Red Moon Rising (16 page)

T
he lobby of the apartment building is dark and grim. “This isn't where we saw him before,” I say to Dad.

“This is where he said to come,” he says. If I think this place looks run-down, I can only imagine what Mom thinks. We trail behind Dad while he walks down the hallway, checking the numbers above the doors.

He finds the right one, then knocks. After about half a minute, I hear footsteps, then the sound of a peephole cover being raised. The locks turn and the door opens. “Come in,” Dr. Mellin says. He holds the door open, and after we walk through, he takes a look down the hallway, shuts the door, and turns the locks.

“I'm sorry for the location change,” he says. He leads us into an office that looks a lot like the one in his first place, but with even more books. There's a musty smell, though, and light-brown water stains on the ceiling.

We take seats, and Dad introduces Mom to the doctor.

“So, do you have any questions before we do the procedure?” he asks.

“How long will it take?” Mom asks.

“If all goes well, I'd say about ninety minutes,” Dr. Mellin says.

Dad massages his temples. He's getting worn out. “It won't hurt much.” He turns to the doctor. “Right?”

“He'll be asleep for the procedure. There will be some soreness for a few days. But his vampyric regeneration will speed healing and shorten the period of discomfort.”

“Maybe this isn't a good idea,” Mom says.

“It's up to you,” the doctor says. “We don't have to do it. But when he goes through the Change, the bones in his face could break in irregular ways. If I score marks into the bones, they should break cleanly. Right along the dotted line, as it were. They slide back into place after the Change. No deformities.”

“I think we should just do it,” I say. “We don't want to risk ruining my good looks, do we?”

Mom smiles, but it's tight. She's been totally nervous since we got here. I can hear her heart beating fast, close to human rate, like seventy beats per minute.

“There's only eight days left until the full moon, though,” Dr. Mellin says. “We can't put it off, even for another day.”

“Let's do it,” I tell him. I wouldn't say I'm scared, exactly. Petrified might be a little more accurate. But I give Mom and Dad the best smile I can manage before following Dr. Mellin out of the office.

He takes me into what looks like a small operating room, except it isn't white and sterile-looking like the ones on TV.

Some of the tiles are missing from the wall, and the rest of them are cracked. There are deep dripping sounds as water falls from the leaky faucet to the bottom of the metal sink.

“Um…why did we come here for this operation instead of the other office?” I ask, while I take off my shirt.

“I think my office is being watched. This is a colleague's place.”

“Watched? You mean by the LPCB?”

“Maybe. I didn't want to take any chances. This office will serve our purposes.” Dr. Mellin pats the table and I lie down.

“Nervous, eh?” he says.

“A little.”

He puts a sheet over my body, up to my neck. “We're going to do everything we can to take care of you, Danny.”

“I know. Thanks.”

He pulls on one of those blue surgical gowns and moves behind me. I hear the snap of rubber gloves.

He opens up a wrapped tray of equipment, but I can't see what's on it. I hear metal clinking.

“What's that?” I ask.

“Just the instruments,” he says. “I'll start your IV in a few minutes. Any new symptoms?”

“I still have major aches. Bones, joints, face, head.”

“Anything else? Are you eating and drinking normally?”

“I get a little sick after drinking SynHeme.”

“That isn't surprising,” the doctor says. “I'll check your blood today, but what I believe is happening is a sort of war between your vampyric Thirst and the wulven part of you, which reacts to SynHeme almost as if it's a poison.”

“So what do I do?”

“I'll prescribe some medications that will prevent most of the nausea. Anything else?”

“Just that my senses are really, really sharp.”

“And all of these things are happening all the time, independent of the moon phase?”

“Pretty much.”

He comes back within my view. Now he's wearing a blue surgeon's hat and mask. “That's unusual. Typically, you'd be symptomatic only around the period of the full moon, right before and after. I assume your symptoms have something to do with the interruption of your genetic treatments. Little pinch now,” he says. He puts the IV needle in the back of my hand. “Okay?”

“No problem. So why would my treatments cause this stuff between full moons?”

“I couldn't say. The truth is, genetic treatments alter your DNA in a fundamental way. When the treatment is stopped midway? Who knows?”

“Okay. So, um, not to change the subject, but do you use a chisel for this?”

“Not exactly a chisel, but the principle is the same. Here comes the anesthesia. See you soon.”

I start to float. I feel…

I open my eyes. I'm tired and my limbs feel like stone. “He's not going to do the operation?” I ask.

“He already did it,” Dad says. “How do you feel?”

“Sleepy.”

I touch the skin behind my ears. There's a tiny wet scab forming next to each one. There are more, concealed in my eyebrows and along my hairline. A few more in my mouth, between my cheeks and upper gums.

After a few minutes, Mom and Dad help me to my feet. I feel a little weak standing up, so I lean on them while we walk. We all go back into the doctor's office. I sit in the chair.

The doctor comes in. “It went perfectly,” he says. “Here's the post-op X-ray.” A front view of my skull comes up on the screen. Along my cheekbones, jaw, and forehead are a series of dotted lines that look like armies of ants marching across my skeletal face. “From my point of view, total success,” he says.

Total success, huh? I now have score marks to make the breaking of my skull easier.

Painkillers and sleeping pills get me through the day and the whole next night. Now, waking up at 4 a.m., at least I'm rested.

