Blood Drunk: Faded Blue

By Angela Lovell

With summer waning quickly before the start of his senior year, a family emergency forces Blue Knightly to leave his small Midwest town and travel to New York City to locate his rebellious sister. From the morgue to Central Park to the underbelly of New York, he quickly discovers the big city is the least of his concerns as he reluctantly takes sides within a warring faction of vampires to unravel the mystery of his sister’s disappearance. In their underground world of abandoned subway tunnels, Blue finds himself falling for a femme fatale vampire whose vibe is seldom clear. Not knowing who to trust, Blue finds himself battling not only the undead, but his own heart, as the family crisis escalates and every decision could be his last.

"If reading the synopsis you thought, 'just another Twilight spin-off,' think again. This one I found to be edgy and funnier. There are no shining vampires in here, just monsters who can kill and manipulate humans. You keep wondering how much humanity was left in them. I like such monsters." - BooksForLife

"This book was unexpected in so many brilliant ways - The characters, the plot twists and the ending. Lovell's writing is reminiscent of fast paced screenplays yet keeps the reader invested in the characters and the story. I recommend this book to all lovers of the vampire/paranormal genre who want to read something a little different and off the beaten path. This one was worth it. I'm also crossing my fingers that we will get to see more of these characters because I seem to have fallen a bit for Blue." - Open Book Society

"When reading the back of this book what comes to mind: Been there, done this story. But this book is so much more! Although it falls into the YA category I think it has something for everyone. Lovell weaved some great story lines with strong characters. Three words to describe this book: Edgy, Solid, Intriguing." - CrazyBookSlut.com

• Language: English
• Publisher: Angela Lovell
• Release date: Sep 20, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466048485

Angela Lovell

Angela Lovell is an award-winning playwright, director, screenwriter, essayist, podcaster, writing instructor, sex columnist, and critic of film, theatre and music. Her work has appeared in BUST Magazine, High Times, The L Magazine, Common Ties, Opium Magazine, Match.com, and The New York Press. Angela has written for MTV, and several independent film studios. She's taken first place at The Moth's NYC StorySlam (www.themoth.com), and performed her earliest embarrassing writing onstage at Mortified (www.getmortified.com). Angela is afraid of ghosts and sharks but not of dentists. She lives in New York City with her two opinionated dogs.

Book preview

BLOOD DRUNK

FADED BLUE

by

Angela Lovell

Copyright 2011 by Angela Lovell

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition License Notes:

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

First Edition: September 2011

ISBN-13: 978-1466308282

ISBN-10: 1466308281

Cover designed by John Shannon

johnshannondesign.com

Photography by JadedSphnix

facebook.com/JadedSphnixPhotography

To Logan, my favorite for all things horror or romance.

CONTENTS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

"It is better to conquer yourself than to win a thousand battles. Then the victory is yours. It cannot be taken from you, not by angels or by demons, heaven or hell."

Buddha

CHAPTER 1

Her heel breaks and she falls down the concrete stairs, hot pink pumps fly overhead, reaching the bottom before she does. Whiskey did more than just warm her blood. She picks up her shoes without noticing the palms of her hands are now skinless, raw from gravity proving once again that it will always get the best of a drunk. But Polly’s not really a drunk. She’s just a kid who found a bar that didn’t care how young she was. Brushing dirt from her bloodied hand, she wishes there was a way to leave this cloudiness now–to exit it and never drink again. She starts to cry all alone at the bottom of the stairs. Wiping her eyes she forgets about all the makeup she’d applied to make herself appear older and it smears underneath.

Polly wanna cracker? the bartender asked just an hour ago, thinking himself so clever, the first to ever use this line on her. She smiled and pushed up her cleavage as she’d seen women do. Polly developed breasts very early. Unfortunately, she also developed thighs, hips, and a bottom, all larger than any teenage girls hopes for. Not knowing what to order, she picked the first bottle she saw–whiskey.

Polly thinks of her grandmother’s couch far away in Brooklyn, and heaves herself at the turnstile, limping on a broken shoe and digging through her small beaded bag for her Metrocard. At first it eludes her and despite the chemical warfare on her body, her heart races thinking she’ll be sleeping on a bench tonight. There’s an old MTA booth against the brick wall, facing the train platform. But the city made cuts. These booths are void of their clerks now. She would jump the turnstile, but the city caught on to its many Pollys. That’s why they installed the large, rotating door turnstiles. Several arms line up horizontally passing through a wall of stationary arms so no one can enter without first swiping their card and gaining the green light. Polly swipes and the small screen informs, Please swipe again. She swipes two more times before hearing the familiar buzz of the door unlocking. She pushes against the family of metal arms, leaning into it as it turns, allowing passage to the train platform. It locks into place behind her and Polly gets a chill, unusual for August in Manhattan.

