Blood: The Third Course

Chapter Six

The cheap wooden slats of the balcony creaked with every shift of weight. Spencer leaned onto the railing, one arm across the wooden beam top. His elbow pressed against the wet and worn wood, dented with too many people standing in similar positions, enjoying a final smoke before returning to their unimpressive rooms.

The smoke filled his lungs. He inhaled until it burned in his throat, and he left the cigarette clinging to his lips as he sent out a stream of smoke coils. Even before being turned, he'd rarely gone to bed before dawn, and now it was only necessity that forced him inside when the sun showed its face. When others were waking and getting ready for the day, Spencer had been falling into bed, sometimes not alone. After being turned, it became his favourite part of the day for a different reason.

He was sure he'd felt it earlier the day before, the pangs of intimacy he had so relished. For a mere moment, August could have been standing next to him, chastising him with that smirk that let him know he would pay for his indiscretions later. And then again in the later hours, he'd felt the burn of familiarity through the voices swirling in his head. August was whispering to him and couldn't be heard over the roar, but he wasn't alone. There was a voice as warm and welcome as his own within him, calling in a voice much too soft. Spencer had left the bar immediately and hadn't stopped moving until those voices faded into the rest of the background noise.

"I do not see the point of your little habit, Spencer."

"It won't kill me."

"The fact it is not lethal is not a reason to continue."

"It's a habit, August, nothing more."

"A habit you could just as easily discard. The nicotine has no hold on you."

"And now, neither do you," he whispered to the rising smoke.

He watched the end of his cigarette, letting the embers burn through the paper and tobacco. When it was almost at the filter, he took a final drag of it before flicking the butt over the side of the balcony to the parking lot below. Pulling out the key card from his pocket, Spencer turned away from the railing and walked the last few steps. He slotted the card into the reader, drawing it out in a slow whip. It buzzed red. Groaning, he tried it again. Red. The sky behind him was already pink, the sun so close to peeking over the horizon that just the thought of it felt like a burn. He jammed the card into the reader and yanked it out.

It gave a monotonous tone and flashed green.

Pushing down on the handle, Spencer stepped into the dark twin room. He closed the door behind him softly, but as his eyes adjusted, he realised that he needn't have been so careful about not waking sleeping occupants. The bed closest the door, the one Vince used in every new motel room, was empty. In fact, it was still made perfectly. Spencer frowned deeply.

A heavy chain snaked from the bed against the plain back wall to the pipe of the radiator. It climbed the end of the bed to a padlocked head around a slim ankle. A limb of metal stretched out, coiling around the opposing arm of its captive. She lay perfectly still, curled on her side facing the wall. The dim dawn light filtering through the paper thin curtains picked the colours from her skin. A trail of red freckles started just below her ear, half hidden by her dark hair, and led the gaze down her neck, out across her shoulder, and all the way down to her wrist, where they gathered like constellations. Two of the marks were swollen, small openings crusted with blood.

"Where's Vince?"

She didn't answer as he shrugged off his jacket and tossed it on the end of the vacant bed.