Jessica's Guide to Dating on the Dark Side

by Beth Fantaskey

  “I don’t believe in vampires,” I whispered, but with less conviction.

  “You will believe.”

  “No. It’s not rational.”

  Lucius was inches from me now, and he leaned down, the better to see eye-to-eye. And then he bared his teeth. Only they weren’t just teeth anymore. They were fangs. Two fangs, to be precise. Two sharp, seductive, gleaming fangs. They were the most awful, perfect, unbelievable things I had ever seen.

  I wanted to scream. Scream as loud as humanly possible. Or maybe feel Lucius clasp my shoulders, pull me tightly to himself, feel the authority in his hands, the touch of his lips, those teeth on my throat . . . Oh, god. What was wrong with me? What was wrong with him? He was a freaking vampire. He really was. No. It was a magic trick. An illusion.

  I closed my eyes, rubbing them, cursing myself for falling for the fakery and yet half expecting the sensation of razorlike incisors slicing into my jugular. “Please . . . don’t!”

  There was a moment of silence that stretched on forever. A moment when I honestly believed that he might hurt me. And then, suddenly, Lucius really did grab my arms and pull me close, enfolding me against his chest, just as he’d done in my dream. Firmly, but gently.

  “Antanasia,” he murmured, and his voice was soft again. He smoothed my curls with his hand, and I allowed him to soothe me, too relieved to object. “I’m sorry . . . that was cruel to scare you,” he said. “I should not have done that, that way. Please, forgive me.”

  Tentatively, I wrapped my arms around Lucius’s narrow waist, not even sure why I did it, and he squeezed me even closer, resting his chin on the top of my head. His hand covered the entire small of my back, which he stroked softly. We stood that way for about a full minute. I could feel his heart beat against my cheek. Very softly. Very slowly. Almost imperceptibly. Mine was pounding, and I knew he could feel that, too.

  Finally I pulled back, and he let me go.

  “Don’t ever do that stupid trick again,” I said, surprised to find that my voice was shaky. “Never. It’s not funny.”

  The crazy Croatian music spun on the turntable, eerie and penetrating. Lucius took my arm, and I hated that a part of me welcomed his touch again. Hated that it had been hard to pull away. He’s a lunatic, Jess.

  “Please, Jessica. Sit.” Lucius gestured to the bed. “You look a little pale.”

  Sit . . . and then what will happen?

  “I . . . I have to go,” I said.

  Lucius didn’t try to stop me, and I left him standing there, in the middle of that dark room. I tripped down the steps, and when I reached our yard, I ran, not stopping until I’d locked the door in my own room, breathless, flushed, and incredibly, incredibly confused. Because what I’d felt hadn’t just been fear. It had been something like the sensations I’d had in my dream about Lucius. Disgust turned to fear turned to lust . . . alchemy. Insanity. It was all mixed up in my brain suddenly. And it was so, so wrong.

  Chapter 13

  “TODAY WE’RE GOING to discuss the concept of transcendental numbers,” our math team coach, Mr. Jaegerman, announced, rubbing his hands together with arithmetic glee.

  All five of us mathletes leaned over our notebooks, pens poised.

  “A transcendental number is any number that is non-algebraic—not the root of any integer polynomial,” Mr. Jaegerman began.

  Mike Danneker’s hand shot up. “Like pi.”

  “Yes,” Mr. Jaegerman cried, jabbing chalk at the board, writing the symbol for pi. “Exactly.” He was already sweating a little. Mr. Jaegerman was bald, and slightly overweight, and wore polyester, but he had an admirable enthusiasm for numbers.

  I wrote the symbol π in my notebook, wishing we weren’t wasting time on theoretical concepts. I preferred to practice with practical problems, as opposed to dealing with abstract ideas.

  “Pi is an excellent example of a transcendental number,” our teacher continued. “The ratio of the circumference of a circle to its diameter. We’re all familiar with pi. But we usually just stop at 3.14 when we use it. As we all know, though, pi is actually much longer. And although we humans have figured out pi to roughly the trillionth digit, there is no end in sight. It is infinite, ‘unsolvable.’ And—this is the mind-blowing part—the numbers form no pattern.”

  He scribbled on the board. 3.1415926535897932 . . . “It goes on and on, randomly. Forever.”

