The tinkling carnival music was, for Amery, like listening to a younger version of himself whisper in his ear:
Mommmmyyy, can we go to the place with the rides? –Maybe next summer, Amery.
Amery could see his little self bouncing up and down in the bus seat as the route swung close enough to the amusement park, eyes glued to the window at the brightly colored loops and spirals in the distance, poking up over the surrounding landscape: so close, and always out of reach. He hadn’t really intended to come here tonight. Or ever, really.
Amery didn’t usually kill when he hunted: he just drank, and stole, and occasionally beat the shit out of his victim. But only so that, when the mortal woke up, the other injuries would account for the blood loss and explain away the bite marks, hidden under other cuts and bruises. Tonight he had merely stolen—not far from the amusement park, some rich fat fuck should be coming around with their wallet two hundred dollars lighter. And at least a fat lip.
He’d actually been on his way home.
He needed to feed, but he wouldn’t touch his lips to the skin of someone he hated. And he hated rich fat fucks. But it was a beautiful night, and he figured he could just comb the beach for stragglers or late night love makers. They were usually worth the search. But when he’d seen the distant lights of Fantastika blinking over to his left, twinkling irresistibly in the darkness, he’d changed course. He didn’t give the beach a second thought.
It was time he go.
And so he went.
--
It was like he had imaged, only more sinister. As a boy he had never envisioned Fantastika at the nighttime, only in the light. But now the day was lost to him. And so, with only the night, he spent hours exploring the grounds of the amusement park. He had paid the entrance fee out of the stolen $200, but did not ride any of the rides or purchase anything. The only thing that had even tempted him was a game where, grabbing a mallet, you hit a target as hard as you can to see if you can make a little metal weight fly to the top of a pole. It was called ‘The Strongest-Man Challenge.’ Amery had been sorely tempted. But he wasn’t a man. And he didn’t feel (what little so young a vampire could feel) that he was the strongest lurking the grounds this night. Though he was an apt individual to secretly believe it.
Still, he was not disappointed. He felt some sorrow at his lost child self, who never had the opportunity to go to the amusement park and, even now after death, would never take part in any of the rides or games that had so entranced him. He remembered when he was six or seven he had set up the couch cushions and old bean bags and tried to make his own amusement park in the loft he shared with his brother when they came to stay with his grandparents. “I am the Ringmaster!” he’d declared, and Miles had laughed at him and said “Ringmasters are for circuses, dummy” and Amery had been so angry that he started attacking Miles until the two were tumbling around together on the floor throwing child fists and screaming like banshees.
It was the first time Amery had ever hit anyone.
But he was dreaming, lost in thought. He sat on a bench near the cotton candy and popcorn stalls, arms outstretched on the back of the bench as though he had a beautiful lady sitting on either side of him. The smell of whipped sugar, and burnt corn kernels and butter and oil from the hotdog stand put his olfactory in sensory overload. His ears could here nothing but the rumble of voices, the creak of machinery, and the tinny music of the amusement park. He closed his eyes from the sights—he didn’t wish to look at people. He was too hungry, but too reluctant to leave. And he couldn’t hunt here.
Well, perhaps he could have. But he didn’t know this place. He didn’t know what claims stood, or what other creatures (vampire or other) were here or knew that he was here. His senses were not strong enough to detect those others yet. And he couldn’t risk screwing up. He was too young, and others were too… too everything else.
He leaned forward, rubbing his fingers into the top of his scalp because it felt good. When took his hand away, hair was standing up in all directions, but he either didn’t notice or care, or both. He let that hand rest in his lap, and looked down at it distractedly as he fell back into thought. It was a rare occasion for Amery to be so contemplative—but it had been a long day of action. And without new blood, the young vampire was feeling mellower and more content with inaction than perhaps he would have been on any other night.
He closed his eyes again, imagining the shadows of the mortals projected on the inside of his eyelids: A puppet show of silhouettes. They didn’t dance, they didn’t juggle—they just walked passed, or reached for something, or turned their heads to look in other, more enticing directions…