Lilith’s Dream: A Tale of the Vampire Life by Whitley Strieber Read Free Book Online Page B

on the hot water until it steamed up from the sink, then covered his cheeks with the luxurious Italian shaving cream that he favored. Shaving mechanically, he tried to push back his concerns about Ian. The boy was just a teenager. Leo Patterson was all over the television, in all the magazines. She was the girl that every redblooded seventeen-year-old in America—or the world, for that matter—dreamed about.
    He dressed and headed down to make his eggs. Before descending the stairs, he paused and listened at Ian’s door. He heard breathing—very soft, very close.
    “Ian?”
    No response.
    Paul turned the handle. Locked. “Ian, come on.”
    Still nothing. He turned it harder, rattled the door. No response, but he was still right there, literally leaning against the other side of the door. Paul felt the familiar urge to just explode into every direction at once that his teenager was so damn good at evoking in him. But losing your temper with Ian didn’t help anything.
    “Come on, guy, let’s get past it.” Nothing. “Hey, we’re on the same side.”
    The breathing faded, to be replaced by the small sounds of Ian getting ready for school.
    Being ignored did it. Paul kicked the door. From down the hall, Becky said, “Oh, for God’s sake,” as Paul slammed his foot into the door a second time, so hard that it split down the middle and the free half flew into the bedroom.
    Ian screamed, and the sound of it—the warbling, boyish surprise of it—set a fire in Paul, and it was all he could do not to tangle with him.
    “Goddammit, Ian,” he yelled. “Goddammit!”
    Ian slid back against the wall, knocking down his bedside table and radio. His lamp shattered. And then something happened that had never happened before. Instead of cowering, his face covered with tears, instead of Paul getting hold of himself and there developing a trade of damp apologies, Ian laughed. He did not make any sound, but only bared his teeth and shut his eyes and shook in silent laughter.
    “Don’t you touch him, Paul Ward!”
    Everything slowed down. Ian’s laugh became a fixed, brittle grin of fear. Becky’s hand drifted up, impacted Paul’s cocked arm with all the effect of a landing butterfly. Then his arm began to move, and he could not stop it, he could not because the rage was running him and he—the reasonably civilized man who normally inhabited this big, rough body—was on hold, neutralized, put aside.
    The hand—open now, at least, no longer a fist—impacted. It hit not the boy but the table, which hopped and shattered into an explosion of kindling. Paul stumbled, staggered, and then was leaning against the wall breathing hard, feeling his heart go slamslam slamslam and thinking, The kid’s gonna kill me yet.
    “You asshole,” Ian shrieked, scrambling to his feet and leaping back across his bed, trying to put something more substantial between himself and his onrushing dad. “I hate you, I hate you!”
    “You don’t hate your father.”
    “He’s a jerk, look, he wrecked my stuff, he’s a total out-of-control jerk, Mom! Why don’t you see that and get us out of here!”
    “Ian—”
    “You shut up!”
    “Don’t you tell your father to shut up!”
    “Shut up and get out, old man! Go on, get out!”
    “You listen to me. You open your door when I knock.”
    “You did not knock, you just kicked the damn thing down, Dad.”
    “Why did you turn that goddamn bitch on like that at six o fucking clock in the morning?”
    “Come on, Paul, for God’s sake, it’s obvious why.”
    Paul stopped. He’d overreacted, way overreacted. Ian, blushing bright red now, hung his head. “Son,” Paul said, “look—it’s…nature. Oh, Christ…”
    “Dad, just shut up.”
    “Why do you listen to that woman?”
    “Shut up and go downstairs and eat your damn eggs.”
    “Lemme help you, here.” He tried to pick the pieces of the table back up.
    “I’ll go to Wal-Mart and get another one, Dad.”
    “Listen,