  We all paused, drinking this in. Of course, as students interested in math, we’d all thought about pi before. But the idea of those numbers streaming across galaxies, across time . . . it was very confusing. Unnerving, almost. Impossible to grasp.

  “And of course”—Mr. Jaegerman broke our reverie—“a transcendental number like pi is, by definition, irrational.”

  He paused to let us catch up, and I carefully printed the word in my notebook. Irrational.

  The word seemed to stare back at me off the page. In the back of my mind, I heard my mother saying, “Jessica, there are things in the world that you can’t explain . . .”

  But you can explain them, my brain objected. Even pi is explainable. Sort of. Numbers are solid. Real.

  Except numbers that snaked their way to eternity. Eternity. Now there was another concept I couldn’t grasp.

  Souls linked for eternity. Lucius had said that one time when he’d brought up the betrothal ceremony. Lucius, the least rational person I knew. Vampires and pacts, they are irrationals. Like pi?

  “Miss Packwood?”

  My name jolted me back to reality. Or what I thought was reality. Why did it all seem so uncertain suddenly? “Yes, Mr. Jaegerman?”

  “You seemed a little daydream-y.” He smiled. “I thought I should bring you back to reality.”

  “Sorry,” I said. Reality. Mr. Jaegerman obviously believed in it. He certainly wouldn’t believe in unreal things. Like vampires. Or eternal destinies. Or “disgust turned to lust.”

  Reality was the taste of my plastic pen in my mouth. The sight of the hideous design on Mr. Jaegerman’s tie. The feel of the smooth desk under my fingertips.

  Yes. Reality. It was good to be back. It was where I needed to stay.

  When I focused back on my notes, though, I realized that I had doodled a rough sketch of a very sharp set of fangs in the margin of my notes. I hadn’t even realized I’d done it.

  Clutching my pen, I scribbled out the drawing, smothering it in ink, until every line was completely obliterated.

  Chapter 14

  DEAR UNCLE VASILE,

  I write to thank you for releasing the money from my trust, as requested, and for so expeditiously shipping my weapons collection and other miscellaneous furnishings, carpets, etc. I fear I couldn’t have endured one more day with those doe-eyed “folk” dolls staring at me from every cheerful, plaid-covered corner of this room. It was like being surrounded by a multicultural army of midgets, all waiting to attack some night as I slept.

  I have done the Packwoods the favor of disposing of the entire collection, with the assistance of the medieval maul you were so kind to include. A pair of salt and pepper shakers shaped like dogs wearing chefs’ toques have, alas, met their doom, too. Some day the Packwoods will no doubt come to their senses and thank me.

  On to the bad news. I fear I’ve made a slight misstep, having introduced Antanasia to the concept of vampiric transformation rather abruptly last night. Her reaction was raw fear, followed by denial. Honestly, Vasile, she dismissed my fangs as some sort of parlor trick. Can you imagine? One of nature’s most compelling metamorphoses disclaimed as a magic act? God, the girl irks me. So resistant. So rational.

  In short, I have taken no steps forward, and two steps backward.

  I will gladly shoulder the blame for my mistake (I should have anticipated Antanasias reaction—my pedagogy was less than subtle), but did I not predict all of this difficulty years ago?

  Lying awake in the garage, I often ponder how different things could have been had Antanasia been raised as a true vampire. Not to so
und arrogant, Vasile, but I know from past experience that I do not repulse women. (Is the Bucharest debutante season underway? Heavy sigh.) And Antanasia, for all her faults (T-shirts rank at the top of that list) . . . well, I can sometimes see flashes of who she could have been. Of what we could have been.

  Indeed, Antanasias most vexing quality—her aforementioned will—is the very thing that would serve her so well as a ruler. She stands up to me, Vasile. How many are willing to do that? There is great intelligence in her eyes, too. And a certain mocking laughter—a hallmark of our kind. She is beautiful, too, Vasile. Or she would be if she did not try so hard to hide it. If she only believed she is beautiful.

  At times, it is not impossible to imagine Antanasia in our castle, at my side—provided she cultivated better manners, acquiesced to the concept of women’s clothes, and straightened that spine. (No one in America exhibits the slightest interest in posture. Standing upright seems to be something of a lost art, like fencing.)