So I'm just lazing in bed, the sheets damp with sweat. The joints in all my fingers are killing me. This must be what humans feel when they have arthritis. My teeth ache as if I'd been grinding. I check them with two fingers and feel a bumpy ridge, as hard as bone or teeth, under the gum line. It's got to be close to the roots of my teeth.

In the bathroom I take a look in the mirror. My face is a tiny bit swollen, but not bad at all.

“Can someone take the dogs out for their last walk before it gets light outside?” Mom calls up the stairway.

I might as well do it. Getting some fresh night air will probably do me good.

It hurts to put on my sneakers. To add to all these body aches and joint pain, my fingernails and toenails are really sensitive.

Downstairs I get the metal leashes. In the short time we've had the dogs, they've quickly learned that the sound of the leashes coming off the hook means they're going for a walk. I hear them come running from the living room.

They turn the corner into the kitchen, and once they see me, they try to stop running, skidding sideways on the tile floor. They come to a halt about five yards away, both looking at me. Poe tilts his head a little to the side, breaking eye contact. Lola does the same. Both of them lower their tails.

“Come on, guys. Walk time!” I clap my hands loudly, which usually gets them all excited.

They lower their bodies halfway to the floor, eyes averted, but still keeping me in their peripheral vision. Their ears go back flat against their heads, and I can hear their hearts beating fast. Their black noses are twitching as if they smell something.

“Let's go. Time to walk.”

No barking, wagging excitement at all.

“Poe! Lola! Come!”

They turn and run.

I have no patience for this. I follow them into the living room, where they've backed themselves into a corner. When I get closer, I see they're both trembling.

“What's wrong with you guys?” I lean down to put their leashes on, and both of them start whining, making high-pitched squeaking sounds. Their chins and chests are on the floor, back ends in the air, tails down.

I go to the family room, where Paige is watching
What Never to Wear.
“Paige, you need to take the dogs for their walk.”

“Why don't
you
?”

“They don't want to go with me.”

“Well, I'm watching this. Get Jess to do it.”

I think my fever is back, and a headache is coming on fast. I'm not in the mood to argue with dogs or little girls.

“Paige, just do it!”

She looks up at me, startled. “Why are you yelling at me?”

“Because the dogs need to go out and they're afraid of me, and I don't want to stand here and debate it with you. Stop arguing, and please just take the damned dogs out for a walk.”

She looks at me as she slowly gets up. I hold the leashes out and close my eyes.

“I'm not picking up poop, though.”

“Paige!”

“I'm just saying. I'm not.”

She takes the leashes and leaves me with my headache.

“Come on, dogs,” she calls, walking out of the room. “Let's go for a walk.”

They run to her, claws clicking on the wood floor in the next room.

“Good doggies. Don't worry about him. He's just being a meanie. You come on and walk with Paige. That's good.”

She shuts the door, the sound making me cringe for a second as it echoes in my head along with the whimpering sounds of the dogs' fear.

I know I don't look any different or sound any different. But the dogs sensed something. To them, I'm a predator.

It's become a daily thing, Juliet and me going to this new make-out room at the end of the day. We found this place, a book storage room in the basement. It's a little humid, and it smells kind of like mildew, but we're less likely to run into Gunther Hoering here. And this place is less crowded, too.

A few minutes before we got here today I asked Juliet why she didn't give me a heads-up about Victoria for Claire.

“I would have, but I didn't know Victoria was going to do that,” she said. “We're not
that
close.”

“She texted her the news,” I said. “That's pretty low.”

“Very. Don't ever break up with me by text. In fact, don't ever break up with me.”

“I don't plan to,” I said as we slipped into the room and the door closed behind us.

Lying to her hurts. At least it's dark in here and she doesn't see my eyes when I say it. She drapes her arms around my neck and our mouths meet.

I have no right to do this with her, not when I know that I'm going to hurt her. I make myself sick.

Juliet puts her hands under my shirt and presses her palms against my (shaved) chest.

But we're so good together. How can I let this go? She's breathing fast and moves her hands, her fingers in my hair, holding the sides of my head. Now I'm breathing faster.

But maybe we don't
have
to break up. I get that I can't tell her the truth. But if I'm going to a different school, I can probably find ways to dodge the issue. Technically, it would be lying, but maybe a little dishonesty is better than breaking both of our hearts.

She breaks the kiss and whispers, “Hey. You're really hot.”

“So are you.”

“No, seriously. You're burning up,” she says.

“You light a fire in my heart,” I whisper loudly in a movie-romantic voice.

“Oh, man,” some guy shouts. “The talkers are here again. Would you get lost?”

Juliet grabs my sleeve and pulls me out of the storage room.

I blink in the light. She wipes my forehead and shows me her hand. It's slick with sweat.

“So what?” I say. “It's hot in there and you got me hotter.” I smile to reassure her.

“You have a fever or something. Do you feel okay?”

“I feel great,” I say, which is a total lie. I feel like a selfish scumbag, but since she brought it up, I do feel warm.

“Let's go to the nurse,” she says. She takes my hand, which hurts. My knuckles are swollen and sore. All reflex, I yank my hand away.

“What's wrong?” she asks.

I flex my fingers. “Nothing. My finger got jammed yesterday in Gym. It's fine.” I take her hand and give a little squeeze, which sends a jolt of pain into my fingers.

She touches my face, my cheeks, runs her hands back over my ears and through my hair. I'm kind of getting a little turned on, even though I don't feel so great.

She looks deeply into my eyes.

“What?” I ask.

She shakes her head and smiles. “Nothing,” she says. “I'm happy.”