Vampires, Hearts & Other Dead Things

by Margie Fuston

  Henry huffs beside me. “How the hell are you so fast? You’re really quite short.”

  I give him a silent glare, and he shuts his mouth.

  I slide up and rest my back against the side of the church like some kind of stealthy spy, except my breath wheezes in and out of me like I just ran five miles instead of a short sprint. Henry is annoyingly fine, probably from all his soccer practices.

  “We need a plan,” I say.

  “We don’t even know what’s around the corner,” he says. “Maybe we should look first and then come up with a plan.”

  Fair point, but I don’t like being wrong.

  “The plan is we’re just another couple walking down an alley at night. We’ll see if there’s anything suspicious around.”

  “Is that a thing couples do? Stroll through alleys at night?”

  “I don’t know. I would. It sounds kinda romantic.”

  “Somehow that doesn’t surprise me.”

  I point to the couple slowly sliding into a vertical position on the bench in front of the church. “Looks like it worked for them.”

  “Okay, then.” Henry grabs my hand and weaves our fingers together, dragging me around the corner before I can rethink the plan. I’ve never been one for plans before, but with Dad’s life on the line, I’m trying to think before I act—slow down and look at all the angles like Jessica would do.

  “Relax,” Henry whispers. My hand clenches his so tight it feels like our bones are touching. I loosen my grip, and he smiles down at me like this is the most natural thing in the world.

  I force myself to look away from him and scan the alley. Large rectangular stones pave the entire thing, and it’s wider than half the streets. The red and yellow buildings lining one side have faded in the dark, and the murky light from a couple of streetlamps does nothing to bring back their life. A black wrought-iron fence holds back the garden behind the church and lines the other side of the alley. Huge palm leaves escape over the top of the fence and reach for us as we pass.

  “Nobody’s out here.” My voice is soft, and I’m not sure why.

  We’ve stopped walking.

  “Look,” Henry says.

  Someone tall and slight leans against the far side of one of the streetlamps, blending into the shadows like she lives there.

  “What do we do now?” Henry asks.

  “Catch her?”

  “I’m not sure I’m comfortable with accosting some woman in an alleyway based on instructions we pulled out of a book. What if she has nothing to do with this?”

  “Talk to her?”

  “Better plan.”

  We move toward her, trying not to look like creeps.

  Finally, she turns her head in our direction, although I get the sense she’s been tracking our approach this whole time.

  Her braided hair’s been pulled back in a low ponytail, and she’s traded her white dress for tattered black jeans tucked into knee-high brown leather boots and a brown leather vest a few shades lighter. The vest stops inches above the waist of her pants and leaves her toned arms bare in the heat of the evening. There’s no mistaking her. Daniella.

  “Took you long enough,” she drawls, spinning around the lamppost to face us.

  “Sorry?”

  “Where else would you go looking for a pirate besides Pirate’s Alley? I told him the clue was too simple, but I guess I overestimated you.” One side of her mouth twitches up like she’s staring at something particularly distasteful. “It’s impossibly hot out tonight too.” She sighs and kicks at one of the puddles in the middle of the street. “Oh well. It’s time for the fun part.”

  “What’s the—”

  She turns sharply and darts away.

  Henry and I stand there for three solid seconds, still holding hands, before I break free and bolt after her. She’s got at least three inches of leg length on me, but she turns her head every once in a while and flashes me a bright smile, so I know she doesn’t really want to lose me. She leads me down Bourbon Street, weaving in and out of stumbling, laughing people. I can almost taste the alcohol in the air as I run. She shoves through two people gyrating on the street to the jarring mixture of music pouring out of several bars. I can no longer hear my sharp breathing. Neon signs on all sides of me try to pull my attention, but I keep my focus on her slender back, matching her step for step. She turns down a side street and we’re heading back toward the river.

  Once we’re out of the crowds, I hear the steady beat of Henry’s feet behind me. At least I hope it’s Henry.