Across the platform, waiting for an uptown train are two shaggy-headed males wearing fitted t-shirts and skinny jeans, animated and sharing stories. Hipsters, Polly thinks. She doesn’t understand irony and avoids their scene mostly because it makes her feel stupid. Still, it gives her a sense of security having them on the other side of the train tracks. She walks toward the wooden bench, trying to stay on her tip toes so that the broken shoe doesn’t fall off again. The hipsters grow quiet and she feels their eyes on her, judging her. When she reaches the bench she sends an automatic glare across the platform at the boys, but they’ve returned to each other, picking up the reins of the story they share. It humbles her to be more invested in them than they are in her. With her back to the wall, Polly leans against it and the cool brick soothes her. She closes her eyes and sighs. Her tight jeans overheated her all day long. She wore the pink shoes to stand out–she’d read a quote by one of her favorite actresses suggesting a stand-out accessory to young hopefuls. That way they’ll remember you, the actress had said. Polly wants more than anything to stand out for the right reasons.

This isn’t how tonight was supposed to feel. After her mom’s latest boyfriend moved in, Polly came up from Pennsylvania to stay with her grandmother for a month of New York City fun. Her aunt and uncle live nearby and had been escorting her around, along with several annoying younger cousins. Today Polly lied, said they were picking her up, knowing they’d driven to Connecticut for the day. She thinks about a story her little cousin told about their cleaning woman who once rode the train this late. A bunch of punks pulled out her earrings and stole her phone. They pulled the hoops right out of her head, leaving gaping wounds hanging from her earlobes–that was the part her little cousin stressed the most. She thinks about how fast kids seem to grow up in this city. There’s an energy to this place that makes you want to hurry, hurry, hurry, rush, rush, rush. It makes her little cousins appear ten years older than they are and it made her leave the house painted up and hopeful today. She begins to hum until it becomes a small song.

"Every kiss, every hug seems to act just like a drug..."

A rustle comes over the station and Polly opens her eyes, hoping, expecting it to be her train. She keeps her eyes on the dark tunnel waiting to see the light grow on the side of it, a sure sign her train is approaching. And there it is: Her light! She stands and hobbles to the edge, but not too close. As her little cousin warned, girls are pushed in front of these things almost monthly. Though Polly isn’t usually the cautious type, she’s careful about not getting too close to the platform–especially with a broken heel. The lights get brighter and relief washes over her. The approaching train honks and just before her heart sinks, it appears. Just a trash-collector train, about an eighth in size of a regular subway, its cars painted red and yellow. As it passes the conductor grins at Polly. She reads it as condescending when he meant it as pity. Whipping her face away from his view, Polly locks in on the heaps of black trash bags piled up within the train. All the lights in the subway car are on and it looks comical–leave the lights on in case those trash bags want to read their magazines on the way to the dump. The trash train. The rotten part inside of her–the part that drives her to empty the refrigerator late at night–whispers that she should ride it all the way home, all the way to the dump. It hurts her, this voice. She digs into her little purse hoping to find something, anything to eat. But it’s empty. She left her binder of sheet music sitting at the piano as she ran out of the theatre. After weeks of carefully arranging her audition repertoire, Polly had abandoned it in no time at all.

"You’re getting to be a habit with me..." she sings.

Collapsing onto the bench, she looks down at herself. Little bulges like little voices scream up at her from the body she hauls around. She looks down the tunnel for lights. No lights, but the sound grows. It’s not an easy thing to feel hope after today, but she lets it swell in her. Just a tiny little hope: A train late at night to deliver her home. The sound grows but still no lights. Polly rises again from the bench and approaches the platform just in time to feel a tremendous wind. Across the platform the uptown train swoops in like Superman, kicking up all the filth on the tracks below. Polly’s other little cousin told her about their neighbor who couldn’t ride the subway anymore. He’d gotten blood tests and the doctor told him he was allergic to roach feces. Apparently no one takes the subway without breathing that in. Polly closes her mouth and squints her eyes thinking about all the filth the wind just kicked up. The doors ding across the way and the hipsters climb aboard. She can see them through the glass. They take their seats in the bright car as it pulls out of the station, heroically thundering away. Everything feels a little darker now that she’s alone. She’s always alone. The cheese stands alone. Polly want some cheese to go with that cracker?

