No Good Comes is a spin-off of the not*the*same*river series, set five years after the events of the last book. It centres around Cascade, an organisation that, among other things, helps new vampires settle into their new lives.
What follows is the first draft of what is currently scene nine.
Context: The new vampire has chosen a new name. Stephen King is no more. But he is hungry; he just doesn’t recognise the signs yet.
POV: first person, Theo’s POV.
“You hungry?” said Erin.
Was I? My stomach didn’t feel empty at all. I should’ve been hungry after lying in a grave for forty nights, but all I really felt like was some Tixylix. I felt like I’d swallowed a candy floss cloud of fibreglass.
“Not really. My throat hurts. Can I have ice cream?”
“Not yet,” said Erin. “No cold food or drink for at least seventy-two hours.”
I made a growly ugh noise, then flopped onto the bed. “My throat is literally closing up.”
“Yeah, I can tell by the way you’re completely incapable of speech,” she said. “I can get you some warm milk.”
“Milk is gross, warm or otherwise,” I said.
She checked her watch, seemingly surprised at the time. She rooted around in the wardrobe, pulled out a pair of snow boots, then threw them at me. They bounced off me like they were ping pong balls.
“Put them on,” she said.
“Is it snowing outside,” I said, pulling them onto my feet.
“We’re not going outside.” She sighed. “And haven’t I just finished telling you that we need to keep you in the warm? Why would I be taking you into the snow?”
She had a point.
I’d tried some things in the bathroom. I unravelled a whole loo roll with one spin, but that was probably just momentum rather than super-strength. I wish I’d tried it in real life to give myself something to compare to. I tried to fly. I don’t know why I believed her when she told me I’d be able to fly. That had always sounded like bullshit, but I was still disappointed. I did manage to crank the heat up in the shower, bit by bit, until it was eight degrees higher than I could usually stand it. And I did almost break the door handle on my way out, but that was just because it was already a bit broken. It must’ve been.
“So where are we going?” I said.
“Just waiting on a text from Callie,” she said. “War’s niece.”
“Is this a family business or something?”
“You could say that.”
“It’s just that … I mean, can you do that? Are you allowed to … make your family vampires so you never have to leave each other?”
“No, we’re not allowed to do that,” she said, her voice cracking a little, making me wonder who she missed, who she wasn’t allowed to make a vampire.
“But what about War?”
“War’s not a vampire,” she said. “He’s an angel.” Her phone pinged. “Come on, Callie’s waiting.”
“An angel? What, so why are we going to see Callie?”
“To deal with your throat.”
“Can’t someone just bring me some cough syrup or something.”
She laughed, pulling me to my feet. “For god’s sake, Teddy. You don’t need cough syrup, you need blood. And a surname.”
It disturbed me that choosing a surname was a bigger problem than the prospect of drinking blood. I followed her to the door, and she pushed me into the hallway, closing the door behind us. It all looked different after a shower and a bit of perspective. The walls had just looked blue earlier, now I saw the subtle stripes and textural details of the Tardis blue wallpaper. The carpet had looked like a squiggly mess, now I saw the pattern was full of lines and junctions, like the tube map, in Bauhaus colours. I felt like Arthur Dent, wandering around in my pyjamas.
“You’re my Ford Prefect,” I said, following her into a lift.
She hit B1, and the doors closed. “You might want to get all the stupid things out of your mouth right now,” she said, leaning against the lift wall with her arms folded. “These people will take literally anything from your mouth and turn it into a nickname to plague you with for the rest of your life.”
“Maybe you should’ve let me get dressed properly then,” I said, staring at my lush beard in the mirrored doors.
“All the guests wear peejays, don’t worry about it.”
“Choudhury,” I said. “I like the way it’s spelt.”
“I’m not sure you can pull that off,” she said, giving me the what’s-the-matter-with-you side-eye.
“I could have a Bangladeshi dad or something. I mean, nobody would know, would they? But yeah, that’s a bit too appropriationy. What about Theo Doppleganger? Because I look like someone else. Someone who I used to be. Yeah, that’s a bit … no. How did you choose yours? What even is it?”
“Nixon,” she said.
“And what was it before?”
B1 was black and glossy with strips of stained glass light. It was like the Catholic wing of the Death Star.
“Johnson,” she said.
I laughed and the shards in my throat revolted. “Really?”
“Yeah, I was really into international politics when I was at uni. Nixon was president the year I was born and he did come after Johnson, so ….”
“As good a reason as any,” I said. “But what comes after a King?”
“A spy? An assassin. The ghost of a king. A better king.” She laughed, wiggled her eyebrows, then said, “A queen?”
“Eidolon,” I said, turning back to Erin. I was about to explain, when she beat me to it.
“A phantom you. A re-realised, idealised you. I like it.”
Erin opened a door by sticking her arm in a hole again. There was a lab on the other side with two people eating Pot Noodles at a table covered in cereal bars and rice cakes.
