The Fell of Dark

by Caleb Roehrig

  “Made fresh!” I return enthusiastically, stirring it with my plastic spoon. Scummed with foam the color of dirty sand and just shy of boiling, it tastes like burned dried milk that someone watered down while whispering the word chocolate. “I haven’t had this since middle school.”

  “Probably for good reason. Also, you have a little…” He leans over and swipes a finger across my upper lip. I freeze, my nerves going haywire, and Gunnar shows me a dollop of foam on the pad of his index finger. His eyes still on mine, he licks it off. “Yum. The best part.”

  Breathless, I struggle to come up with a reply. “The foam is not the best part.”

  “I wasn’t talking about the foam.” He grins—well beyond his advanced smile—and my brain turns upside down. I take another sip of my grotesque hot “chocolate,” forgetting that it’s only slightly hotter than the surface of Venus, and cough a little while pretending to act cool. Folding his hands on the table, Gunnar states, “So. Here’s what I know about Auggie Pfeiffer: He likes to make his friends laugh, he maybe failed a history test recently, and his mom has a cursed doll that will someday be bought at a garage sale and kill an entire family of good, God-fearing folk somewhere in Oklahoma.”

  “It might kill them as close as Indiana.” I pluck a nacho from the tray.

  “Tell me three things I don’t know about you, and I’ll tell you three things you don’t know about me,” Gunnar suggests—and I realize for maybe the first time that I know almost nothing about him. I’ve been so worried about making a good impression, I didn’t even think to ask.

  “Um, okay. So, first … my mom is super allergic to bees—”

  “That’s not about you!”

  “Hold on,” I protest. “Mom is allergic to bees, and when I was, like, ten, I declared myself her protector. My dad made me a suit of armor out of cardboard, and I scared bees away from the garden with a plastic sword and a spray bottle of water. I called myself Spider-Bee-Man.”

  “‘Spider-Bee-Man’?” Gunnar’s whole face lights up. “That’s … adorable. Did it work?”

  “She hasn’t been stung since,” I answer smugly, popping another nacho into my mouth. How can something composed of one hundred percent recycled plastic taste so good? “Um, okay. Number the second: I’ve never broken a bone.” I think. Instinctively, I flex my formerly injured elbow, remembering Jude’s insistence that I heal it with some of his blood—and how Gunnar examined it the night it happened, his gentle touch giving me goose bumps as big as Tesla coils. “I mean, I haven’t broken any before tonight. I’m pretty sure I left fragments of my spine and pelvis all over the ice out there.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” Gunnar waves his hand. “They’ve got a whole huge machine that gets rid of all the bone pieces at the end of the night.”

  “And third, um…” I’m a mystic vessel cursed to bring forth a vampire deity that will doom humankind forever! I scramble for anything else to say, and, unfortunately, what I come up with is somehow even worse. “This is … my first date.”

  Gunnar waits politely for more, and when I don’t add to the statement, his expression undergoes a change. “Your first date. Not, like … you mean … ever?”

  Shrugging nervously, I try to make it a joke. “Well, I went to a dance with Leesha Gardner in middle school. But that was mostly as friends, and by the end of the night we’d both confessed to having secret crushes on Boyd Crandall. So.” Gunnar smiles—mildly, this time—and heat steals into my cheeks. “Anyway, sorry. I didn’t mean to make things awkward. I just … I’m kind of a menace to society. Forget I said it, okay?”

  “Auggie, you don’t—”

  “The real third thing that’s interesting about me is I can fit my whole fist in my mouth!” I announce haphazardly, not even sure if this is true. Then, as I attempt it, I discover that it is in fact absolutely not true, but the misadventure finally brings a more genuine laugh out of Gunnar. Wiping the saliva off my fingers, I say, “Okay, your turn. What are three things I don’t know about Gunnar … whatever your last name is? And if you tell me your last name, it doesn’t count as one of the things!”

  “Larsen. It’s Gunnar Larsen.” He looks down at the table with a shy grin. “Okay. So, for starters, English is my second language. I’m originally from Norway, although I’ve pretty much lost my accent by now.”

  “Wow!” I blurt, genuinely impressed. “Say something in Norwegian!”