She looks down onto the tracks and sees old Metrocards, chewed gum, and several rats. When she first came to New York seeing rats on the tracks gave her a thrill–told her she’d arrived somewhere exotic. Now they’re just rats. Rats covered in filth, rats trying not to get hit by trains, rats eating whatever they can find.

Polly want some cheese?

She looks at the palms of her hands again. The blood has scabbed over with bits of dirt dried to her–in her.

"Let me stay in your arms, I’m addicted to your charms," she sings boldly when she’s suddenly interrupted.

From the downtown tunnel Polly hears a clanging. At first she thinks her mind is playing tricks on her because the sounds come from the opposite end of the tunnel. Unless a train is running backwards, it doesn’t make sense. It could be another uptown train or even another garbage train. But coming from that direction? Her stillness is the instinctual sort that only a mammal stalked by a predator can know. Her body is so polluted by alcohol that its fight-or-flight patterns are off, but as her heart races there is a sense of being reborn. The sound grows louder as they approach but still she stands frozen. The fear makes her feel sober again and in its funny way, it makes her feel good. She forgets her weight problem or how during her audition she sang so far off key that the skinny girls in their tight dance clothes laughed at her. In a moment of near-death clarity, Polly finally feels her purpose in this world. It is very small and now it is fleeting. Her purpose is to be someone else’s food.

Shrieks cut through the station as wind far more powerful than a train rushes Polly. Three of them appear at the lip of the tunnel, high in the air, rushing her at a speed that triggers Polly to take flight too. She jumps out of her broken shoes and runs barefoot for the turnstile as they swarm her, their shrieks growing louder as she feels them approach from behind. Polly reaches those silver arms and pushes in the opposite direction from which she entered, but not in time. One of them catches the edge of the arms and pulls hard to break it backward, lodging Polly between the arms of the turnstile as it comes off track, pinning her as though trapped in a modern Iron Maiden. The last the world will ever hear of Polly exits her in the form of a stifled scream, as the arms are pushed closer together, crushing her ribs and instantly leaking into her lungs. Breath leaves her body as Polly drowns in her own blood while they drain her of whatever her lungs haven’t collected. And at last she goes to sleep in the arms of someone who wants her–wants her more than anything at that moment.

CHAPTER 2

Gripping the arms of seat 22C, Blue closes his eyes and braces for that moment when the tires hit the runway and the entire plane bounces back to the ground. This pilot’s landing is exceptionally smooth and several of the passengers applaud as the plane slows, the jet engines back-blowing hard and fast, their last hoorah just before gliding to the gate. Passengers check their phones, yawn in efforts to pop their ears, and stretch as best as they can in such confinement. This is the first moment since they left the ground that Blue can take in a full breath. He turns his phone on and delicately texts with trembling hands, Back on the ground. Love you.

The seatbelt sign goes off and passengers jump to their feet, crowding the aisle with carry-on luggage. Blue listens to them call loved ones for rides, most of them coming home with a sense of weary satisfaction. He envies them. His cell phone chimes and when he looks there is the return message: Love you too.

Blue makes his way patiently down the aisle. He’s in no hurry to conduct his business here. Standing six feet tall at just eighteen years old, Blue doesn’t feel that he has to overcompensate–he’s not ashamed of his fear of heights. But right now he’s just too tenderized to accept compassion from strangers. With sandy blonde hair, blue eyes and a football player’s build, Blue epitomizes the all American boy. The little old lady whose bag he gets down is positively delighted to hear a boy who looks like this call her Ma’am.

Outside of the airport yellow cabs stand at attention as a line of passengers impatiently fill the cue.

Taxi, Sir?

He turns to spot a small man with very dark eyes, his ethnicity something new to Blue.

Yes, please.

The small man takes Blue’s luggage and says, Follow me, Sir.

He leads Blue across the pickup lane to a black town car with several dings in its sides attesting to how much this man must drive in New York City. The driver pops Blue’s luggage into the trunk as Blue slides into the backseat. At the wheel, the small man peers into his rearview mirror and asks, Where are we headed?

Blue detects an accent but can’t place it since he’s really never been anywhere more than fifty miles from home.

The Christopher Columbus Hostel on 59th Street.

The small man nods as though this information tells him something personal about Blue. Blue doesn’t like that.

Where are you from? the small man inquires.

St. Louis, Blue lies.

He flew out of that airport, but he doesn’t want to reveal that he’s just a small town boy.

Oh, such lovely weather! The small man claps his hands onto the steering wheel to emphasize this statement.

Yes, Blue agrees just to be polite.

The weather out there is no nicer than it is here. Maybe cooler. He hears New York’s concrete absorbs the heat and makes summers harder. He’ll find out soon enough.

You are just visiting then?

