Vampires, Hearts & Other Dead Things

by Margie Fuston

  I’m dancing, and I don’t remember beginning again.

  I don’t think I mind, but the flash of lightning cracks through my moment of peace and makes me open my mouth.

  “So how’d you die?”

  “How do you think?” She laughs, and the smell of the cigarette on her breath scratches at my nose. “Lung cancer.”

  I cringe, but she doesn’t notice. I’m tempted to yank away from her or yell at her about how cancer’s not the butt of a joke, but she’s just a girl trying to make a living. For her, cancer’s a bad thing some people die from, something you can laugh about the same way we always laugh about distant fears, but when cancer creeps in and poisons your life, becoming a corporeal fear and not a distant ghost, laughter gets harder.

  My dad laughed at first. He joked about how cancer picked the wrong dude to mess with. But as cancer won battle after battle, the joke lost its humor.

  “That’s not a very poetic way to die. I thought you’d say you drowned in the river or died of heartbreak.”

  She laughs, and I turn my head slightly to avoid her breath this time. “Honey, nobody dies a poetic death; they just die. Any way you go, you’re still dead.”

  The truth in her words claws at me, forcing me to take them in and hold onto them. Even if I find a way to turn my dad into a vampire, will he still be dead? Will he be like Anne Rice’s Louis? Always struggling to find a way to live again in death? Will I always have to remind him that this was better than the alternative? Will we even like watching vampire movies together anymore? We may not be the same once this is done, but I can’t let my thoughts go there. Dad won’t be anything at all if I can’t do this. A different life has to be better than no life. He’ll understand.

  “Are you okay?”

  I’ve stopped moving. She lets go of my waist and squeezes my shoulders. I meet her worried eyes, a deep, dark blue that reminds me of sorrow.

  A throat clears behind me. “May I cut in?”

  The woman’s gaze slides past me. Her lips pinch with what I think is concern, but she takes a step away from me before meeting my stare again. “Are you okay?” she asks.

  I nod, but I can see she doesn’t believe me. She goes back to the silent record player to restart the music. A sadder song whispers out, soaking into my limbs, making them too heavy to keep dancing.

  Nicholas clears his throat again. “Victoria?”

  I don’t want to turn around. I don’t want him to see the sadness I’m hoarding beneath my skin. He saw it the other night, and it scared him, made him think I didn’t deserve to live forever. I probably don’t. I stole a necklace that clearly meant something to someone. I traded my friend for an envelope—I’m selfish. But my dad deserves this. I swallow several times, trying to pull it down, bury it beneath layers of skin and bone in the dark and empty parts of myself where no one else can see it, and I can pretend it’s not there even though I feel it like a stone in my gut that I need surgery to remove before it kills me.

  I can do it. I can keep it trapped until this is over. I tell myself I am bright and happy and love life, but even thinking those words stirs the sadness in my gut. I need to pretend.

  Finally, I turn around.

  He scans my face.

  I smile.

  He shakes his head. “This isn’t working. I don’t understand. Aren’t you having fun?”

  I let my smile drop. “You abducted my friend.”

  He raises a brow. “Abducted is a strong word, is it not?”

  “A train almost hit us! Daniella pushed me and dragged Henry to the other side of the tracks. By the time the train was through, he was gone.”

  The corner of Nicholas’s mouth twitches, and I can’t tell if it’s from a frown or if he’s holding back laughter. “She does get carried away sometimes. But you agreed to trade him for the card, did you not?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Good.” His teeth flash. “And you’re both fine?”

  I huff. “My legs are cut up.”

  “Well, we can’t have you bleeding out.” His mouth curves in a half smile.

  I bite my bottom lip. Probably not a great idea to tell a vampire you’re bleeding—unless you want to be a vampire, too, which I do, even though some very basic survival instinct tells me to run.

  His eyes darken as he stares at my lip in my teeth. I release it with a sharp breath.

  “May I see?”

  “What?” My face is hot, and my head feels muggier than the air.

  “Your wounds?”

  I don’t know if I’ve ever heard someone say “wounds” so sexily before. My land, it’s a sexy word. His mouth holds the o in the middle forever—until I commit the shape of his rounded lips to memory so I can draw them one day when I have an eternity to get them right. He has a face I’d never tire of drawing, and that seems like an okay reason to tie myself to him forever.

  I turn around and gesture at the back of my calves.

  He gets down on one knee as I watch him over my shoulder. He glances up at me, dark eyes barely visible through the curls falling over his forehead. “May I touch you?” he asks.

  “Are you going to lick me?”

  “Do you want me to?”

  The Southern belle snorts with laughter. My face flushes. I’d forgotten she was even there. I glance toward her, and she shakes her head slightly. I can’t tell if it’s a warning or amusement.

  “I don’t think so?” I don’t mean it to come out like a question.

  He chuckles, soft and low. His breath touches the back of my knee, and I shiver, hoping he doesn’t notice but knowing he does.

  “I only want to look at it.”

  “Okay. Yeah. Go for it.” I attempt to sound casual. My voice squeaks.

