The Fallen by Celia Thomson Read Free Book Online Page B

throat was swollen so badly, he could barely breathe. He groaned and twisted, trying to crawl out of his skin. He flopped onto his stomach and Chloe got a look at his back. Long, oozing cankers and welts, like claw marks. Exacdy where she had scratched and kneaded him outside the club.
    Chloe backed up slowly.
    Must call.
    Without thought, like she was walking through syrup, Chloe found the handset of a cordless phone in the living room, resting on top of one of those expensive giant HEPA filters from Sharper Image, like the one her mom had. She dialed 911.
    She recited the address when a brusque, disinterested voice came on. “There’s someone here. Covered in sores. Can barely breathe. It looks like he’s dying.”
    It looks like he’s dying.
    â€œWe’ll be right there, ma’am. What’s your telephone number?”
    â€œI don’t—” She looked at the card and gave them his cell. After hanging up she went back to Xavier. He was hissing and coughing and his eyes were crusty and half shut. She wondered if he could see her, if he would recognize her.
    Exactly where she had scratched him.
    Chloe waited until she heard sirens approaching, and then she ran.

Six
    Friday passed normally, and Xavier wasn’t mentioned in any obits or police beats, so Chloe was determined to have a normal weekend, too. Hormone free. Guy free. Falls-from-towers and formerly-hot-now-sick-strangers free.
    She got up on Saturday, poured herself a big box of Lucky Charms, and watched new (really crappy) cartoons for a couple of hours. It was sunny out, so she drew the shades, just like she used to when she was young so she wouldn’t be tempted to leave the glowing light of the television for the great outdoors.
    At two she met Amy at Relax Now. Chloe had casually suggested to Amy the night before that they treat themselves to manicures with some of her birthday money. Amy objected at first, calling it a middle-class, bourgeois ritual of the Burberry-knockoff set. Chloe told her to cut the crap and enjoy it; they had never done it before and might never do it again. Besides, she was paying.
    And Amy actually seemed pretty cheerful, looking over her nails as they dried. She had talked the most artistic seeming of the women there into painting the lower half of all her nails black, then putting a single clawlike black stripe in the middle of each one. She flexed and re-flexed her fingers under the little lamps.
    â€œGrrr,” she said.
    Chloe was still having hers worked on. She’d opted for the hot paraffin, vitamin-wrap, extra-super-cleany options and was drilling the woman doing it with a battery of questions: Could fingernails be dirty even if they didn’t look it? Could you carry diseases under your nails? What about toxic fungi?
    â€œYes, yes, and yes,” the woman replied, zealously buffing. “I knew a girl once, she went to a place—not here, a
dirty
place—she got a pedicure and had to have her whole toe removed afterward. Nasty infection. Anyway, this will take care of all that. You could eat with them now.”
    Chloe felt relieved. And guilty. She hoped Xavier was okay. She had to somehow check on him later.
    It
was
kind of funny, though, that she’d managed to spread something diseaselike to her partner before she’d ever even had sex. Funny in a loose sense of the word, of course.
    â€œThis is
perfect?
Amy said, admiring her nails. “We’re going to the Temple of Arts tonight—this will freak the shit out of all the vampire role players there.”
    â€œCool. I haven’t been there in so long.” Chloe didn’t have anything planned for that evening, except for cooking with her mother (mother-daughter time), something she was anxious to get out of. And it would be an excellent way to get over whatever weird rush she’d felt with Paul earlier that week. The three of them just hanging out would be a good thing. “I promised