Page 70 of So Thirsty

My skin is dry and flaky, my lips splitting.

“You’re fine,” I whisper to myself. “You’re fine.”

Naomi’s in the shower. I can hear the water running, and she’s singing to herself. “ ‘Another night, another dream, but always you…’ ”

I bury my face in my pillow. I get a musty whiff and remember that the case maybe hasn’t been washed ever.

It’s motivation for me to get out of bed. I check the alarm clock on the nightstand, but it’s broken. I shuffle over to the window and cautiously peel back the curtain. It’s dark out. It was dark when we checked in, but that was early-morning dark. This must be night dark.

For once I’m grateful it’s winter.

I look around the parking lot. There’s a blue hatchback, but it was there this morning, so no new cars. No new people. Nothing amiss. Except…

There’s a handprint on the window. Outside, on the other side of the glass. An outline in the grime.

Maybe it was there before? And even if it wasn’t, we’re at ground level, not like at the cottage. Anyone could have left it. That’s the rational explanation. The one that makes the most sense. Not that Henry followed us here all the way from New York to leave me a cryptic message in the form of a handprint.

“Hey,” Naomi says cheerily, catching me off guard.

I clap a hand over my heart. From my limited knowledge of vampire lore, I thought vampires didn’t have heartbeats, but I have one. There’s just enough of me that still feels human, feels normal, until the thirst asserts itself.

I clear my throat. “You startled me.”

“Sorry,” she says. She wears a fluffy white hotel robe.

“Where’s that from?”

“The Waterfront,” she says.

“You stole it?”

“They’ll charge the room,” she says. “Joel will pay for it. Don’t worry— I took one for you, too.”

“Thanks?”

“You’re welcome,” she says. “How am I supposed to do my makeup if I can’t look in the mirror?”

“I can do it,” I say. I pull the curtain closed and turn my back to the window, to the handprint.

“What’s wrong?” Naomi asks. “You’re not upset about the robes, are you?”

“You don’t think they’d come after us, do you?”

“Who?”

“The vampires.”

She lugs her suitcase onto the bed and opens it. “Why would they do that?”

“I don’t know. They’re vampires?”

“So are we.”

It’s strange how matter-of-fact this is. But we’re already past blood sucking and murder, so why wring our hands over it now?

“Did something happen?” she asks.

“No,” I say. “Just…paranoid, I guess.”