hugged the shoreline. Houses sat back on the left side while others precariously perched on the spit of dirt between the road and the rippling waves.

“I see a lot of houses for sale along here.”

“That’s because when the economy is humming everyone wants a cottage Up North. These are the first things they try to unload when troubles start. Obviously everyone else gets the same idea and so they sit. Demand comes back like clockwork with the economy.”

“Are wineries up here?” We sped passed a sign pointing to a wine trail before I could decipher anything else on it.

“Yes. The same type of soil that’s good for fruit trees is also good for wine grapes. Something like 80% of the tart cherries going into pies across the country are from this part of the state.”

“So the church’s cherry pie we ate together –”

“ – are most likely from up here.”

“But wine?”

“The cold water keeps the buds from popping out too soon in the spring so the last Michigan frost doesn’t knock them out. Down by Livix it’s harder to keep the first blooms from getting bitten even though the rest of the growing season is better.”

I giggled, “You said bitten.” He did not comment.

“This is North Port,” Garin slowed the car as we came into a small town with sharp S-curves.

Garin pointed to the sign for Thomases Market and we drove in. I saw they hadn’t figured out where to put the apostrophe in their business name. One or a bunch of Toms that owned the place? Hardly more than two dozen parking spaces. But the lot reflected the size of the town. Twenty buildings huddled themselves into North Port’s downtown. I could see the local docks on the Bay beyond a pizza place.

We wandered up and down a few of the isles dropping random items into the little wire basket Garin carried. He stopped at a wine shelf full of local wines, “Here, we’ll expand your wine education.” He put three bottles in the basket. He also put a cherry flavored coffee in there, I must have had some involuntary expression on because he said, “Trust me, you’ll like this too.”

The air outside the store had changed becoming more damp and cool. I pulled a sweater out and put it over my thin top before buckling in the car. He watched me, “What?” I looked to see if anything crazy stuck out or appeared badly wrinkled.

“The motions you go through doing things you do every day your whole life. Practiced and not realizing it. How you tuck your hair behind your ear –”

I tucked my hair out-of-the-way.

“– Pretty, sexy, and dangerous.” He wore that mocking grin of his. I picked up more of his cues too.

“Just every day things?”

“Just every day things.” He started the car and rolled out of the lot, “Must be hard coded in our genes. You can tell from a silhouette a mile away if it’s a man or a woman walking on the street. Up close, your little habits are enchanting.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel good or some sort of stalker creepiness?”

“I really like you.”

“Thanks.” I put my hand on his arm. “I’m glad we made the trip.”

The road took us up and over a ridge line. On the west side we dipped down into heavy fog. More pine trees lined the road like a bewitched forest platoon. Remains of old wind-swept white pines that covered most of the state at one time. A renewable resource that helped rebuild Chicago after several historic fires.

The loamy soil covering much of the peninsula now changed into rocky outcroppings. Narrow twisted bridges clutched the edges of the rocks over gorge-like ravines. Asphalt faded into gravel paths. Wild and rugged landscapes cloaked in fog and mist. Houses and cottages and cabins separated by miles of state and private forest land.

“Maybe tomorrow we can go to Sleeping Bear sand dunes. Have you ever been there?”

“No. We almost went when I was a kid. Planned on it when school got out. But my father had a heart attack and we spent the summer with my Mom taking care of him in Southern Indiana. No time left to make the trip when he improved because school started again.”

“So a bad memory?”

“No. He rebounded and lived quite a few years later. My parents had been divorced for a long time. He warned my Mom that he’d move far away if she continued with the divorce – making it more challenging with me. But that didn’t stop her wanting the separation. She took care of him that summer so I really got to know him. Otherwise I wouldn’t have.”

Garin stomped on the brakes. The black car came to a sudden stop after sliding in the gravel. My seat belt jerked me back. Large black shapes strutted across the gravel road out of the mists and the trees and the gloom ahead.

Garin laughed, “Turkeys.”

“What?”

“A flock of turkeys.”

I had the melody from the song about seagulls rattling in my head, “Turkeys?” They looked like hulking black pumpkins propped up with twigs.

Garin flipped the headlights on high-beam. The intensely white bounce-back from the fog abrupt but the beam spread wide. Turkeys. Momentarily dazzled by the brighter light.

“See how the tom is ruffling his feathers up?”

“He looks huge.”

“Think you want to mess with him?”

“No.”

“Now see how the hens and chicks fade back into the brush while you’re attention is on the tom turkey?”

“And now he’s fading away.”

“They’ve reintroduced turkeys in Michigan and they are quite successful. Wild turkeys.”

I remembered, “Benjamin Franklin proposed the turkey should be the United State’s official bird instead of the bald eagle. Because they are clever at eluding hunters.”