  In the wished-for reality that I sometimes envision, our courtship consists of excursions to the opera in Vienna, riding in the Carpathians (she does ride!), and conversing as we linger over meals that actually consist of food. That is how I have always approached—and succeeded with!—the fairer sex in Romania.

  But of course daydreams and wishing are wasted, idle exercises that may amuse more effectively than the available television programs (an entire network devoted to the game “poker”—need I say more?) but do nothing to alter reality. No amount of horrified shuddering on my part will change the fact that Antanasia is an American girl who apparently requires an American approach. Now I must determine exactly what that means. Some activity involving a “burger and fries,” no doubt.

  At any rate, that, “in a nutshell”—to use yet another quaint Americanism (is there no end to them?)—is the situation here in “our little democracy,” as my faux father figure Ned is so fond of repeatedly calling this ridiculous farm where virtually no agriculture is practiced. Honestly, if ever a place needed the firm hand of a tyrant . . . Fewer beasts in the yard, more in the oven: That would be my first decree. But again, wishes change nothing.

  Your nephew,

  Lucius

  P.S. At the risk of testing your patience, I have one more request. I have nearly depleted my supply of Type A. (Basketball practice does make me thirsty. Go team.) Are you familiar with a good domestic source I might tap?

  Chapter 15

  “YOUR HOROSCOPE SAYS ‘today is a good day to take a risk,’” Mindy read, leaning against the lockers, nose buried in her new copy of Cosmo.

  “I can’t believe you read that.” I laughed, rummaging around for the books I needed to take home. “I mean, do you really need to know ‘75 Sex Tricks to Drive Him Wild’? Wouldn’t twenty or so be enough for anybody?”

  Mindy surfaced from the pages, a grin on her face. “They might all come in handy someday. Don’t you want to be prepared in the event that you want to ‘drive him wild’?”

  I flushed, recalling my mom’s talk, the dream I’d had about Lucius, the feelings I’d had that night in his apartment when he’d done that stupid trick with his teeth. And Jake, shirtless, standing on the back of that truck . . . “Well, sure. I guess so. But it’s not like I’ll get to use any ‘tricks’ soon.”

  “Hey, you never know.” Mindy pointed behind me. “Look who’s here.”

  I turned around, half expecting to see Lucius amid the crowd of students getting ready to go home. Mindy’s crush was getting out of control, and if she talked about sex, a mention of Lucius couldn’t be far behind. But no, it was Jake, pulling his leather-armed wrestling jacket from his locker. I spun back around, feigning an even greater interest in the contents of my own locker.

  “You should go talk to him,” Mindy advised, a little too loudly. “Unless you’ve finally realized that Lucius is the better choice . . .”

  “Lucius is not better, and he’s not a ‘choice,’” I said.

  “Well then, this is your chance to ask Jake to the fall carnival,” Mindy said. She held up Cosmo. “Listen to your horoscope. Take a risk.”

  “I know you read it, but you don’t really believe that ‘guided by the stars’ stuff, do you?” I pulled out of my locker, cradling my pile of books.

  “Of course,” Mindy said.

  Not you, too, Mindy. . . . Is there not one rational person left in the universe?

  “Jake was obviously into you that night at your house,” she added. “I mean, he hardly talked to me.”

  “Really?”

  “Jess, I was, like, invisible. Go. Ask him to the carnival. Unless, of course, you’re having second thoughts about Lucius . . .”

  “No, I’m not,” I assured her.

  “Then ask Jake.”

  I glanced down at my outfit. Why had I worn my filthy old Chuck Taylors? I hadn’t lost those five pounds, either. “Oh, I don’t think so . . . I look terrible, and . . . well, shouldn’t Jake ask me?”

  “It’s not the Middle Ages,” Mindy pointed out. “Girls ask guys out. It happens all the time, which you’d know if you read Cosmo.”

  Mindy had a point there. If there was one thing I was sick of, it was having one Chuck-clad foot stuck in the Middle Ages. I wondered what Mindy would think if she knew I supposedly had no choice when it came to my husband, let alone my date for the Woodrow Wilson High School fall carnival. Still, I wasn’t convinced that asking Jake was a good plan. “I could go without a date.”

  “But it’s cooler to have a date. And you’d better hurry, because he’s leaving.”

  I turned around again to see Jake slamming his locker door shut. Mindy gave me a little shove. “Go!” Her second thrust gave me no choice. Especially since Jake was walking in our direction.