  “Du er søt,” he replies, his tone soft. Before I can ask what that means, he adds, “The second thing is, this necklace isn’t actually a good-luck charm. I just found this stone that looked like … well, the whole truth? I was trying to make somebody jealous.” His fingers can’t stay still, worrying each other or stirring his hot chocolate or combing through his hair, and I finally realize he might be as nervous as I am. “I’d had kind of a shitty breakup, and I knew I was going to have to see the guy again sooner or later, so I decided to give myself this whole huge makeover. I got a leather jacket and started wearing ‘dude-necklaces’ with mysterious origin stories … Ugh.” Gunnar rubs his face, wincing at the memory. “It’s so embarrassing now. Like, I sincerely believed he’d see me again and think I was more interesting, and wonder what he was missing out on.”

  My heart goes out to him. I’ve never had a breakup, of course—good, bad, or otherwise—but I really know what it’s like to want someone to notice you and feel something about it. “So what happened?”

  “Nothing.” Gunnar smiles, hitching one shoulder. “We saw each other again, he was polite, and he didn’t say anything about my dude-necklace or my clothes or anything else. And that was it.” He fidgets with the nachos, pulling out a chip and then putting it back. “And I felt stupid for thinking he would care enough to be jealous, but then … it turned out I kind of liked the New Me? And it wasn’t about the jacket or the necklace or whatever—it was about the fact that I’d decided to become someone who was happy without him. So I kept the necklace, because it reminds me that I’m strong enough to pick up the pieces.”

  “Wow,” I repeat. The lights mounted around the rink make his bottom lip shine, and I really want to kiss him all of a sudden. “It kind of sounds like it is a good-luck charm.”

  “Maybe.” Gunnar tugs at the stone around his neck, rubbing it with his thumb, the fingers of his other hand drumming the table. “But anyway. Thing number three.”

  He looks around the room, fingers tapping away. His eyes find mine, and then they dance away again, and finally he sets his jaw. Unease is prickling the back of my neck by the time he finally manages to spit it out, his eyes filled with regret.

  “The third thing is … I’m a vampire.”

  15

  It’s my turn to wait for a punch line, and his to sit in an uncomfortable silence until I realize he isn’t joking. I try to believe I’ve misheard him, but I know I haven’t. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before, but—”

  “Prove it.” I’ve made the demand before I’ve considered what I’m asking, but Gunnar gives me a guilty look, and gold lights spark to life in his eyes. At first they’re just pinpricks, but they expand rapidly—and, just as quickly, they retract and vanish. He opens his mouth to speak, but before he can get out a word, I shove myself back from the table and clamber to my feet. “Stop. Just … stay there! Don’t come any closer.”

  “Auggie, I’m not going to hurt you,” he says quietly, fingers knitted together in his lap.

  “No, that’s right. You are absolutely the fuck not going to hurt me!” My crucifix is in my pocket, and I wrap my fingers around it hard enough for the metal to bite into my skin. “What was all this, anyway? Some kind of sick game? You thought you’d see how many things you could get some pathetic human to do without having to mesmerize him into it?”

  “It’s not like that.” His tone is still quiet, his expression miserable, and suddenly I want to cry. This was supposed to be my bucket list night, going on a
n actual date with an actual boy before I die—or worse—but it’s all been a lie. Clearing his throat, Gunnar gives me a plaintive look. “All I wanted was … I didn’t realize this was your first date.”

  “Apparently, it’s not.” My voice catches, anger and sadness crashing together in my chest, and I start hobbling for the desk where Gunnar exchanged our shoes for these ice skates when we arrived.

  He’s on his feet in an instant, moving easily beside me. “I wasn’t trying to mess with you, Auggie, I swear. Please—can you just give me a minute to explain?”

  “No! I’m sick of listening to vampires explain shit to me,” I snap, hobbling faster, as if he has any idea what I’m talking about. As if I have any idea. “Just stay away from me. I’m going home.” Infuriatingly, he follows me to the desk, exchanges his skates alongside mine, and then follows me to the parking lot. When we’re outside again, alone in the chilly darkness, I finally yank the crucifix from my pocket and force him to back away. “Stop. Following me. Okay?”

