The Bride of Casa Dracula

by Marta Acosta

  “That’s what all the girls say.”

  “I bet they say more than that. Stop bopping your head to the music. It isn’t suave. Half of salsa is looking as if you want to ravish your partner on the dance floor.”

  He turned his blue eyes to mine and pulled me closer. “Like this?”

  I felt my temperature rising. “You’re a natural.”

  Thirty minutes later, Joseph was able to move comfortably across the floor and turn me without hurling me into the rack of seed packets.

  He tried to dip me, and I was bent backward laughing when we heard a loud crack and a windowpane shattered. My city instincts took over, and I twisted and pulled Joseph down to the floor with me.

  “What was that?” he said, trying to stand.

  I yanked him down again. “Stay here.”

  He looked at me like I was crazy. We waited a long minute before getting up to inspect the broken window. A small rock lay with the shattered glass.

  “I thought it might be a gunshot,” I said.

  He unlocked the front door and went outside, with me right behind. “Probably some kid.” He looked around, but we were the only ones on the street. Then he gazed at me. “You’re real strong for someone your size, pookie.”

  “I eat my vegetables.”

  “I mean, real strong. I saw you moving around those trees in fifteen-gallons. You lifted them like nothing.”

  “I’m kind of a freak that way.”

  He looked amused. “That’s okay. I’m kind of a freak, too. I mean, not in a sexual way, although I am willing to-”

  “No need to explain!” I said, not wanting to know the details of his relationship with Cornelia. “Sorry that this happened. This town is usually so safe. I hope it’s not because you’re new.”

  “Kids are kids,” he said looking upward.

  I followed his gaze to the branches of an old pine. The branches rustled slightly in the light breeze. The lowest branches of the tree were easily fifteen feet up. “No one climbed that. Come on, I’ll help you clean up.”

  I swept up the glass while he broke apart a pallet so he could board up the window. A glass sliver sliced my finger and I hid it behind my back so Joseph wouldn’t see the skin heal itself. He was noticing too much already.

  As I left, Joseph hugged me good-bye and said, “Be careful.”

  It seemed an odd way of saying good night. “The town really is very safe. You’ve got nothing to worry about here.”

  “So says the girl with the locked gate at the drive to her ranch.”

  “It’s not my ranch, and the gate’s locked so no one opens it and lets the horses loose. I feel so safe I sleep with my window open every night.” I didn’t mention that no one could get in the jammed window.

  I picked up a sandwich at the deli-eggplant and red pepper on focaccia-and mentioned to the owner that someone had broken the nursery window. She hadn’t heard of any similar incidents, but word would get out. People would be watching for a rock-throwing miscreant.

  Back at the ranch, I ate my sandwich outside on the terrace with a chicken blood spritzer. This was usually the time we’d all sit here and watch the sunset, but everyone was gone. I sipped the drink and realized the chicken blood had gone off. I set it down and gazed at the fields and the mountains beyond.

  I wished I had someone I could confide in. I had done something awful, so why didn’t I feel awful? It was the blood. The blood had changed me. If I kept going this way, I’d soon feel comfortable slashing people right and left, taking on a bevy of thralls. Possibly hot, buff thralls who slavishly fulfilled my every sick vampire whim.

  When you’re faced with evidence of life’s perversity or your own, sometimes it’s best to just go to bed.

  The next day I was up early and already out in the garden, pulling up all the little weeds that had rooted in my absence. Oswald came by on his way to his car, looking more cheerful than he’d been yesterday. “Thanks for the present,” he said with a grin. “Although pink isn’t my color.”

  “They’re for our wedding night-if you want to wait that long.”

  “I’d like to keep my agreement with the Council, and who knows, maybe the situation can still be salvaged.”

  “Your hope springs eternal.”

  “I’ve got another thing that springs, too,” he said.

  We were laughing and I was reaching under the branches of a hydrangea when I noticed an odd little mound of dirt. “I hope these cats aren’t using my garden as a litter box,” I said. I used my trowel to inspect the mound.