  “Hey.” He smiled as I practically crashed into him. “Thanks for the drink the other night.”

  “Sure.” Brilliant, Jess. I looked around for Mindy, for support, but she and her Cosmo and her 75 Sex Tricks had disappeared.

  “I was just talking about you,” Jake said. “I hear you’re odds-on to win a top spot at 4-H this year.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. Faith says your Appaloosa can really jump.”

  “Faith Crosse said that? Are you sure?” Even though Faith boarded her thoroughbred at my parents’ farm, she managed to act like I didn’t exist. Like Lucius, she seemed to mistake me for some sort of stable hand. I certainly didn’t think she’d ever bothered to watch me ride.

  “Yeah. She thinks you’re her best competition.”

  “I’ll never beat Faith’s thoroughbred,” I said. “Not on an Appaloosa. Even one as good as Belle.”

  “I’m sure you’ll do great.” Jake hesitated. “Maybe someday I could come watch you ride.”

  “Really? I mean, that would be great.” I smiled, meeting Jake’s beautifully bland gaze. His blue eyes were so blessedly . . . simple. Not dark and terrifying and changeable. And his teeth . . . so wonderfully average. So un-fanglike. Jake blinked. There was a briefly uncomfortable silence. It was now or never. I took a deep breath. “Jake?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Are you going to the carnival?” My heart was thudding so hard that I was afraid I wouldn’t catch his answer. “Because I was thinking maybe we could . . . you know, go together.”

  He paused. “Well, I really wasn’t sure—”

  Oh, no. Even half deaf, I heard the hesitation in his voice. He was turning me down. I knew it. It’s the Chucks. It has to be the Chucks. Or the five pounds . . . “Oh, I understand,” I interrupted, cheeks on fire. “It’s no big deal.”

  “No, wait—”

  “Hey, Packrat!” A heavy arm thumped down around my shoulders, and I found myself cheek-to-cheek with Frank Dormand, who was hanging on me, a slimy grin on his fat face. Horrified, I tried to slip free, but Frank held tight, giving me a little shake. “Did I just hear you asking Jake here to the carnival? What’s up with that?”

  “Stop it, Frank,” I beg
ged, clutching my books to my chest. “This is none of your business.”

  “Yeah, Frank,” Jake said. “Leave it alone.”

  Frank rumpled my curls. “Oh, you crazy kids.”

  I tried to push his hand away and smooth my hair, but I was so flustered that I dropped my books from my hot, wet hands. My homework crashed to the floor, my papers scattering everywhere. “Get lost, Frank,” I pleaded, furious. It was one thing to call out a quick taunt in the cafeteria, but he went too far this time. . . .

  Frank winked at Jake. “So what’s it gonna be, Jake? Are you going to take the Packrat? Because rumor has it that she’s getting it on with that foreign undertaker who lives in her garage. You are boffing him, right, Jess?”

  I twisted under Dormand’s arm, trying again to pull away, when suddenly I was liberated. Because Frank was pinned against a locker, his throat in the grip of a calm but very determined Romanian exchange student.

  Frank’s heels banged metal. “Hey!”

  But Lucius only hoisted Frank a little higher. “Gentlemen don’t ask women impertinent questions about delicate subjects.” His voice was even, almost bored. “And they never, ever use crude expressions in mixed company. Not unless they’re ready to face the consequences.”

  “Lucius, no!” I cried.

  “Let go,” Frank sputtered, his face turning as red as mine. He clawed futilely at Lucius’s grip as a crowd gathered in the hall. “You’re choking me, man.”

  “Let him go, Lucius,” I begged, watching Frank turn from red to blue. “He’s suffocating!”

  Lucius eased his grip, allowing Frank to touch the floor with his toes but keeping him firmly contained. “Tell me what you want me do with him, Jessica,” Lucius urged, over his shoulder. “Name the punishment. I shall deliver it.”

  “Nothing, Lucius!” I said, face flaming even brighter. He isn’t my bodyguard. “It’s not your fight!”

  “No,” Lucius agreed. “It is my pleasure.” He turned his attention back to Frank, who had ceased struggling and remained flattened, motionless, against the locker, eyes bulging. “You will pick up the young lady’s books, hand them to her nicely, and apologize,” Lucius ordered. “Then we will go outside and conclude our business.”