Carlos

Tree branches whip and scratch my hands and face as I slip and slide down the steep slope towards the bottom of the hill and the rendezvous point at the entrance to the gated community.

My heart races as much from adrenaline as from exertion, and I'm already second-guessing my decision to flee. Maybe I overreacted; maybe there was no reason to run.

John had promised he'd never hurt me, after all.

He bit you, I remind myself, as I slip on a loose rock and catch myself against a young fir. In turn, the tree coats my hands in sticky sap. That's Creepy Dave's whole point. John will hurt you whether he means to or not.

At the bottom of the hill, I scramble across a drainage ditch and up the other side to the edge of the road.

Keeping low, concealed in the weeds in case Ian's truck isn't the first car to pass by, I wait, eyes and ears primed.

John's unmarked police sedan has the low purr of a powerful new engine, while Ian's truck has the healthy rumble of a well-loved, but aging, vehicle.

I crouch in the brush, barely daring to breathe, trembling like a scared rabbit as the sun sets and the world goes cold and dark. To pass the time, I do some mental math.

If Ian left his house immediately and drove here without stopping, while obeying the speed limit the whole way, he'd arrive in about twenty minutes after the end of our call.

Right on time, I hear the welcome rumble I've been waiting for. A pair of familiar headlights swing around the bend, and a red pickup pulls to a stop before the fancy iron gate.

Breaking cover, I sprint across the pavement and knock on the passenger-side window. Ian leans over and unlocks the door, and I throw myself into the cab just as another engine roars to life somewhere on the hill above.

"Whoa. What happened, man?" he asks, appraising my scratched, pine-needled, and sap-encrusted state. "Are you okay?"

I press myself against the back of the seat. "I don't know yet. Just drive."

"You got it."

He shifts gears and steps on the gas, doing a u-turn and pealing away with a spray of gravel.

"Take it easy," I admonish breathlessly. "Don't attract attention. One of these guys is a cop."

"The fuck did you get yourself into?"

"I don't know. But I don't wanna drag you into it, too," I say, rethinking my initial plan to tell him and Sam everything. "Just, uh... drop me at the garage. I'll pick up some things and take it from there."

"Nah," Ian shakes his head, keeping his eyes on the road. "You're scared and you're not thinkin' straight."

"Do I ever?"

He coughs to hide a laugh. "Maybe not in one sense; in the other, sometimes more, sometimes less. Regardless, I'm taking you home — to my home, that is. After you explain what's going on, then you can decide what your next move is. In the meantime, Sammy's making dinner. He's gotten really good at cooking," he adds proudly.

I hide a smile, and hide the twinge of jealousy that threatens to turn it sour.

Ian and Sam met by pure, random chance. They were nothing alike, and they both had dark and complicated histories. And yet they complemented one another perfectly. They made each other laugh, and they made each other whole. They made each other better. Was it too much to ask for my share of that?

"Yo, Carlos. You in there, bud?" Ian prompts, and I realize he'd asked me a question.

"Sorry. What?"

"I just asked if you wanted to stop anywhere on the way, or if you had everything you need?"

Everything I need?

An image of John flashes through my mind. Then I shake my head at myself.

Perfect guy? The perfect guy doesn't keep telling you he's bad for you and that you shouldn't be together. The perfect guy doesn't keep secrets and only come clean when you catch him red handed. The perfect guy doesn't look at you the way a starving man looks at a full course meal. The perfect guy—

I stop myself. Maybe John isn't the 'perfect guy.' Then again, maybe there's no such thing.

"Nah," I say at last. "I don't need anything."

~ ★ ~

Over a meal of baked potatoes stuffed with butter, sour cream, cheese, green onions, and bacon bits, with a side of roast chicken and spinach salad topped with walnuts, chèvre, mandarin oranges, and balsamic vinaigrette, I fill Ian and Sam in on the strange, twisted tale my life has become.

By the time I finish, I feel calmer, more grounded, a little ridiculous, and incredibly full.

"Holy shit, Sam. Where you learn to cook like this?" I ask, wiping my mouth on a cloth napkin.

Sam ducks his head and blushes adorably. "Just the internet."

"Didn't know you liked food so much."

"I don't, really," he admits, taking a sip of water from his glass and setting it aside. "But engines need fuel, right?"

For a moment, I'm thoroughly confused; then, as Ian's face flushes red, things slide into place.

Sam is unusual, and probably the only one of his kind. The result of a mad demonologist's quest for the perfect vessel, he's a synthesis of two beings — a human boy, and an incubus. He retains pieces of each, fused seamlessly into one, but the incubus side is firmly bonded with Ian.

Sam replenishes his demonic energy through that bond, and in turn...

Well, sometimes you gotta feed your man.

He seems to read my thoughts, and shoots me a glare.

I laugh disarmingly and serve myself more salad. "Too true," I say. "Anyway, this is delicious."

Scowling at me, Sam pushes the dressing across the table.

"So, Let's get this straight," he says, his dark eyes tracking my every move. "Twenty years ago, some murders happened that looked a lot like the Ritual of Feasts. Shortly thereafter, Lucille's son dies of a 'mysterious illness,' which she blames on a botched exorcism performed by Toni and your mom. Then, according to Aunt Toni, your mom goes missing after a particularly bad possession, in search of something that will cure her of her tendency to get possessed."

"So far so good," I say.

"Okay, so fast forward twenty years. You move to Spring Lakes, and happen to end up renting property from Lucille Peters, who insists you give a job to her deadbeat nephew, Kyle. Kyle gets murdered, and it looks like the Ritual of Feast is on again. Enter a hot cop who turns out to be sort-of-but-not-really-a-vampire, who's totally into you but also might kill you if he fucks you again."

Sam clears his throat and consults the notes he took on his phone, pushing his silky black hair behind his ear as he does. When I first met him, he looked like a kid. Now he looks like a man. He's grown into himself, and while he's still slender and petite, he has a strength and confidence that he lacked before. Meanwhile, Ian is a little softer — a little more relaxed and comfortable in his own skin — and I wonder at how the two are rubbing off on each other.

Besides in the usual way, that is.

I catch Sam's glare, and wince like a student caught daydreaming when the teacher asks a question.

"Uh... yeah, pretty much."

He looks back at his notes. "Right. Next, Toni disappears, this David guys shows up, your prime suspect has an alibi, and you decide to run away from the hot not-quite-a-vampire dude to avoid getting brainwashed or kidnapped."

"Yeah." I sigh. "That about sums it up."

Sam glances at Ian. "Right, so... How can we help?"

I look up and catch the flash of his grin, and feel my spirits lift a little. Sam and I haven't always seen eye to eye, but in the end, I know he's got my back.

"Tonight's the night of the second Feast," I say. "The ritual's supposed to take place before dawn. I just... need a safe place to stay."

"We got you," Ian says. "We'll brew some coffee, get the PlayStation set up. We'll keep you safe and have some fun while we're at it. You played the new Gran Turismo yet?"

I shake my head. I don't even know what that is.

"You're gonna love it," Ian assures me, and motions for Sam to get the entertainment ready while he sees to the kitchen.

Six hours later, I've finally mastered the controller enough to beat Ian in a race, though I'm still a virtual mile behind Sam and I suspect Ian let me win.

I don't mind.

I feel safe here, with my friends — the only sure friends I have in the world.

At least until around 5 AM, when a familiar car parks on the street, and the doorbell rings.