“You know a lot of monsters, don’t you?” Alan said. He jerked his head toward the house. “You share a bed with one.”
Krishna narrowed his eyes. “She’s not scary, either.”
“You cut off her wings, but it doesn’t make her any less monstrous.
“One thing I can tell you, you’re pretty special: Most real people never see us. You saw me right off. It’s like Dracula, where most of the humans couldn’t tell that there was a vampire in their midst.”
“Van Helsing could tell,” Krishna said. “He hunted Dracula. You can’t hunt what you can’t see,” he said. “So your kind has been getting a safe free ride for God-knows-how-long. Centuries. Living off of us. Passing among us. Passing for us.”
“Van Helsing got killed,” Alan said. “Didn’t he? And besides that, there was someone else who could see the vampires: Renfield. The pathetic pet and errand boy. Remember Renfield in his cage in the asylum, eating flies? Trying to be a monster? Von Helsing recognized the monster, but so did Renfield.”
“I’m no one’s Renfield,” Krishna said, and spat onto Alan’s lawn. First fire, then water. He was leaving his mark on Alan’s land, that was certain.
“You’re no Van Helsing, either,” Alan said. “What’s the difference between you and a racist, Krishna? You call me a monster, why shouldn’t I call you a paki?”
He stiffened at the slur, and so did Alan. He’d never used the word before, but it had sprung readily from his lips, as though it had lurked there all along, waiting to be uttered.
“Racists say that there’s such a thing as ‘races’ within the human race, that blacks and whites and Chinese and Indians are all members of different ‘races,’” Krishna said. “Which is bullshit. On the other hand, you—”