Read Online When Night Came Calling by Emily Asimov - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Emily Asimov
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before. The splendid panels extended from the floor to waist height where they met olive green walls. Beautiful, much more beautiful than she expected in a rundown building on this side of Boston.
The girl’s eyes looked everywhere. Everywhere except where she knew she must eventually look and then she did look and she gazed, speechless, at the zombie, for the bright light left nothing to the imagination.
The zombie was utterly different than she expected and utterly ordinary. He wore a black tailored suit with a black silk tie and he wasn’t tall. He wasn’t thin or fat either. But he had broad shoulders and he was muscular—well, somewhat at least. His hair was blond, medium length, with waves that were combed back, and his skin—what little she could see of it—looked normal. Light, but not the pallor she’d expected. Not that she’d expected pale white skin entirely, though she’d thought about it. Zombies were undead after all and it seemed the undead should look well, dead.
In fact, the zombie looked altogether ordinary. No different than anyone else. Except there was something different about him. Something very different about him. The girl couldn’t quite say what that was, but she knew something was different. It was the eyes, mostly, she guessed. The eyes and the way she couldn’t quite see him even though she was seeing him.
2
“Drink with me and we can begin,” the zombie said. “If you still want the interview, that is.”
The girl picked up the glass, gulped down half its contents. “To begin, I need to know your full name. Your real name.”
The zombie refilled his glass at the bar and brought the bottle to the table. He sat across from the girl. “Which name would you like? Would you like my name when I was a colonial hunting the headless of my kind? My name when I was a statesman in Italy leading the Republic against our betrayers? My name when I rode with Arthur in search of the Grail to end our curse?”
The girl tried to steady herself, to hide her disbelief. “I think I’ll need a refill first.”
“Do,” the zombie said. He lifted the bottle and waited to refill her rapidly emptied glass.
“Your real name will do,” the girl started to say but she never finished.
The zombie reached out over the length of the table and steadied her. The girl shuddered at his touch. She did not recoil though, not because she didn’t want to, but because she couldn’t.
“What did you put in my drink?”
“Not what you think. Take a moment. Take a breath. Clarity will come—a clarity like you’ve never known.”
Sweat rolled down the girl’s back. Her soft cotton dress was sticky, wet. “I’m unwell. I should go.”
“I think not,” the zombie said. “Trust me when I say it will pass. Now look at me.”
The girl complied but it took a moment for her eyes to focus. Then she did a double take to be sure what she was seeing was what was before her.
The zombie’s skin was stretched and thin, a white so pale it was almost a translucent gray and beneath she could almost see flesh. His eyes, fierce and sunken subtly, were a cold, cold blue. The color of glacial ice, it seemed.
“No interview if you leave,” the zombie said, releasing her arm and leaning back in his seat. “Besides, you’ll miss the best of it if you leave.”
The girl reached down unsteadily to her recorder. She was about to restart the recording but decided not to. Instead she turned the recorder toward the zombie and pushed it closer to him across the table. “What did you—”
The zombie raised a hand to silence her. He leaned forward, filled her glass and his. “Don’t be afraid. Believe me, I won’t hurt you. I’ve waited a long time for you and I want this opportunity.”
Sweat rolled down the sides of the girl’s face and beaded on her forehead. “It’s so hot. Why isn’t it cooling off?
The girl’s eyes looked everywhere. Everywhere except where she knew she must eventually look and then she did look and she gazed, speechless, at the zombie, for the bright light left nothing to the imagination.
The zombie was utterly different than she expected and utterly ordinary. He wore a black tailored suit with a black silk tie and he wasn’t tall. He wasn’t thin or fat either. But he had broad shoulders and he was muscular—well, somewhat at least. His hair was blond, medium length, with waves that were combed back, and his skin—what little she could see of it—looked normal. Light, but not the pallor she’d expected. Not that she’d expected pale white skin entirely, though she’d thought about it. Zombies were undead after all and it seemed the undead should look well, dead.
In fact, the zombie looked altogether ordinary. No different than anyone else. Except there was something different about him. Something very different about him. The girl couldn’t quite say what that was, but she knew something was different. It was the eyes, mostly, she guessed. The eyes and the way she couldn’t quite see him even though she was seeing him.
2
“Drink with me and we can begin,” the zombie said. “If you still want the interview, that is.”
The girl picked up the glass, gulped down half its contents. “To begin, I need to know your full name. Your real name.”
The zombie refilled his glass at the bar and brought the bottle to the table. He sat across from the girl. “Which name would you like? Would you like my name when I was a colonial hunting the headless of my kind? My name when I was a statesman in Italy leading the Republic against our betrayers? My name when I rode with Arthur in search of the Grail to end our curse?”
The girl tried to steady herself, to hide her disbelief. “I think I’ll need a refill first.”
“Do,” the zombie said. He lifted the bottle and waited to refill her rapidly emptied glass.
“Your real name will do,” the girl started to say but she never finished.
The zombie reached out over the length of the table and steadied her. The girl shuddered at his touch. She did not recoil though, not because she didn’t want to, but because she couldn’t.
“What did you put in my drink?”
“Not what you think. Take a moment. Take a breath. Clarity will come—a clarity like you’ve never known.”
Sweat rolled down the girl’s back. Her soft cotton dress was sticky, wet. “I’m unwell. I should go.”
“I think not,” the zombie said. “Trust me when I say it will pass. Now look at me.”
The girl complied but it took a moment for her eyes to focus. Then she did a double take to be sure what she was seeing was what was before her.
The zombie’s skin was stretched and thin, a white so pale it was almost a translucent gray and beneath she could almost see flesh. His eyes, fierce and sunken subtly, were a cold, cold blue. The color of glacial ice, it seemed.
“No interview if you leave,” the zombie said, releasing her arm and leaning back in his seat. “Besides, you’ll miss the best of it if you leave.”
The girl reached down unsteadily to her recorder. She was about to restart the recording but decided not to. Instead she turned the recorder toward the zombie and pushed it closer to him across the table. “What did you—”
The zombie raised a hand to silence her. He leaned forward, filled her glass and his. “Don’t be afraid. Believe me, I won’t hurt you. I’ve waited a long time for you and I want this opportunity.”
Sweat rolled down the sides of the girl’s face and beaded on her forehead. “It’s so hot. Why isn’t it cooling off?
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