  “They’re cats. Kiss me good-bye, but don’t get me muddy.”

  Something glinted in the dirt. I picked it up and shook off the dirt. It was my engagement ring.

  I glanced up at Oswald.

  “I told you you’d misplaced it,” he said.

  “I didn’t! I’d never leave it lying in the dirt! I left it on my bathroom counter.”

  “Milagro.”

  “Oswald.”

  “How else would it get there? It’s right outside your window.”

  “Do you think I just tossed it out one night?”

  “I don’t know anymore,” he said. “It doesn’t matter. Put it somewhere safe, or if you don’t want it, I can exchange it for something you like.”

  Of course he was skeptical; I wondered myself if I’d absentmindedly dropped it, if I’d unconsciously been trying to get rid of it.

  After he left, I washed off the ring and put it on. It still looked strange on my hand. Maybe I should exchange it for something else, but I couldn’t imagine another diamond ring I’d like better. Nancy would know, so I’d ask for her opinion.

  Out by the pond, the plants on Daisy’s grave were growing nicely, especially the thyme, which had filled in the crevices between the rocks. I was watering the plants and feeling all too aware of how isolated I was here, without Edna, Sam, Winnie, the baby, Gabriel, the relatives who’d been ever-present when I first lived here. I thought they’d always be here, but they’d moved on with their lives.

  And I’d misjudged Oswald, thinking that he was an easygoing slacker. But easygoing slackers didn’t finish med school and specialty training and then set up a private practice.

  I’d hardly had time to wallow in loneliness when a car honked outside the ranch gate. It was Cornelia, in a new rental car. She parked and I tensely carried her bags to her guest room, afraid that Ian might have told her what had happened, or that she would sense it herself. But she nattered on about her trip, not needing conversation so much as an audience.

  We went back downstairs, when she remembered why she was here. “Have you finished the wedding garments?”

  “I’ve got them in my room,” I said and she followed me there.

  “How is Joseph?”

  “Good. I’m teaching him to dance so he can ask you out.”

  “You see, he’s smitten,” she said with a laugh. “Mr. Nixon called and told me that you are utterly out of control. He insisted I get here as soon as possible.”

  “Do I look out of control?” I took the red silk tunics out of the closet. “I’ve just got to finish the hem of Oswald’s.”

  Cornelia’s gaze went to my hand. “You’ve found your ring! Not quite your style, but it is beautiful.” She took the gowns from me and said, “I’ll take these up to my room and compare them against the sketches to make sure the embroidery is accurate. Mr. Nixon was trying to fault me for your behavior, but I explained that’s just your Latin passion.”

  “Gee, thanks for perpetuating the stereotype,” I said. “Can we talk about my wedding now?”

  “We are talking about your wedding. How is your fruitcake?”

  “The dried fruit is still soaking in that evil booze at my place in the City. I’ll pick it up the next time I go there.”

  “No! You’ve got to stir the mixture every week so everything marinates evenly! You’ll just have to start all over again and hope the cake has time to age properly before the wedding.”

/>   “I’m going to talk to Nixon tomorrow about this nutty cake.”

  “How tragic if you should be the one to break this beloved tradition after all these centuries. Oswald may understand. He is so very understanding!”

  “I didn’t say I wouldn’t make the cake. I’ll make the damn cake, okay?”

  I stewed over stewed fruit for the rest of the day. When the phone rang, I answered with an annoyed “Hello?”

  “Keep away from my man,” hissed a woman. It sounded as if she was speaking through a cloth and I had to struggle to decipher her words.

  Glancing around first to make sure Cornelia was nowhere near, I said quietly, “Who is this? Ilena?”

  “You can’t keep off him, whore, slut. But he’s mine. Let him go, or you’ll regret it.” Then the line clicked off.

  Ilena could have gotten our phone number from one of the Smith women, but was it Ilena? The voice had been so indistinct that I couldn’t say for certain, but who else could it be? She hadn’t said my name. Perhaps it was a wrong number.

  The utter foolishness of what I’d done finally hit me. I thought of all I’d risked-my home, my relationship, my friends-for a few hours of sex, and self-loathing gripped me like a riptide.

