by Molly Harper
I didn’t like it much. Clearly, living in such close quarters with Brianna wasn’t working out. I was too easily annoyed to enjoy group gatherings with my fellow residents, if the mandatory board-game night I’d attended my second week was any indication. Meagan seemed perfectly pleasant, but I didn’t know how to interact with her. I didn’t like the awkward conversational pauses while I tried to interpret her microexpressions.
“So did you really break both of your roommate’s arms because she stole your body wash?”
I scoffed. “No, it was her collarbone. And her ribs.”
My dismissive tone made her snort. “Well, some of the nicer girls on the fourth floor would like to send you the vampire version of a muffin basket. We really don’t like ‘Galadriel.’ She’s rude and snotty and flashes fang at us if we try to talk to her in the elevator. And when we complain, her little coven of human fans tell us we just don’t understand her pain and loneliness.”
I burst out laughing. “That sounds about right.”
“You know, if you ever want to talk about this sort of thing, boyfriend problems or trying to avoid breaking your roommate’s bones, I’m just on the fourth floor. You can always come up and see me,” Meagan offered.
Why couldn’t I turn her down flat? I doubted very much that any sort of friendship with Meagan and the other Gan Girls would do much for me. I couldn’t interpret her face, which was currently configured in a hopeful expression that I found rather . . . cute? I found that I didn’t want to hurt her feelings. I didn’t want to take that expression off her face. This was a new sensation for me, caring how my actions affected someone other than Georgie or Jamie.
I didn’t like it. I liked being able to predict my reactions, my emotions. I liked my self-interest. It kept me from having to do things I didn’t want to do.
“I’ll keep it in mind,” I told her gently. And her responding smile could have lit up the eastern seaboard.
“Great!” she cried. “I’ll see you around.”
I gave her a little wave as she slung her backpack over her shoulder.
“And lay off the hipsters,” she told me in a mock-stern tone. “They’re bad for you, like eclairs and lead paint.”
“Will do,” I promised, even though a tiny part of me was still curious about that poetry seminar. It was tempting, the idea of going to an event that would require thinking about more, more than the drudgery of campus life, the latest social-media celebrity scandal. I felt a craving for it, like an intellectual bloodthirst. And being able to share that with Kenton, faux glasses and all, was intriguing.
No, Ophelia. Lead paint. Eclairs. This way lies madness.
I exited the English lecture hall and entered the muggy warmth of a Lexington September. The campus below was a twinkling fairyland, a scattering of well-lit diamonds on a velvety black expanse of landscape. It was quiet, other than the occasional thump of car stereo bass or an echo of exuberant laughter. In the good old days, I would have used this idyllic setting as a hunting ground, blending in with the students, finding a straggler, cornering him with a feigned ankle injury, and then enjoying a lovely and lively meal.
Now I took the extra-long route home and hoped the pleasant surroundings would help quell the unpleasant feelings churning through my middle. I was unsettled. I hated this sinking, strained anxiety over Jamie and why he wasn’t making time for me. My anxiety over Jane and her judgments was like an ulcer in my belly. And I had midterms coming up in a month. I did not do well on standardized tests.
I wasn’t used to this sort of frustration. I was used to needing a skill, acquiring said skill, and then using said skill to make my life easier. Weaving, marksmanship, small-engine repair, finding a vein. How could I not master something as simple as matriculating or making friends? When my life literally depended on it?
I nimbly climbed onto the strange yellow modern sculpture installation outside the White Hall Classroom Building and sat in the crook of two metal struts. I leaned my head back against the beams and stared out over the campus. In this relative quiet, I could make out the pulse patterns of humans in my range, their weak hearts pumping toward their inevitable ends—a thought that Jamie said I shouldn’t find soothing, but I did. If I concentrated harder, I could hear smaller life forces: mice, squirrels, and birds. And somewhere, farther away, a thrum of a different kind, mechanical and steady and reaching out to me—
This train of thought derailed when a possum, tenacious enough to want to make his home on one of the most densely populated patches of land in a relatively large city, toddled up to the monument, pausing to stare at the strange creature perched there. I bared my teeth and hissed. It hissed back but turned away and lumbered toward the trees.
All of these little hurts and irritations seemed to be linking themselves into a heavy chain around my neck. I wasn’t this girl. I wasn’t this crazy, needy, self-destructive vampiress who centered her whole life around her relationship. I didn’t let anxiety rule my life or my decisions. I was Ophelia freaking Lambert. I was the Terror of Amsterdam and the inspiration for the Hall and Oates song “Maneater.” And I was going to stop feeling sorry for myself.
I wasn’t going to waste this chance that—pause for internal gagging—Jane had given me. I wanted to finish college. Maybe it hadn’t been my idea, and I wasn’t necessarily happy about how I’d wound up here, but my punishment from the Council could have been much worse. I needed to stop feeling sorry for myself. I needed to stop worrying about what Jamie was doing and find something for me to do. I needed a project more challenging than my class schedule.
I would start with a more earnest effort at planning this silly mixer for Tina.
And getting to know my idiot roommate.
