Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 85029 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85029 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
She turns a little so she can see my face. “You’re very handy, Ryet.”
“Well, I started out as a mechanic and when you have sixty-five years of youth, that’s a lot of opportunity to learn things.”
“Hmm. Probably right. But I doubt Paul spent his youth learning how to build cabins and remodel bathrooms.”
“No.” Then I laugh. “I can’t even picture that.” This is when I realize we haven’t talked about Paul yet. She hasn’t said anything about what happened up in the tower room of Paul’s compound. I don’t remember much about that night, and most of what I do remember was just Syrsee yelling at me to hold myself up and walk as we made our way through the house to Paul’s bedroom so we could escape through his secret tunnel to the garage. I don’t know what happened in that tower. Obviously, we—Paul and I both—were drinking her. We were drinking each other too.
Blood. That’s really all I remember. There was a lot of blood.
But this is not the time to talk about Paul. She must feel it too because when I take her hand and start leading her up the stone pavers as an excuse to change the subject, she doesn’t protest.
The porch is very nice. I like porches, so whenever I’m building a place I always put one on. But everything about this cabin is nice, actually. I spent about five years building it. Five years, near the beginning of my second life, where I mostly lived like a normal man. I took my time—no reason not to—and lived in the small cabin in the woods.
Syrsee and I walk up the porch stairs and then I realize I don’t have my keys. We didn’t take my truck, just some random truck from the Montana compound’s underground garage. I put up a finger. “Hold on. I need to break in.”
Syrsee chuckles. “Need any help?”
“Nah. There’s a root cellar over there.” I point to the right side of the house. “It’s got a back entrance.”
“Well, that’s not creepy.”
“I’ll be right back.” I hop over the porch railing and go around to the back of the house and down a little embankment. At the bottom I find a stacked-stone wall built into the side of the hill. There is a heavy wooden door leading to the space inside.
The root cellar is not locked and when I enter the first thing I notice is how well I can see in the dark. The second thing is that I can smell everything. The earth, water from a recent rain, half a dozen small animals with completely different scent profiles, dried leaves, sticks, the wood I used to build the shelves and even the nails holding the shelves together.
I squint into the darkness, fascinated by my new vision skills. Not like it’s daylight. Not like it’s moonlight, either. Something else. There’s a bit of color. Silver. No. Lavender.
And there’s something in there, because the mist is moving and undulating.
“Paul?” I peer into the shadows. “Is that you?” Which is kind of a dumb thing to assume, but I associate him with the ground. The dirt. Him and Josep, both. I haven’t read a lot of vampire lore so I’m not sure how common this urge to bury one’s self in the ground is, but Josep lives underground full time and Paul stays buried for extended periods as well.
Of course, there is no Paul in here. And a moment later, there is no mist, either. My ability to see in the dark fades and even the scents that were just a moment ago so clear and distinct are gone. All I smell now are mice. And you don’t need any kind of supernatural powers to smell mice.
“Well.” I sigh. “Was that a tease or a threat?” Hard to tell, but it doesn’t matter. Because there’s no one here to answer back.
It’s just me. Alone in the dark under the earth.
When I open the front door for Syrsee I find her sitting on the porch in an old rocking chair. She gets to her feet quickly, like I scared her, then lets out a breath, confirming it to be true.
I raise an eyebrow at her. “You OK?”
“Sure. Yeah. Why?”
“You look… spooked.”
She swallows, shaking her head at the same time. “No. I mean, it was a little quiet. And you were gone longer than I thought you would be. Was there a problem with the root cellar?”
“No.” I shrug. “I mean, the tunnel was a little muddy.” I point to my boots, which have evidence of this. “But it’s still a good root cellar. It’s holding up.”
Syrsee leans to the side a little, trying to see past me. “Tunnel? Where does it come in? To the house, I mean.”
“Oh. The basement.” I wave a hand at the door. “Come on. Come inside.”