The Vampire Always Bites Twice | Wattys 2022 Grand Prize Winner

30

Greg, Third Eye on the Road

"You always carpool like this?" said Isla.

Julian took a sharp turn. My elbows crunched into the plastic paneling on the sliding door. Isla fell against my shoulder. Her elbows jammed me between the ribs. I clutched the door handle as the vehicle lurched forward and straightened out, looping an elbow through Isla's to keep her ass from sliding into the opposite window. Fanging van still didn't have any seats.

"Some." Julian said. "Sorry about the seats. My Liege, Lord of Darkness and Terror, likes to have a lot of room back there for, uh, guests."

Isla didn't respond. Her eyes wandered. Over her shoulder and mine and on the ceiling and floor and in the back. Reminded me of a shifty cat, fur raised and on its haunches.

The van stank. Same as before. Rot and old air freshers and the metallic tang of blood. It wasn't meant for guests.

I cleared the stale stench from my throat. "It's more of—"

"Meals on wheels?" Isla said, staring vacantly at the back.

"Let me guess, you spy with your little eye three unfortunate souls all tied up with their throats ripped out, that it?"

She raised a brow. "Estimate's a little under. And you're sitting on Paolo."

The hairs on the back of my neck tingled. I couldn't feel a chill. Not really. But something like a cool breath puffed into my ear. Something like it. I tensed to keep that dread feeling from rolling down my spine. Made my neck ache.

Julian's eyes found mine in that mirror again.

"Kidding," Isla said, loudly, for the audience in the driver's seat.

Her gaze ventured to the space above my head. I followed. There was a tear in the ceiling. Was that there during my last joy ride back here?

"Hey," she whispered, voice husky, bringing my attention back down to her and her burgundy lips and coffee breath and heart shaped face. I was wrong. Her mole was real. Penciled in to look darker, but real (it was obvious this close). She fluttered her thick lashes at me. In the low light of the van, her dark eyes looked entirely black. "You might want to invest in a cat."

"What the fang does that mean?"

The van jerked.

As my back once again slammed the window (swear Julian, that rat, was doing it on purpose) Isla toppled right over into my lap. Her warm body covered me, and every nerve zinged in a pleasant shock. Tastes of red wine and mossy earth flooded my mouth. The van felt cramped. My clothes were cramped. My own skin felt too tight around my bones. Think a bit of saliva dripped out the hole in my cheek.

Isla pushed off my knees – panting, heart racing, cheeks deliciously flushed – and I respectfully helped her sit up.

I caught Julian spying in the mirror.

"Eyes on the road, pal," I growled.

Glowering, he obeyed, pressing his foot a little firmer on the gas. We headed north, toward Center City. He was taking us for a ride, alright. I grabbed his seat and pulled myself up beside him. Julian flinched, his white-knuckle grip on the wheel causing another swerve.

"Listen, I wanted to meet you, last night," he announced before I could get a word in, a bit of nervous tremor in his voice, "but I got sent home to pick up my Liege, Lord of Darkness and Terror. Mistress Sloane said she needed him suddenly for some paperwork BS with the Pack. I'm so, so sorry. Taylor, she—she didn't deserve that, but I swear I don't know anything about it. I can't even imagine why! Why her?"