  “You don’t need that.” His shoulders sag. “And you don’t need to be afraid of me. I drove you here, I’ll take you home.”

  “Yeah, right.” A few heavy flakes of snow fall from the sky, dissolving as soon as they hit the ground. “How could you possibly think I’d trust you now?”

  “Auggie, I turned sixteen in 1962,” Gunnar finally blurts, tossing his arms out. “I lived in a small, shitty town in California, full of small, shitty people, and I didn’t even know what ‘gay’ was—just that I was different. The kind of different that meant everyone who was supposed to care about me kept trying to hurt me.” His fingers return to the stone pendant, stroking it compulsively while he speaks. “And then one day I met this guy, a really cute guy my age, at this crappy diner. Just by chance. He was different, like me, and I … it was the first time I realized I wasn’t the only one, you know? My whole understanding of the world changed.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because it’s important.” He hasn’t moved from where he’s standing, letting me put as much distance between us as I want. “This guy … I fell for him, really hard. Maybe because he was my first everything, I don’t know, but when he said he had to leave California—that there was too much sun and he couldn’t take it—I didn’t even ask what he meant; I told him I wanted to go with him, that I hated everything about my life, and I didn’t want to lose him.” Gunnar rubs his face with both hands. “And he told me there was only one way we could stay together. One way, but it meant we could be young and happy forever.”

  “He was a vampire.” The conclusion comes to itself, but it seems like I’m supposed to say it aloud anyway.

  “I’ve been sixteen for sixty years, and you know what, Auggie? It really kinda sucks.” He laughs, loud and bitter. “My big love story didn’t even make it to the eighties, and lemme tell you, the vampire dating pool is toxic as shit. Meanwhile…” Gunnar sweeps his hands around, taking in the brightly lit rink. “I mean, I’m glad I lived long enough to see all of this, but sometimes … sometimes it just makes me so fucking sad.”

  “What do you mean?” Without realizing it, I’ve lowered the crucifix—because he really does look sad, and I’m starting to feel a little ridiculous.

  “I had to hide and lie about who I was when I was mortal. But now … there are places where guys get to hold hands in public, go on dates, and say ‘I love you’ out loud. They get to go to movies about other guys who hold hands and say ‘I love you.’” The loose, melting snow is gradually soaking his unruly hair, and he runs a hand through it to get it out of his face. “I might be the only vampire on the planet who actually misses being human, but there it is. I wasn’t trying to lie to you, I just…” He turns his palms up. “I just wanted to go out with a cute guy. To flirt and have fun, and maybe … you know, make out, if it felt right. I like doing those things. But I didn’t know this was your first real date, and I don’t want you to go through what I did. I’m honestly sorry if I hurt you by not telling you before.”

  Another silence passes, Gunnar looking at his feet while I search for something to say. I’ve heard stories about vampires “mainstreaming” before, having jobs and friends, and defiantly going around like normal people—almost always in major cities, though, and never in Fulton Heights. All of our vampires have only ever wanted world domination.

  But it’s not like he hasn’t had countless opportunities to mesmerize me. I invited him into my home, for Pete’s sake. I showed him an open wound on my elbow, and not only did he control the urge to feed after smelling my blood—something that supposedly drives vampires into a frenzy—he actually tried to help me. And he resisted sinking his teeth into that poor woman at Sugar Mama’s, even after she was thrown on top of him, spilling blood all over the place.

  “If you really want to,” I begin, before I can change my mind, “you can drive me home.”

  * * *

  I don’t regret the choice. By the time we’re in his car, I’m soaking wet and shivering, and the heat that blasts from the vents is a godsend. Once we’re on the road again, he says, for the third time, “I really am sorry, Auggie.”

  “It’s okay.” I can’t believe I’m apologizing to a vampire. “I … you didn’t really lie to me. A lie by omission, maybe, but”—I never told you I only said yes in the first place because I wanted to kiss a boy before getting taken over by an evil spirit—“you told me the truth when it counted. And I guess I never really considered what it would be like to … you know, be a vampire.”