  Daniella finally skids to a stop on the empty platform for the train that runs along the water. Henry pulls up by my side, and we take a step forward just as she takes a step back, off the platform, landing gracefully on the gravel below.

  “Come on, now. Don’t be afraid.” She stands on the metal rail of the train track and points her toes as she does a sharp twirl, looking more like a ballerina than a pirate.

  The gravel crunches under my feet as I jump the few feet off the platform. It shifts again under Henry’s weight as he follows. When I’m close enough to reach out and grab her, she hops back into the center of the track and then up onto the other metal rail, pacing back and forth across it with her arms out like wings.

  I don’t get any closer. A train rattles in the distance. Lights move along the track.

  “What’s the matter, Victoria? Are you afraid to die or are you afraid to live? Which one is it?”

  The train lets out its first honk. Two sharp lights flash like angry stars coming to wipe out the earth.

  I am Michael in The Lost Boys, hanging onto the underside of a bridge while everyone else has made the jump, wondering if I should let go and follow or crawl back to my safe life. But the life I used to know is already gone no matter how badly I ache to close my eyes and wake up at home with Dad making blueberry pancakes and laughing. God, I miss his laugh. Letting go and moving forward is my only option.

  “Neither,” I shout.

  She just waits.

  When I step over the first rail and into the center of the track, I’m thinking about how quick death would be if I got hit by a train. Bam, then nothing. Worse ways to die exist.

  The gravel under my feet trembles, afraid for me. The light from the train turns the night around us into a sepia-tainted dream on the brink of becoming a nightmare. It’s cooler here, close to the river and surrounded by gravel and metal and darkness.

  I tug my shoulders back, planting my feet directly in the center of the track.

  Henry steps up beside me. I guess he’s not afraid either.

  The horn blares again, closer. Close enough to make me flinch. I watch the approach of the lights out of the corner of my eyes.

  Daniella reaches inside the breast of her vest and pulls out a small golden envelope. It glints in the oncoming headlight of the train. I reach for it, but she tugs it back against her chest with a grin.

  “Pirates don’t give things away.”

  “What do you want?” The horn covers my voice, and I end up screaming the question again.

  “A trade.” The rumble of the train vibrates through me. I risk a quick glance to the left. My eyes squint in the lights. Less than a minute until it’s on us.

  “I don’t have anything.”

  Her eyes slide to Henry.

  “No.”

  “Him for the card.”

  Henry laughs like this is all a joke, but no one laughs with him, and the train’s too close to be funny. He sucks in a sharp breath and falls silent. I can’t look at him. I want to reach out and squeeze his hand, but the action might be a promise I can’t keep.

  “What do you want with him?”

  Her lips curl and her mouth parts slightly to show her tongue sliding across her teeth.

  “Pick something else,” I say.

  She waits, cocking her head toward the train. The squeal of metal on metal as it throws on its brakes pierces my eardrums. The horn drowns out my conscience.

 
“Choose,” she yells.

  Henry’s arm brushes mine. His warmth burns me. I can feel his stare as I shift away from him, refusing to glance in his direction. I bring up the image of my dad in my mind to drown out thoughts of Henry.

  When I hold out my hand for the envelope, she grins with victory.

  You dress me like a doll.

  You make my hair like a doll. Why?

  You want me to be a doll forever?

  —Interview with the Vampire

  Eleven

  Henry yells something beside me, but I can’t make out the words.

  I grip the envelope, smooth and solid in my fingertips, and then a palm shoves me in the center of my chest. My foot catches on the railing behind me, and I stumble backward onto my butt, scrambling to pull my feet off the tracks as the whole ground shakes and the train screams. When I finally look up, Henry’s staring at me from the other side of the track, Daniella gripping his forearm and grinning as if she’s stolen something precious from me. I feel sick.

  Then the train tears between us. The wind from it whips my hair away from my face, and I can barely breathe from the power of it. My lungs burn, and then it’s gone.