  The phone was ringing again. I snatched it up hoping it was the woman so I could put a stop to this nonsense now, before it escalated. “Hello.”

  “Milagro, this is Jason.”

  Jason had been my literary agent, and I thought I’d never hear from him again. “Hey, Jason! What’s up?”

  “You heard the news about that big Latino book sale, right?”

  “I’ve been out of the loop for a few days. What sale?”

  “A memoir. Fierce bidding war, and it sold for seven figures. I thought of you because it seemed kinda your thing, an ethnic story with folklore and paranormal elements. If you’ve got anything like that, nonfiction, the market is hot now and I might be able to make a sale.”

  A Latino memoir with folklore and paranormal elements. “Who’s the author?”

  “Don Pedro Nascimento,” Jason said. “Charismatic little shit with a cult following. He’s lived with aboriginal tribes all around the world and claims to be a shape-shifter. Talk is, the memoir is flat-out brilliant.”

  It was at this point that I began cussing. I started in English, went on to Spanish, and repeated myself several times. When I finished, I said, “I wrote that memoir! That’s my story. That lying, thieving, trifling son of a bitch!”

  Jason paused before saying, “Milagro, maybe we can talk some other time. I’ve got another call coming in. I’ll get back to you.”

  I stormed to my bedroom and slammed the door shut. When I calmed down sufficiently, I called Sam and told him what had happened.

  “I’ll look into copyright law and we can discuss it tomorrow. I’ll be there for the meeting with Mr. Nixon.”

  “He’s talked to you already?”

  “Oswald asked me to come. He’s worried.”

  “I know. Will you please bring Edna back with you? I miss her.”

  The rest of the day wasn’t any better. Cornelia stayed in her room calling friends for hours. When Oswald came home, I told him about Don Pedro’s knavery. Instead of being outraged, he looked at me with a bewildered expression and said, “How do you attract these oddballs to you?”

  “You tell me. You’re one of them!”

  Cornelia chattered away at dinner, while Oswald and I sat edgily across from each other, thinking about the visit from Mr. Nixon. After our meal, she insisted that we try on our wedding tunics. Oswald took his to his room to change, and I went to my room.

  The gown had been made to fit close to my body, but when I tried to put it on, it stuck at my bustline. I tugged and wiggled until I got it on. Looking in the mirror, I saw confirmation that it was far too tight. It pulled across my body and threatened to tear at the seams. I looked like a giant shiny crimson larva.

  How could this have happened? It had fit fine before. But I hadn’t been doing my usual running while I was away. Could I have gained weight that quickly? It seemed odd, because my metabolism had sped up with the infection-but maybe that had been a short-term effect.

  Cornelia knocked on the door and called, “Time for your runway walk!”

  “The dress needs some work,” I said through the door.

  “Don’t be shy! Oswald’s dying to see his beautiful bride! I need to give you information about the ceremony, too.”

  Reluctantly I went out to the living room. Oswald was by the fireplace. The tunic flowed from his shoulders to the floor, and he looked as if he was from a different time and place. Even my clumsy embroidery was transformed when seen in the soft evening light.

  Cornelia held a manila folder at her side as she admired Oswald, saying, “You look so gallant!” Then she turned to me and began laughing.

  Oswald’s expression was one of mingled dismay and amusement.

  My face grew hot. “I don’t know what happened. I’ll let it out.”

  “You can’t let silk out, Young Lady,” Cornelia said. “You’ll have to start over again, or lose your puppy fat. Oswald can vacuum it out of you.”

  “It does look a little snug,” Oswald said.

  Et tu, Oswald? “I’ll work it off with some extra running.”

  Cornelia gave me a pitying look and held out the folder. “Here’s the wedding ritual. The officiant, that new fellow, will call in a few days and we’ll do a rehearsal on the phone. I wrote it out phonetically, because his pronunciation is rather poor.”

