Chapter 23
She was saying, "We try to match each family with the same babysitter each time, so the children can become comfortable and get to know—"
"Great," I said, "then—"
"Of course, you can choose from any of our simple payment plans, though most of our customers prefer paying by credit card. Childcare Inc. keeps your information in a secure file and bills your credit card monthly, relieving you of the ha.s.sle of—"
"Also fantastic. When can she be here?"
"Oh, we don't discriminate on the basis of gender. All of our—"
"Fine. When can he or she be here?"
"Well, first we'll need your phone number, address, emergency contact information…."
I glanced toward Humphrey, sitting on his penguins-in-scarves blanket, surrounded by a stuffed zoo. I'd helped him sit up, but he kept it up on his own, seeming stronger and happier every hour.
Now, though, he wasn't smiling. He could probably hear the growl in my voice, see how I tried not to look at him or breathe in the smell of his small, small body of blood.
I interrupted the mad-with-power voice with my best imitation of her, "Would it be possible to send the paperwork with the babysitter? My little one's getting fussy."
Her voice grew to double-cheeriness. "Of course! Just let me get your address. Would you like me to
"Yes, please," I said, as politely as I could through a dry throat and clenched teeth. I gave her my address and hung up the phone.
I stayed across the room from Humphrey, both of us watching each other. I went through a pack of Juicy Fruit, careful not to swallow any of the sticky syrup. The smell of it masked the other, human smells, and I breathed deeply, then didn't breathe, then turned my back to him, then faced him.
And then, the little boy with the wide brown eyes disappeared, and all I could see was the thing, the thing that would take away the thirst. The thing that would bring me back to myself, clear the animal from my brain. The wad of Juicy Fruit fell from my mouth. I was almost panting now. I tried not to, but the more I tried not to, the faster my breath went, my lungs whipping it inside and thrusting it out.
And without knowing why it was happening, my feet were moving toward it.
It lifted a tear-wet face, and I kneeled down.
My teeth punctured its arm, and it screamed. I could smell it, the hot, iron smell of food, of life. I was desperately thirsty. I was going to die.
The blood, thick and hot and almost sweet, trickled down my throat.
Farther up its arm, close to my eyes, two other puncture marks were half-healed, the bruises around the marks still clear.
I would die.
But that was acceptable. This, this was not. I widened my jaw, letting my teeth slip out of the holes they'd made, determined not to tear his skin.
His smell was everywhere now, in my lungs and stomach and throat, in every molecule of air. I stopped breathing and patted his cheek with my monster's claw. He sobbed.
I went to get a towel and tried not to breathe or look too much at the blood as I dabbed it away. I had no antiseptic.
Once his arm stopped dripping, I threw the towel away, dressed him in a long-sleeved s.h.i.+rt, and went to stand across the room again. From there, I told the kid how sorry I was and savored the persistent flavor of his blood.
He kept crying, a louder wail than I'd heard from him before today. He was stronger. That was something.
Eventually, someone knocked on the door.
I opened it to a woman in her early twenties with crooked teeth and long black hair.
I said, "I'll be back in two hours. Three." Then I left, running for the stairs.