  The other side of the track is desolate and dark.

  I pull myself to my feet. My fingers shake as I rip into the envelope and yank out the slender white card. It’s too dark to read, so I pull out my phone to light the curving black print:

  Find the dead Southern belle and ask for a dance.

  A simple address would have been nice.

  I peer into the dark, longing to ask Henry his advice. They can’t have gone far. Perhaps I could find them and take back what I did, but I’m not sure I would—I’m playing a game, after all, and I’m not the rule maker.

  I text Henry: Are you okay?

  I get back an immediate reply: Henry can’t come to the phone right now.

  How the heck did she get his phone from him?

  I pray he’s okay before I remember prayer let me down recently. I think of the cathedral, invisible from here, just out of sight and always out of reach.

  I want to lie down and vomit.

  I kick at the gravel as I shuffle back to the train terminal.

  “Bad day?” His voice makes me jump, like it usually does. He really likes sneaking up on people.

  I’m still a few feet away from the terminal when I lift my head and glimpse Carter’s pointed black boots at my eye level. I have to crane my neck to see his smirk.

  “I’m peachy.”

  “You’re bleeding.”

  “What?”

  He nods toward my legs, but there’s not a single visible drop of blood on the front of them. I can feel the cuts on the back though.

  “How—” I cut myself off. I don’t need to say it out loud. Maybe he saw me fall and assumed I got cut, but I bet he can smell it.

  He smiles.

  “You know, my day would get a lot better if you’d just give me what I came for.”

  He tilts his head like he’s actually considering it. “Right now watching you is more fun than eating you.”

  My pulse jumps.

  “Besides,” he continues, “this is Nicholas’s game. I wouldn’t want to steal his fun.” He bends over and holds a pale white hand out to me. “The best I can do is offer to help you get back up here. I noticed your legs are rather short.”

  I grit my teeth. “I’m fine, thanks.”

  He stands and nods, twisting on his heel before strolling into the night.

  It takes me three tries to pull myself onto the platform, but I don’t regret turning down Carter’s offer. He seems like a vampire that would simply kill me after playing with me for a while. I trust Nicholas a little bit more.

  I try to text Henry’s phone again: Tell me he’s okay or this is over.

  I know that’s a lie, but she doesn’t.

  How much am I willing to sacrifice for this? Henry’s safety apparently.

  She takes longer to text back this time: Don’t worry your pretty little head. I’ll take good care of him.

  As I walk back toward the square, my phone dings. A picture of Henry lights up my screen. He frowns at the camera. A pile of beignets doused in powdered sugar sits in front of him.

  It makes my choice a little better. He really is safe, but in that moment, when I took the envelope, I didn’t know what would happen to him. I didn’t even consider it. It looked like the only option in front of me, and I took it with a dangerous, singular focus. Maybe I haven’t learned to slow down and plan.

  I glance at my other messages—mostly RSVPs to Dad’s party. All of them mention how pleased they are to hear he’s feeling up to it. I tuck the phone back into my pocket. I’m doing the right thing.

  My limbs still wobble from the rush, so when I get back to Jackson Square, I sit for a moment and read the clue again. The cemeteries around here are supposed to be old and beautiful and are probably overflowing with dead Southern belles, but how the hell am I supposed to dance with them? On their grave? The thought turns my already weak stomach. Nobody deserves that disrespect no matter how long they’ve been dead.

  But my dad deserves to live, and if that’s what it takes, why stop now? I let Henry almost get hit by a train a few minutes ago. Now he’s eating beignets with a possible vampire. I left the moral high ground when I broke into a house.

  I search for the closest cemetery on my phone and start walking. I swear Andrew Jackson’s judging me as I slink past his statue, like he has any right. That dude was an atrocious human being, and I’m not sure why he gets to sit there on his horse for all eternity. The horse looks pissed, with rounded eyes and veins bulging as it rears back. I’m pretty sure the horse is trying to dislodge the rider. I like the horse.