The car exits the airport terminal and ahead of them the darkness fans out with its many possibilities.

Just visiting. Blue pulls a tiny tin compass from his pocket and watches the arrow spin and spin.

Business or pleasure?

Under the circumstances, Blue considers this a horrible question.

Business, he answers in the tone of a brick wall.

You will have to try our hotdogs. I’m sure you’ve got nothing like them out west!

Blue smiles a little at the driver’s poor geography.

Thank you, I will.

He leans back in his seat realizing how tense he’s been since getting into this car. Since leaving home, really. Blue takes a deep breath and relaxes. He made it. He’ll sleep soon and wake up early tomorrow. He’ll get it over with and go home. All around him lights whiz by. Blue assumes all of these other vehicles are on their way home, but this is the city that never sleeps. Who knows where they’re going.

The car climbs a ramp and rolls onto the bridge, its beams reaching high into the sky, covered in lights like a ride at the carnival. The bridge extends from Queens to the island of Manhattan, offering safe and sturdy passage to all speeding along. Blue tries to take it in–the skyscrapers, the river, and those stars the clouds allow to shine down tonight. But it overwhelms him and his breathing feels patchy. He rolls down the window and takes deep breaths. Gliding down from the bridge onto the streets of the city, Blue endures another smooth landing as he fights the urge to push his face against the glass like some sort of country dog. It’s like another planet here. There are men in beards, strange hats and long dark coats with curls hanging in front of each of their ears. Women wear skirts as though they were fallen tube tops. On one block there is an ambassador of each ethnicity Blue’s ever imagined in the world, including representation of wherever his driver came from. The lights wink at him. The driver turns up Fifth Avenue and it feels like the inside of a crystal palace as entire buildings flash with lights, their windows sporting finery that no one Blue has ever met could afford. It’s terrifyingly beautiful and he’s surprised that New York City–a place he’s dreaded so much–could excite him in this manner.

The car turns left and Blue has a perfect view of The Plaza, FAO Schwartz and Central Park. They drive along the park and Blue balks away that voice that holds onto her as though she is still with him in this world. It keeps insisting, This is something she loved too.

Blue remembers his purpose here and sits back in his seat, realizing he’s revealed himself as a novice by sitting up for the show–no matter how good it was. The car rounds Columbus Circle and Blue’s heart races knowing how close they are. The driver pulls up to the hostel and Blue’s heart drops into the pit of his stomach. It’s a plain brick building with an American flag hanging out front. Having eliminated all distance between himself and this place puts Blue on edge. He halfheartedly hoped it wouldn’t exist at all and the trail would be cold before he could hit it. But there it stands.

The driver double-parks as Blue reaches for his wallet, pulling out several bills, How much do I owe you?

That will be forty dollars, please, and I can take a credit card if you prefer.

Blue feels relieved. Most of this trip will be on credit.

The driver swipes Blue’s card through a small handheld device. This is Blue’s first credit card. He wishes it could feel good–make him feel like a grownup. But Blue had to get it to make the trip out here. And more than anything, he wishes this trip were unnecessary.

Thank you, Sir, the driver says, returning Blue’s card and exiting the car in the same motion. Blue exits as well asking, Don’t I need to sign something?

The small man has removed Blue’s suitcase and hands it to him as he says with a grin, We do things differently here. Have a wonderful stay, Sir.

The small man climbs back into the front seat and gives a little wave before driving off. Blue watches him retrace their path here and disappear around a corner. Blue turns to face his accommodations, his temporary home, the place he’s dreaded. It’s not as large as he’d imagined and the awning outside is torn up as though a tornado had blown through a few days prior. He pushes the glass door and enters its lobby, feeling a little swallowed up by the cramped tightness of it all. A girl no more than fifteen years old sits behind the counter, one earbud in her ear and her eyes drawn down to what she’s doing–homework. It eases him to see something so familiar. She has light brown skin and when she looks up at Blue he is softened by her large brown eyes.

Whatchya want? her lips smack at him.

I have a reservation...

The girl laughs and says mockingly, Right, a reservation... She pulls up a book and asks, Last name?

Knightly.

Is that your real name?

Yes, Blue doesn’t understand why this is funny.

Where’s your white horse? She offers a smile that might be flirtatious. Blue is no good at detecting such things but she makes him smile a little anyway.

They wouldn’t let me bring him on the plane.

She laughs and Blue sighs, unaware until that moment he’d been holding his breath.

I like you, she says looking right at him with a large, toothy smile.

She has good teeth. They’re very white and make this place feel cleaner to him. And just as much as anybody, Blue likes being liked.

"Thanks. What’s your