“Yes. Wild turkeys are not like the domesticated ones.” He put the car back in gear and toned down the headlights. “I forgot to pay attention. A lot of deer out here too but they will crumple fenders.”

We pulled off the trail onto another narrower two-track that curled through a field of ferns below wide spread white pines. The wheels crunched across sharp lime stone chips as we entered a clearing.

Wind swept in from the lake and blew a constant breeze that twisted the fog around the car and revealed a rugged house squatting by the edge of a cliff.

“Don’t go out wandering without me. Those two trees at the edge of the lawn mark the edge of the lake, a several hundred foot drop to fractured boulders and the surf. A fantastic view in the daytime without the fog. You don’t sleep walk do you?”

Maybe his cologne I had been smelling the whole day influenced me, “I’m not sure I’ll need to walk.” I reached for his face and drew him to me. My lips found his. My left hand slid over his thick shoulder and toward his spine. My right hand pulled at his microfiber t-shirt and pushed my fingers across his abs. Not the smooth peach fuzz of a boy but the rough texture of man. Maleness that filled my every sense and exposed my need.

Garin’s fingers explored me and my bra loosened – freed from its clasp without any fumbling or hesitation. His other hand held my jaw and stroked down my stretching neck and across my shoulder. My eyes fluttered as I sunk my lips deeper into his.

I pulled back to leave, “I haven’t even seen the house yet.” we grinned and laughed. “Give me a tour.” I released the door latch and stepped out.

Heavy moisture and a stiff breeze pushed against me pulling the handle from my fingers and shutting the door. The breezes moaned louder now wafting soggy and gurgling waves against sharp rocks over the long cliff promising danger. Garin grabbed my hand and the keys and pulled me across the crushed limestone up the wide brick steps to the entrance.

The house crouched thick and patient. It stood there solid like it waited for centuries. A dim intimidating past constructed from native blue-black rock with a rusty red sand mortar between them. The wood trimmed the house in white under a modern metal roof. Meant to last further centuries in the wet winds. Real storm shutters closed over the windows protecting the cabin when unoccupied. A shed huddled nearby storing the outdoor furniture that the porch lacked.

“You’re fumbling more with those keys than you did with my bra.”

“This is my second set and has a whole bunch of keys on it for this place. Many the same brand so it’s hard to sort them out.” He leaned in, “Maybe a pretty girl has me flustered too.” He kissed me deeply. I didn’t care if he found the key.

But he flicked a key in and with a twist pushed the door open.

He closed the door putting us in complete darkness. I clutched at his arm while he retrieved something from his pocket. Then an unmistakable sound as flame danced from an old Zippo lighter in his hand. He moved the flame to a well burned candle languishing on a cast iron trivet set on a side table.

“You smoke or used to?”

“No. I bought it when I first came up here on my own. I liked the classic sound of those lighters and they work well, especially after a factory refurbishment.”

“There’s no electricity here?”

“We turn it off when no one is here.” He pulled off his shoes. I did the same. He walked toward the large living area. “A wind turbine down the shore line in another clearing catches the breezes while photo cell panels bolted on the South and West roofs capture energy on the sunny days to charge batteries and run an inverter.”

I looked around the living area as much as the flickering candle revealed. Old furniture like gnarled chunks of timber and leather upholstery. Victorian encrusted lamps and lamp shades. Like the inside of the house furnished when built and never changed nor updated. An authentic hunting lodge. What did vampires hunt here? Did I have to guess? “It’s not musty. I worried it might be.”

“We have a caretaker check on the house and he does a good clean here every couple of months. More frequently in the summer when it gets used more often.”

“Very Bruce Wayne, my Vampire friend.”

“No. It’s a guy that works at the school district and runs a house cleaning business on the side. You can imagine everyone up here has several jobs to cover bills – but it’s laid back small town stuff.”

“So show me more.”

“This way to the kitchen. The hallway there leads to the first floor bedrooms and bath.” he opened a door with stairs behind that went up, “and more bedrooms with another bath upstairs.”

“Basement?”

“No. This rocky shoreline would have taken too much work to put a basement under the house. There’s a storm cellar on one side of the garage for storing root vegetables and in case of tornadoes –”

“Like Dorothy?”

“Yeah, like Oz.”

Garin led me back to the living room. He set the candle on the fireplace mantle. He reached into a bin next to the fireplace and drew a long taper. A flick and ring from his lighter and the taper flamed. He poked it into the readied fireplace. Little flames curled and licked and danced from the taper into paper and some wax starter and burned into the bark and thin sticks. The flames crackled and hungrily burned across the face of larger logs. The fire popped and hissed. Music from the dawn of time that danced with the beats of the distant crash of the waves. A murmur behind the thick stone walls of the house and buttoned up windows as Garin pulled me back to the couch facing the fire.