  I give Andrew Jackson the finger and leave him behind, taking the side street so I can avoid Pirate’s Alley. Some of the street artists still have their wares set up along the wrought-iron fence surrounding the square, each canvas a small splash of color in the falling night.

  I could stand forever and admire all of them. But a watercolor artist draws my attention, each canvas a dripping cascade of colors, so free and wild that at first glance the paintings seem random, but once you embrace the messiness, you can see it—each one captures a different sight in the French Quarter. Watercolor is the perfect choice to capture this city, which bubbles with such vibrant emotions.

  But it makes my task harder. How do I keep my feelings at bay when everything I see and touch and smell demands a response? Already, letting myself admire these paintings makes my chest expand like a cheap latex balloon until I fear I might pop.

  I force myself to turn away.

  A flare of white draws my attention across the street. She sits alone on the two steps leading up to the walkway that runs in front of the shops, dangling a cigarette in one hand, dressed in an overflowing white wedding gown. Black holes suck at the light where her eyes should be. Her blackened lips curve into something like a smile when she catches me staring.

  Convenient to find a dead Southern belle in the heart of the Quarter, but I’m not surprised. She stands in contrast to the lit store windows behind her, full of new, expensive clothes, but the buildings themselves are tall and looming, made of bricks older than any of the city’s inhabitants. She is one more ghost from the past in a city full of them.

  I’m only a little disappointed not to find her in a graveyard.

  I take a step forward as she drags on her cigarette.

  She beckons me onward with a gloved hand.

  Up close, her white, bloodshot eyes flash against the dark makeup painted around her eyelids and under her cheekbones. The dress that looked white from a distance is yellowed with age and torn in spots, revealing bruised skin underneath. The bruises appear startlingly real, but I don’t want to ask.

  I swallow. “Are you a Southern belle?”

  “Don’t I look like one, darling?”

  She looks like a bride murdered on her wedding day, but I do
n’t say it. Maybe she’s both.

  A portable record player sits next to her. In front of her, a tattered pink umbrella with ruffles falling off the edges lays overturned in the street. A few dollars float around inside. I dig out a five from my pocket and toss it in.

  “May I have this dance?”

  She tosses her half-finished cigarette into the gutter and brings the needle down on the record player. A scratchy symphony warbles into the night as she stands and smooths out the tatters of lace cascading from her skirt.

  “Do you know how to waltz?”

  I shake my head.

  “No matter.” She grabs one of my hands from my side and places her other hand on my waist. “If a dead girl can do it, so can you.”

  I almost smile as I place a hand on her bony, cold shoulder. I don’t know how she can be so cold in this heat. I’m tempted to ask her if she’s a vampire, but if she’s part of Nicholas’s game, I doubt she’ll be any more willing to help me than Carter was.

  “Follow me,” she says. “Forward, side, close. Back, side, close. Repeat.”

  I obey her commands. My feet fall easily into the pattern, and I’m swirling around the pavement while another thunderstorm rolls in and threatens the sky with flashes of lightning. The whole moment is so macabre—me, a girl with a dying dad, dancing with a dead girl, seconds away from getting struck by lightning. Edgar Allan Poe would have a field day with this.

  Dancing can be easy, peaceful even, if you can fall into the repetition of it. If your partner is easy and predictable. The dead girl seems content to dance all night, and the card didn’t say how long I had to do this. Impatience makes my fingertips perform their own dance on her shoulders, and I don’t even notice until she pauses midstep and places her icy hand over mine.

  “Relax,” she says.

  I suck in a deep breath of the air, hot and humid and electrified by the storm on the brink of eruption. Not exactly soothing. I turn my face up to the sky and listen to the melody, try to lose myself in the melancholy notes—the familiar sadness in them cradles me, helps me focus without demanding my own sadness in return.