Dead Bite: An Undead Story 80

Dead Bite: An Undead Story 80

Aron’s boots crunched in the dry snow.  He had his hands shoved in the pockets of his wool overcoat although he was not cold.  Little did the unassuming pedestrians around his realized a demon was among their midst.

The yellow electric lights of a marquee halted him.  It was the sign to the Governor Hotel.  Although it had been around in New York since the 1840s, it was keeping with the times, updating its decadent rooms with upholsteries that were in fashion, new light fixtures, and contemporary furniture.  It touted itself as having running water in every room.  Not many hotels could say that at this point.

It had been three weeks since Aron was forced to help George out of the asylum.  He had only seen Jorel once since then, and it had been brief.  Jorel was staying out during the day when Aron was cooped up in Jorel’s room, and the cambion assumed his human love was only sleeping for a few hours when Aron was out hunting.

But everything seemed to be getting better.  In the quiet hours of the dawn this morning, Aron had found a note on the drawing table wedged in the corner of Jorel’s room.  It read:
“I can’t stand the thought of being away from you.  This past fortnight was too much for me.  Let us celebrate in the grandest fashion for our love.  Come to the Governor tonight at 10 o’clock. – J”

Aron felt happiness and victory swell in his heart at the thought of the note again.  He had promptly left the Deccherini residence at 6 in the evening when it had gotten dark because of the closeness to the winter solstice.  He would feed early, getting his fill of essences, before feeding his desire for the touch of flesh.

Through the glass in the main doors, he could see the grandfather clock ticking away in the lobby of the hotel.  It was a quarter to 9.  He was early.  But he could not contain himself.

Aron went into the hotel, passing through a crowd of humans getting ready to go out to one of the bars.  He approached the manager at the desk and asked for the room of one of Jorel’s aliases.  Luckily, he knew Jorel would use a fake name.

The cambion made his way up the grand staircase and then up to the third floor.  The hallway was quiet and low key.  Of course Jorel wouldn’t have picked the penthouse on the top floor, but the Governor housed special rooms on almost every floor.

Aron found room T and knocked.  He could hear shuffling on the outside of the door, then the Italian’s voice, “You are so earl—“

His face looked stunned to see Aron on the other side of the open door.

“Early?  I know.  But I could not wait until our late rendezvous.  It does not matter what the room looks like, I will help you finish decorating it.”  Aron smiled.

Jorel let the door swing open a little.  Aron saw white rose petals strewn on the bed and some bottles of wine pushed into the corner of the side table.  Jorel appeared to be in the middle of setting up a phonograph.

“Why are you here?” the Italian asked.  There was no anger or joy in his voice.  Just confusion.

“I got your letter.”  Aron tried to move inside, but Jorel did not budge.  “You said to come here.  You know, at 10.”

Jorel’s eyes narrowed.  “That letter wasn’t for you.”

“But you left it in your room where I would see it.”

“I left it for the maid to deliver at 7.”

“Oh,” Aron managed to say.  So it was not for him.  “For…George?”

“Yes.”  The answer was blunt.

Aron had thought Jorel had had enough of George back in the asylum.  He assumed his fancy had been tickled because the last time Aron saw Jorel he had been complaining at George’s stubbornness.  But Jorel was so infatuated with the Irishman, even his complaints about George must have been praises in his mind.  George was pushing Aron out of Jorel’s life, inch by inch, even if there was no intention to do so.

“I’m sorry.  I will leave now.”  As Aron turned away from Jorel, he knew what he had to do.

***

The door to the little brick shack barely opened.  A baggy eye looked out at the cambion.  “What do you want, Aron?”

“Georgie porgie!  Don’t worry, I’m here to help you.”  Aron tried to hide back the deviousness in his grin.

It was not hard to find George.  Aron just sniffed around the Deccherini safe houses and gun holds until he smelt the desperate and breaking essence of a man suffering from detox.

“You got Jorel’s letter, right?” Aron asked curiously, pushing his way past George into the building.

George just looked at Aron, defeated.  “Yeah.  But I can’t go out like this.”

Aron looked him up and down.  George was dressed in a shabby sweater that Jorel had probably fished out of his father’s trunk and the slacks from the asylum still.  His skin was paler than normal, and Aron could see the full effect of the blackness around his eyes now that he was inside.  George had been scratching at his skin on his neck and hands, and welts had grown where he focused most.

“Well, it does not really matter, Georgie porgie.  Jorel had meant that letter for me.  The maid had fucked up sending it to you.  He’s done with you.  You are just some poor pathetic man he tried to help, but think about it, George, how long has it been since he has come to check on you?”  Aron was hoping the answer was “a long time.”

“I don’t know…a week.”

“A week!” Aron exclaimed.

“But I thought he was just giving me my space to get this demon out.”

“Well you thought wrong.”  Aron made his way back to the door.  “He’s been with me the whole time, and he told me he hopes you die during your shakes from coming off this drug.”

Aron made a move to leave through the threshold, but then looked back at the pitiful face of George’s heartbreak.  “Do us a favor and kill yourself.  Here’s your only friend now.”

And Aron laid down the drug on a chair at the door.