The sound of a wet gurgle brought his head up. Plastic Fantastic was coming around, her fingers twitching, her lids flickering like blinds that were broken.
As his eyes focused on her matted hair and her bloodstained basque, he felt a stinging pain at his temples, a hangover that sure as shit wasn't tied to a good time. The bitch disgusted him, lying all flopped around in her own filth.
She'd clearly been sick to her stomach, and thank God he'd slept through that commotion.
Pushing his hair out of his eyes, he felt his fangs elongate and knew it was time to put her to good use, but damn. . . she was about as appealing as spoiled meat.
More water. That's what this nightmare needed. More water and--
As he leaned up to crank the shower on again, her eyes drifted over to him.
Her scream pealed out of her bloody mouth and echoed around the tile until his ears rang like church bells.
Goddamn fangs scaring the shit out of her. As his hair fell into his eyes again, he shoved it back and debated ripping her neck open just to kill the noise. But there was no way he was biting into her before she had a bath--
She wasn't looking at his mouth. Her wide, crazy-ass eyes were locked on his forehead.
When his hair bugged him again, he swept it back--and something came off in his hand.
In slow motion, he looked down.
Nope, not his blond hair.
His skin.
Lash turned around to the mirror and heard himself shout. His reflection was incomprehensible, the patch of flesh that had let loose revealing a black oozing undercoat over his white skull. With his fingernail, he tested the edge of what was still attached and found that it was all slack; every square inch over his face was nothing but a sheet draped over the bone.
"No!" he screamed, trying to pat the shit back in place--
His hands. . . oh, God, not them, too. Flaps of skin were hanging off the backs of them, and as he yanked up the sleeves of his button-down, he wished he'd been more gentle, because his dermis came along with the fine silk.
What was happening to him?
Behind him, in the mirror, he saw the whore flash by at a dead run, looking like Sissy Spacek's Carrie only without the prom dress.
With a surge of strength, he went after her, his body moving with none of the power and grace he was used to. As he pounded after his prey, he could feel the friction of his clothes against himself and could only imagine the tearing that was happening over every inch of him.
He caught the prostitute just as she got to the rear door and started fighting with the locks. Slamming into her from behind, he grabbed her hair, yanked her head back, and bit hard, drawing her black blood into him.
He polished her off, drained her until his sucking pulls got him a whole lot of nothing in his mouth, and when he was done, he just let her go so that she crumpled down right on the carpet.
In a drunken shamble, he went back to the bathroom and turned on the lights that ran along both sides of the mirror.
With each piece of clothing he removed, he revealed more of the horror that was already showing on his face: His bones and muscles glistened with a black, oily sheen under the bulbs' illumination.
He was a cadaver. An upright, walking, breathing cadaver, the eyes of which rolled around in their sockets without lid or lash, the mouth of which showed nothing but fangs and teeth.
The last of his skin was that which anchored his beautiful blond hair to his head, but even that was sliding off the back, like a wig that had lost its glue.
He took off the final piece and, with his skeletal hands, stroked that which he'd taken such pride in. Of course, he fucked the shit up that way, the black ooze congealing on the locks, staining them, matting them. . . so that they were no better than what was still attached to that whore's head out by the door.
He let his scalp fall to the floor and stared at himself.
Through the cage of his ribs, he watched his own heart beat and wondered in numb horror what else was going to rot off him. . . and what he was going to be left with when this transformation was finished.
"Oh, God. . . " he said, his voice no longer sounding right, a displaced echo fleshing out the words in a way that was chillingly familiar.
Blay stood with his closet door open, his hanging clothes all on display. Absurdly, he wanted to call his mother for advice. Which was what he'd always done before when it came to getting dressed up.