4
* * *
* * *
Overcome your distrust of new situations. Most of them are opportunities for growth. Except for camping. Vampires should not sleep outside unless it’s unavoidable and involves a cave.
—Big Vamp on Campus: Strategies to Successfully Integrate the Undead into Postsecondary Education
I tried to cooperate with Brianna. I did. I was committed to a healthier new outlook, focusing on my own personal growth and building connections with fellow students.
For two whole hours.
I’d come back from my literature class and found Brianna in our room stuffing clothes into a black duffel bag.
Correction: she was stuffing my clothes into her duffel bag.
“Oh!” Brianna squeaked when she saw me coming through the door, hiding my favorite Alexander McQueen scarf behind her back.
My eyes narrowed, and my lip curled back into a sneer. Brianna’s feet flexed as if she was about to dart around me and fling herself into the safety of the hallway.
Right, I needed to start off by being polite.
I relaxed my face into a less murder-y configuration.
“Bria—Galadriel.” I sighed. The name nearly burned my tongue with its pretention. “What are you doing?”
“I thought I would stay with Keelie and Shawna for a while,” Brianna said.
“And take half of my closet with you?”
“Are these yours? I thought they were mine.”
“No, they’re mine. I remember because I bought them,” I said through clenched teeth. “So put them back, and then we can talk about the mixer that Tina asked us to plan for Undead American Awareness Week. I’ve written a few initial thoughts, but I didn’t want to make any plans without talking to you, since we’re supposed to organize this together.” The as some sort of hellish exercise in forced bonding was silent.
“Actually, I’ve got that all taken care of,” Brianna said smugly. “Everybody agrees with me about this theme. I’ve already made some calls to DJs and Pickled Pepper’s Pizza.”
I shuddered as she slapped a black plastic folder into my hands. I didn’t need to e
at solid foods to know that Pickled Pepper’s was the worst pizza this side of the Mason-Dixon Line. Tales of improperly stored pepperoni and long-expired parmesan cheese spread through the living students’ ranks like the digestive chaos that inevitably followed a delivery from Pepper’s. Between that and her discount DJ, Brianna was consigning our dorm mates to an evening of badly engineered music and Campylobacter.
“By everybody, do you mean the brainless twits who hang on your every word?”
I will admit, that was less than polite, but honestly, the skank was interfering with my wardrobe.
I flipped through the folder’s contents, a sheaf of handwritten notes detailing her plans for a night of pizza and cheap synthetic blood while listening to the “mad stylings” of DJ Killa Skillz, who seemed to have a fetishistic interest in Ace of Base. This choice of music seemed odd, considering that each of the notebook sheets had “Rockabilly Romance” scrawled across the top in black glittery ink. With a heart over the “i.”
Oh, no.
I knew how to say no in fourteen languages. I would use them all.
“Rockabilly is trending right now,” she said, sniffing.
“Under the trend of ‘things that are overrated and unadvisable as a theme for a party attended by people who don’t own spangly cowboy shirts and extra-large sponge rollers’?”
“Ugh, why do I even talk to you about this stuff?” Brianna huffed. “You’re so old and out of date. You wouldn’t know what people my age find fun.”
“Old?” My eyebrows quirked into what Jamie called the “wish a bitch would” position. Clearly, Brianna had learned nothing from our previous “roommate negotiations.” Or from the nineties, if her hair was an indication.
“Ancient.” Brianna sniffed, inspecting the dark purple polish on her nails.
“What happened to your worship of the ‘ancient ones’ as a faithful night childe?” I snorted.
“Well, ancient ones should stick to what they know and let me handle the party details. Just step down gracefully, Ophelia. Maybe try to track down your boyfriend, if you can. That should keep you busy.”
* * *
* * *
I will not elaborate on my methods of reclaiming the party-planning duties, only that they involved duct tape and the supply closet in the basement. The good news—beyond the fact that I’d also reclaimed my McQueen scarf, several sweaters, a jade bangle, and a dress—was that I now had an unofficial single room.
Free from the pretense of collaborating with my roommate, I made enormous strides in event planning in just a few hours. I called my usual DJ. I called florists. I called blood banks. There would be food and drink and general merriment but no theme. Because this was not My Super Sweet 16.
I decided to reward myself with a bloodychino from the lobby coffee stand. I was standing in the residence hall’s elevator, checking items off on the To Do app on my iPad, and feeling very productive. Thanks to the hall’s above-average Wi-Fi signal, I was able to pull up an e-mail showing a JPEG of the suggested design from my sound and lighting guy. The budget Tina had given me would cover his deposit. The rest of the funds for this party would come from the money I should have paid Gigi’s magical assailant. That could be considered a karmic repayment plan, right?
A notification popped up on my phone. I had a message request. Considering that I only interacted with Jamie on this app, that was strange. I clicked the request and saw that it came from Kenton, the bespectacled vampire from my lit class.
O—Not sure if you’re going to see this because you haven’t accepted my friend request. But I was hoping we could talk about the poetry seminar. I have a couple of thoughts about Middle Eastern literature in general and I thought maybe you’d like to get together for a bloodychino to talk. I tried talking about it with one of our classmates—that guy who sits in front of me—but he put his earbud back in and started playing one of those jewel matching games. So anyway, get back to me about coffee. Unless you’re ignoring me, in which case, I’ll just slink back to my corner of the Internet.