  “Sometimes it’s cool. Most of the time, actually.” A real smile turns his mouth up—intermediate. “I’m strong, I’m fast … I speak six languages now, and I’m learning two others; I never get sick and I never get old, but…” Gunnar hitches his shoulders. “Well, like I said. I can’t do normal stuff. I used to love surfing, but I can’t anymore, except at night. And I … I made the mistake of falling for a human once, too. I mean, total cliché, right?”

  “What happened?”

  “He was seventeen, and I was sixteen. Then he was eighteen, and I was sixteen. Then he was twenty, and I was sixteen. And then…” Gunnar lifts a hand and lets it drop, like the story is too heavy to hold on to. “Well, I learned the hard way what it’s like to be on the other side of my Great Love Story. ‘There’s only one way we can stay together!’ It sucked.”

  “I’m sorry.” Hesitantly, I reach over and put a hand on his arm, just to show him I’m not really afraid—to show him … I don’t know. Maybe I should be afraid, and letting my guard down is the stupidest decision I’ll never live to regret, but my life is in so much danger already that a brooding vampire with sad eyes and perfect lips is the least of my worries. “And … I’m sorry I freaked out. I’ve kind of got a lot going on right now, and—”

  “It’s okay, don’t apologize,” he cuts me off with a wave.

  “All I wanted tonight was to go out with a cute guy, have fun, and maybe make out.” I use his words with a grin, but my face is hot enough that I have to turn the air vent away. “If I’d known you were a vampire, I’d have probably said no, but … I guess I’m glad I didn’t.”

  I trail off into silence, not even sure what I’m saying. My whole life, I’ve been taught that vampires are predators, that they’re dangerous, that even if they’re careful and do their best not to kill humans, I can never forget what they are. But, lately, my own understanding of the world has been turned upside down.

  “For whatever it’s worth,” Gunnar says wistfully, slowing the car as we reach the front of my house, “I’m glad you didn’t, too.” We come to a stop, and then we just sit there for a moment. I reach for the handle and let go, reach for it again, and let go again, my stomach thundering with nerves. His voice gentle, Gunnar finally asks, “Auggie?”

  “You said … I know things didn’t go as planned, but…” I swallow a lump in my throat the size of Jupiter, feeling just like the one and only time I ever rode a roller-coaster—that same sen
se of bone-shaking terror threaded with a scintilla of excitement—and I wonder how people just do this. I could wake up dead tomorrow, I remind myself. Just go for it. “Maybe this is totally inappropriate, but if you … s-still wanted to kiss, I would like to kiss. Very much. Um, tonight.”

  “Really?” Gunnar straightens, his eyebrows going up a fraction of an inch. “I mean, are you sure? Because if this is your first—”

  “It is. But what if I’m already sick of waiting for my Great Love Story? What if I never get one?” I shove my glasses up my nose, nervous sweat making my temples damp. “I’m kind of a mess, I know that, but … I’ve wanted to kiss you since the first day I saw you at Sugar Mama’s. And I … I think I still want to. You know?” I swallow again, and my throat is so dry it actually squeaks. “I mean, if you don’t want to kiss me, that’s different, but—”

  “I do,” he interrupts immediately, breaking into a smile that shows his perfect teeth. I should be scared of those teeth, but right now, it’s everything else that terrifies me—his experience and my lack thereof, how I’ve got no idea what I’m supposed to do with my tongue, how my breath probably smells like microwaved cheese and burned milk—but Gunnar just leans toward me, his eyes on mine. “As long as you’re sure this is what you want, Auggie Pfeiffer, I would be honored to be your first kiss.”

  “I want,” I whisper, breathless, and then … his lips meet mine. They’re cool, but not cold—gentle, but not passive. They’re plush and smooth, and they have a grip, tugging at my mouth and nudging it open. My tongue lifts to meet his, instinctively, and then … then the 1812 Overture is blasting away in my brain, drums and strings and horns and cannons, and I’ve never felt anything like this. I could eat a whole meal of just kisses; I could power the Earth on the energy surging through me just now.

  Gunnar’s hand finds my waist and slides up, and I tangle mine in his hair. He makes a soft noise, deep in his throat, and the pressure between my legs is unbearable. He kisses me harder, his other hand closing around the back of my neck … and when the noise in his throat curves into a growl, more animal than human, he lurches back with a gasp.