  As I reached for the folder, I felt the fabric straining at my shoulder. I excused myself and went to take off the constraining gown. A seam ripped as I yanked it off. I was so upset by the gown disaster that I didn’t even look at the folder and set it aside on my desk.

  I put on a pair of sweats and went outside. My elusive friend, Pal, appeared and joined me for the first few of my many circuits around the fields. A creature howled somewhere off in a stand of trees, and Pal stopped to listen before taking off into the night.

  When my legs were shaky and I was drenched in sweat, I finally quit. Getting married shouldn’t be so complicated, I thought as I crawled into bed. All I’d wanted was a simple ceremony with the man I loved. How had it all come to this? My thoughts flitted from my own infidelity to the angry woman to Don Pedro’s duplicity to the vampire Council to the gown that made me look like a giant worm, and I didn’t sleep the entire night.

  twenty-one

  put a fork in her, she’s done

  T he next morning, we were all in a mood. Oswald was irritated because he’d had to rearrange his appointments and was also worried that I’d do something that would further antagonize Nixon, who was expected that afternoon. I was staying close to the house phone so I could grab it first if the angry woman called again.

  I was happy that Sam and Edna came early, bringing a box of warm croissants, but then Sam pulled me aside and told me that Don Pedro’s apparently simple confidentiality agreement was actually a very tidy, waterproof document.

  I was reaching for a croissant when Cornelia sauntered into the kitchen and shook her head. She was dressed in skintight toffee-colored jeans and a thin tank that showed every vertebra of her skinny spine. I left the pastries and had a shot of chicken blood, followed by a mug of black coffee.

  Edna, sleek in a mauve blouse and chocolate slacks, was tearing a pain au chocolat into bite-size pieces. “I haven’t seen Nixon in years,” she said.

  “He seemed like a jackass.”

  Sam, who was walking back and forth across the floor, said, “He follows protocol quite strictly. He’s very traditional.”

  “That’s what I said-he seemed like a jackass. Sam, will you stop pacing? It’s making me crazy.”

  “I don’t know what Nixon’s going to say. The Council believes you’ve disrespected them,” he said. He took a seat and started jittering his foot.

  “So is it like in a gang, where dissing starts a war?”
I said. “Because I haven’t had a chance to come up with my gang colors and signs.”

  “There are better times to be flippant, Young Lady,” Edna said. “I know you’re frustrated, but take the time to listen to what Nixon has to say. For your sake.”

  “That’s exactly what we’ve been trying to tell her, Grandmama,” Sam said.

  “Although Milagro is right,” Edna said. “Nixon is a jackass.”

  “I give up,” Oswald said. “I’ll be in my study.”

  I followed Edna back to her cottage and told her about my tunic problem. “Edna, do I look as if I gained weight?”

  She looked me up and down. “It’s hard to say. You’ve always had a few extra pounds.”

  “That’s my decorative fat,” I said defensively. “I like my curves. I don’t want to be a scrawny bone creature like Cornelia and Ilena.”

  “No one expects you to look like them, Young Lady.”

  “If that isn’t bad enough, I just got ripped off for a writing project, my fauxoir.”

  “So Sam told me. Who can we trust if we can’t trust eccentrics who hire ghostwriters for their shape-shifting memoirs?”

  “I’m glad you find this so amusing.”

  “You do attract them.”

  “That’s what Oswald said, but maybe it’s the writing business that attracts crazies.”

  “That’s also true. Why ever did you sign away your rights?”

  “How was I supposed to know he’d sell it for a fortune? His notes were preposterous. I was the one who made up all the stories and gave the memoir a theme, structure, and meaning.” We were standing outside her cottage and I was absentmindedly picking the dead leaves off a climbing rose. “Sam says I have no case against Don Pedro. It’s infuriating.”

  “It does say something about your writing, however.”

  “Yes, it says that a crazy little freak is more credible with the literary world than I am.”

  “Would you prefer it if your fauxoir, as you call it, was really just for Don Pedro and his friends, ignored and forgotten?”

  “There is also the money factor. He paid me a pittance because he said it was just for family, thereby misrepresenting the situation. He got paid a fortune.”