100 Yellow Doors

8:35 p.m.

He remembered looking up into her face and instantly knowing he was home. You're not from here, are you? she'd said, a warm smile on her face, fangs glistening.

Julien had shaken his head, taking her hand as she offered it. No. I don't know where I'm from, but I know it's not from here.

Good, said Sera. Neither am I.

Now, her hair was longer and her eyes were colder, but her magnetism was the same. Julien wasn't convinced he'd ever escape it, long as he lived.

Just as it had that night in Paris, Julien's energy left him. He slumped to the ground, black jeans gritting against the dirt. Sera's expression was piteous but not surprised. She gave a tight-lipped frown and asked, "When is the last time you fed?"

Julien wracked his brain. It had to have been before he'd gotten to DC. Maybe on the road? "Uh," said Julien, a deep fog settling over his mind. "A week or two ago, maybe?"

Sera folded her arms across her chest. "You're an idiot," she announced. Julien watched the heel of her black stiletto as she ground a hole into the grass. "You're going to starve yourself, wither like a little plant in the first snow. Is that what you want? To wither?"

"I can take care of myself!" snapped Julien. He was kneeling before her, his strength, his wellbeing, gone. The one thing he did have left, at least, was his pride. "I don't need you to come and make decisions for me all the damn time! I don't need it, Sera. I don't—I don't need you!"

It was a lie. He could see in her face that she knew it was a lie, and yet she still winced. "Die, then," she said. "Like all the rest. Nameless, meaningless. Die. No one will mourn you. No one even knows who you are. You don't even know who you are."

Every word was like a knife to Julien's stomach. He shook his head, calling out for her, but by the time he could muster the strength to lift his chin again, he was alone. Or almost alone.

He smelled the little thing before he saw it—smelled its blood, at least, bitter and enticing, like alcohol. There was a low mewl as the cat nuzzled up against Julien's ankle, purring and shutting its small eyes. Julien's fangs sprang to life behind his shut lips, but he shook his head, and shook it again. He couldn't. I could. He couldn't. Oh, but I could.

The cat, scrawny, notch-eared—the same one for which he'd left a can of tuna out before—peered up at Julien with burning yellow eyes. All Julien could hear was the cat's pulse, the cat's lifeline—how easy it would be to sever it.

Julien's fangs disappeared again. He mopped sweat from his brow, reaching down to pick up the cat. "You know, don't you?" he said, cradling the cat against his hollow chest. "You know everything. I don't even have to say a word."

To Iman's surprise, when Julien stepped through the remains of his patio door, he was holding a cat.

Iman raised her eyebrows at him, Herbert just sighed dismally, and Fritz gave a dramatic tilt of his head. Beck, on the other hand, was too busy making himself another cocktail and simultaneously messing with the radio to notice.

"I told you, Julien," Herbert grumbled, his lip twitching in disgust. "You can't just go around touching stray animals on the street!"

Julien blinked down at the little cat, rubbing a finger back and forth across the top of its head. "It's not a stray anymore, Herb," he said, and looked up, brown eyes bright. Iman realized, belatedly, that the girl—Sera, Julien had called her—was nowhere to be seen. Julien even looked slightly pale. Just what had happened out there?

Julien explained, "It's not a stray if I adopt it."

Fritz clapped excitedly, his many rings glinting underneath the golden light of the overhead fixtures. He was dressed like some sort of prince, Iman thought: long, draping cardigan and satin dress shirt and glittering jewelry. If he was trying to blend in with the rest of them, he was doing a truly awful job. Iman could practically smell his vampirism, as if it were something palpable, oozing from his pores. "But what are you gonna name it?" Fritz demanded. "Fritz is a delightful choice. Or—Haneul, perhaps?"

Julien pressed his mouth into a firm line. "Those are both your names."

"Yes," replied Fritz. "That's what makes them delightful choices."

Beck, apparently done fiddling with the radio, did a sharp turn on his heel and said, "Ringo."

"'Ringo?'" repeated all of them at once.

Beck nodded his head toward the radio, which was producing a very staticky version of the Beatles's "Come Together." Iman grinned, turning back to Julien just as the chorus sang over the speakers again. "Ringo," she said. "I like it."

"Besides, the little guy has that sort of natural sleepy look to him, doesn't he?" added Fritz, reaching out a tentative finger to brush the cat's ear. The cat purred softly, and shut its eyes. "Isn't that Ringo's thing? Always looking like he's about to pass out?"

"I just think he's...always at ease," Herbert offered.

"Precisely, old man," said Fritz. "Sleepy."

Before Fritz could offend anyone else, Julien shrugged and walked over to his couch, gently setting the cat down. "Ringo it is," he said.

Beck lifted his cocktail glass, seemed to realize that everyone else's was already empty, and lowered it again. "Cheers to Ringo," he said, meekly.

They drank more, ate more, talked more—about anything and everything except the surprise appearance of whoever that Sera woman was. Iman wanted nothing more than to just ask, to stop sidestepping around the obvious elephant in the room, but every time she thought about doing so, Julien shot her a glance as if he were reading her mind. Could he read her mind? Was that a vampire thing, or a friends thing? She wasn't sure.

Beck had one cocktail too many, and when he started going on a rampage about why he was nothing at all like that son of a bitch Holden Caulfield, nothing at all, Iman decided it was best they go home. She reached around him, pulling the car keys from her pocket, and said with an apologetic grin, "I think we're gonna go now."

"So soon?" said Julien, walking them to the door. His eyes were pleading with her, asking her for something. He was alright, wasn't he? Surely he was alright. "We're all a bit tipsy, Im. It's no big deal—"

"He'll pass out if I keep him here a minute longer," said Iman, and Beck gave a grumbled, unintelligible protest. She pat Julien's arm. "It's okay. I'll talk to you again in a bit."

She turned for the door, but Julien caught her by the hem of her jacket. "Iman?"

There was that pleading look in his face again.

She exhaled. "Come over for dinner tomorrow," she said, lifting her eyebrows. "We can talk then, okay?"

Julien hesitated, as if deciding if that satisfied him, before he nodded. "Will...Beck be there?"

"Probably."

"But—"

"It's okay. We'll find time. It's okay."

Julien let go of Iman's jacket, nodding again. "Okay. I'll see you then."

"See you," said Iman, and dragged Beck out the door.

Something thick and bitter pressed against the base of her throat, and she almost thought it was guilt.