The woman didn’t look like she could be related to War. I looked more like I could be related to War than she did. I even had his bushy hair. Callie had sleek, black hair and light brown skin. The man had blonde hipster hair and a pink face.
Callie waved us over with a smile. “Sorry, the munchies grabbed me.”
“No worries,” said Erin. “This is Callie Hazard and Tintin Blaine. Guys, this is Theodore Eidolon.”
Tintin stood and reached across the table, “Jim Blaine.”
I shook his hand. “Why do they call you Tintin?”
“Because I had a quiff for ten minutes in 1987.”
“See?” said Erin.
I nodded, then looked back at Jim, then Callie. “You can call me Theo.”
Callie stood and shook my hand. “So, how are you feeling, Theo?”
“Sore throat,” I said. “Still a bit cold, kind of achy all over, but mostly I feel like I slept for six weeks.”
I stared at the snacks on the table, trying to remember if I would like any of them now that I was a vampire. Would my taste buds change? I still wasn’t really hungry. I focused on my stomach, wondering why I wasn’t rampaging for food like a yeti coming out of hibernation.
“You have something against rice cakes?” said Callie.
“They’re not food,” I said automatically. “They’re polystyrene coasters.”
Callie’s mouth fell open.
Erin laughed. “I’m always telling her that.” She held up a cereal bar and looked at me. “What about these?”
“Polystyrene and gravel glued together with sugar,” I said. “Grim.”
“Callie’s a nutritionist,” said Erin, barely stopping herself from laughing, and unable to keep the smirk off her face.
Callie rolled her eyes then got up to rinse out and recycle her pot. “Has Erin told you why you’re down here?”
“Yeah, for blood.”
“Come on then,” she said, leading me to an examination chair and patting the dark vinyl. “We’re not sure what the effects of your bite will be so we need to be cautious at first. No live donors.”
I grimaced. “God, will I need to suck blood out of actual people?”
“Not if you don’t want to, but you’ll need to find somewhere that can accommodate you. Most of the blood clubs are only set up for medical emergencies, not for medical feeding.”
“Is a blood club what it sounds like?”
“It’s exactly what it sounds like,” said Callie.
“Can’t I just come back here when I need blood?”
“Only for the first couple of months,” said Callie. “Jumper off.”
I pulled my jumper over my head, inciting a static riot, and handed it to Erin.
“You want to start with two?” said Jim, holding up a scrubs-blue pouch.
Callie’s fingers were cold on my chest as she undid the buttons of my pyjama top, exposing the least manly chest ever. It was actually concave. Thankfully, the bottoms were a little bit big, so I’d tied them up over my belly, which made me look a bit Simon Cowell but covered my soft belly which was the only part of me with any fat on it.
“Yeah, if we need a third, get a forty-two,” she said, taking the first pouch. “This is a forty?”
“Yeah, I won’t put a third in until we see how the second goes down,” said Jim. “Don’t want to waste any.”
Behind me, something whined.
“Get him some chocolate, Erin,” said Callie.
She and Jim snorted when Erin snapped off a chunk of chocolate and fed me. I laughed and tried not to dribble when it melted twice as quickly on my tongue as it should. Erin blushed when she realised what she’d done.
“Fuck, have you ever seen her blush?” said Jim.
“Fuck off, Tintin.”
“Right, I’m just putting a collar on you. It’ll give you a teeny tiny shock, but it’ll make you feel good. Keep your mouth closed, and try not to grind your teeth or bite your tongue.”
The collar was warm and leathery, with a little patch of thistle-like needles at the back. I gripped the arm rests when the jolt hit me in the neck. I moaned through closed lips, as electricity swept along my skin, raising every hair, and fired through my veins.
Callie slapped something onto my chest and when I looked down at it, I saw a pouch of blood. It deflated as my body sucked on it. I didn’t have time to be grossed out because I was too busy swallowing a vat of my own saliva. I panted and groaned, trying to catch my breath, but none of it was bad. It was exhilarating, like rollercoasters were exhilarating, but only when I went with Margo because she always screamed like she was gonna die. It was like the explosion of feelings you get when you meet the people who really get you. It was, fuck, it was like an orgasm.
“Oh god,” I blurted, gripping the arm rests harder, fighting the rising feeling in my pyjama bottoms. The last thing I needed was an erection.
Erin handed me a cup of warm water with a straw in. “You need to drink it all slowly while you’re absorbing the next pouch.”
The sight of a second pouch replacing the first flooded my brain with images of bloodied grass, of a bloody halo reflecting the clouds, of blank eyes looking straight through the back of my head, my grandad’s hands gripping my shoulders, pulling me away. Come on, Stephen. We need to get to a phone. There’s no signal out here.
The hands on my shoulders shook me. “Teddy? Teddy?”
My eyes found Erin’s. “Huh?”
“Where did you go?”
“2005,” I said. “Amelia Genevieve Martin. She was murdered, dumped on a wildlife reserve. I found her body.”
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The source image is from qimono on Pixabay.