I was tempted to respond, so tempted. And yes, I recognized that a good portion of my emotional response was based on the ego stroke of having someone pursue me, instead of competing with an Xbox and dude bros. Plus, Kenton wasn’t exactly unfortunate-looking. And there was no harm in a little harmless flirtation.
Yes, that was a rationalization. I was a rational vampire. I wasn’t perfect. I clicked on Kenton’s profile.
His profile photo was a selfie of him standing in front of the Eiffel Tower, in 1963. He was taking selfies before it was cool. According to his About tab, Kenton was born in 1890 in New York. He’d been turned in 1913, and he listed “not dying of influenza” as one of his human interests, which made me snicker.
I swiped back to the Messenger app and let my finger hover over his message. This seemed like a slippery slope, ethics-wise. I wasn’t known for my strong stands, in terms of morality, but . . .
No.
I pushed my fingertip against the message, planning to reject it and block Kenton from being able to see me. I didn’t cheat. I was a one-man vampire. I loved Jamie. Xbox and all. I would figure out how to bring our relationship back into balance. And I would do it without bringing in another person.
And then a message from Jamie popped up.
Hey, babe! What are you doing on Messenger? You’re never on Messenger.
I nearly dropped my damn iPad.
Me: I was just checking my messages. What are you up to?
Jamie: Watching a game with the guys. Want me to stop by later? What are you doing tonight?
The elevator car stopped, and a pair of lithe brunettes stepped into the tiny space with me. I intentionally held my breath, cutting my senses off from the delicious scent of the sweet, eighty-percent-innocent blood running under their soft, peach-smooth skin. I liked to think it was a sign of emotional growth that I was more focused on the potential impact of double elevator murder on my ability to make the dean’s list than I was on the promise of a nummy nubile feeding.
I remembered the girls as Keagan and Morgan, Meagan’s two little friends from the fourth floor. We obeyed the social contract of elevator etiquette, each of us facing the door and not making eye contact. The girls leaned their heads together and whispered, as if I couldn’t hear them clearly in twenty square feet of enclosed space. I was about to type a response to Jamie, telling him to come on over when the game was finished, when I heard Morgan whisper, “You ask her.”
“No, you ask her,” Keagan shot back.
“No, you!”
“You!”
I bit my lip and reminded myself yet again of how difficult it would be to conceal a double murder committed in a public elevator. I smiled, in the most nonthreatening manner I could muster, then turned, making them both jump back against the wall of the car.
“Why don’t you both ask me so I can get out of this elevator with this pleasant smile intact on my face?”
All of the color drained out of Keagan’s cheeks, but she cleared her throat and asked, “Is that the floor plan for the party?”
“Can we see it?” Morgan added quickly, her own cheeks flushed with excitement.
I lifted a brow. Small talk. Small talk that I might be interested in pursuing. This was a first.
“Oh, um, yes.” I actually bobbled my tablet a little bit before showing them the image.
Both girls made a pleased “Ohhh” sound before nodding enthusiastically.
“Nice,” Morgan said.
“Do you really think you’re going to be able to make the lounge look like that?” Keagan asked. “That looks like a swanky club scene in a movie.”
“A classy movie,” Morgan added.
I wasn’t sure whether my smile should be smug or bemused, so I went for a mixture of both. “It shouldn’t be too hard. My people are just that good.”
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“What about the food?” Keagan asked, as the elevator came to a stop on the lobby level.
I frowned. I knew this was an area of weakness in my plans. Vampires did not have the enzymes necessary to digest solids, so an evolutionary tweak in our makeup made all solid foods smell and taste like steaming, hot garbage. So, having lost my interest in food centuries before, I devoted the least attention to the catering portion of the party. My caterer, Carlton, would provide the usual nibbles—cheese, crackers, cocktail weenies.
I showed the list to the girls, both of whom responded with an “Ohhh” that sounded far less impressed than the previous reaction.
“You know what you should do?” Morgan asked, as we walked out of the elevator in a tight little triangle. “Fruit bouquets.”
I lifted a brow. “Sorry, what?”
“Fruit bouquets. You know, those edible flowers?” Keagan took my tablet and opened the Internet browser, searching for a vendor called Pretty Wholesome. She opened a Web site showing what looked like elaborate floral arrangements. “They cut fruit into flower shapes and stars and stuff, and they put them on sticks in a vase, so it looks like a centerpiece. Girls love them because they’re easy to eat and nonfattening. Boys love them because they get to watch girls wrap their lips around food on sticks.”
“Huh. That does sound interesting,” I said, eyeing her skeptically. “What do you think of blood fountains?”
“Outdated and sort of creepy,” Keagan told me.
“Also tacky,” Morgan added.
“Really?” My mouth dropped open. In my day, a good blood fountain was considered the height of elegance.
“You know that biopic they made about Elizabeth Bathory starring Kim Kardashian?” Morgan asked.