  One set of his long fingers slide around my shin, applying just enough pressure to keep my leg still. His other hand brushes across the back of my calf so faintly I lock my knees to stop the trembling. It’s too quiet. My own breathing is so loud I hope for more thunder to cover it up. His fingertips probe around my cuts until they touch broken skin, and I wince, straining against his other hand keeping me in place. I mutter “ouch” a few times, but he keeps working, and I let the pain distract me from his touch.

  Finally, he stands up, brushing his hands on his slacks as I spin to face him.

  “You had a little gravel stuck in the cuts, but I got it out.” He smirks. “With my fingers, of course.”

  He holds out his hand. “Now, about that dance.”

  I glance at the dead girl. The whites of her eyes widen against the dark. “He’s trouble,” she says to me.

  “What do you mean?” I wonder if she knows what he really is.

  “Mind your manners, Elizabeth,” Nicholas bites out.

  “You know each other?”

  “Everyone knows me.” He says it matter-of-factly, with just a trace of vanity.

  I look to Elizabeth again, but she stares up at the lightning ripping through the sky.

  “Fine.” I take his hand, and he wraps his arm around my waist, closer and more intimate than the way Elizabeth held me.

  “Give us something livelier,” he commands.

  I don’t dare look over at Elizabeth again. Whatever expression she wears now, I’m sure it’s not favorable, but after the click of the needle, a few tentative notes sneak out, melancholy for a moment before turning into a peppy tune that makes me feel like a ballerina in a music box, dancing in perfect circles. Painted cheeks always perfectly, falsely, pink.

  Nicholas bobs us around with a bounce to his step I can’t quite replicate, but I let myself fall into the movement once more, keeping my focus on the tarnished bronze buttons on his vest so I don’t have to look at his beautiful face and wonder if I’m happy enough for him—if my steps bounce with enough joy. It takes only a moment for me to match his rhythm, to let him lead me around like I’m that mindless wooden doll, and it feels glorious. Dolls are never happy or sad; they just exist and let others choose their emotions f
or them.

  Nicholas wants me to be alive and happy, so he moves me like I’m alive and happy, and for one second it’s easy to pretend I am those things.

  Then the lightning finally succeeds in cutting through the canopy of clouds, and as water pours down on us, each drop melts against my skin, washing away the sweat, the gravel, the tension locked in my shoulders. I raise my chin ever so slightly to absorb the way Nicholas’s curls dampen and cling to his cheeks. His dark eyes watch my face expectantly, waiting for me to let go in this storm and enjoy it. I need to give in.

  Fake it, I tell myself. Fake happiness long enough to get what you want. I tilt my head back and grin into the rain. It comes down hard enough to choke me, but I hold my arms out to it while Nicholas keeps his hands on my waist, twirling me like a child.

  When I was a kid, Dad would take me outside after a downpour and let me dive into the heavy puddles of mud until my clothes and skin became buried in muck. Those are some of my happiest memories.

  The drops soak our skin, splattering and exploding on the unyielding stone we dance on, until the downpour becomes so heavy I’m barely breathing.

  Finally, Nicholas laughs, and that’s what I’m waiting for, for him to see me as something I was and not what I am. Someone who experiences joy in the rain, not someone who wants to melt into one of the unfeeling puddles gathering at her feet.

  He grabs one of my flailing arms and spins me into his chest. He smells like wet cinnamon.

  Pulling me to his side, he drapes one arm over my shoulders, shielding me from some of the rain, but I’m already soaked through and through.

  “Let’s get you out of this,” he says.

  I laugh. I am the rain—cold and mindless and doing what needs to be done.

  He nods toward Elizabeth, who scowls in return. I give her a small wave, and she shakes her head slightly.

  We stroll without hurry down St. Peter, everything shining in the dark. People stand in the streets, laughing, rainwater diluting their beers as they drink them. Here the rain isn’t something to hide from but one more thrill to be had. Lightning forks in the sky, and nobody flinches. They cheer, encouraging the thunder to join them, to live. The excitement on their faces is enough to make anyone feel alive. Even vampires. Even me. I let my arm drift around Nicholas’s waist, mimicking other couples walking together. He pulls a little closer to me. Neither one of us speaks until we stop in front of a bright-yellow building with blood-red shutters.

  “This is me,” he says. He pulls open a heavy wooden door and waits for me to make a decision. I stand there for far too long, but he doesn’t give me any reassurances like I won’t rip out your throat, Victoria. Don’t worry, Victoria. I’m a nice vampire. One side of his mouth is turned up ever so slightly, which someone less observant wouldn’t even notice.

  No reassurance. But I don’t need it. For me, there’s only one way forward. I enter the building and follow him up a quiet wooden staircase to the third floor and through another wooden door, which he opens, then motions for me to go first.

  Wide-plank wood paneling lines all the walls in his front living area. A fake stone fireplace, bricked off inside and filled with candles, draws the focus to the main wall. On either side of the fireplace, built-in bookcases painted a deep burgundy boast a scattering of old books. A pure white sofa and two matching armchairs take up the center of the room. The splash of white should warm the place, but it glares coldly against the comforting brown.

  The door shuts behind me.

  “The white sofas are an interesting touch,” I say.

  His laugh is low and throaty and makes me overly aware that I’m standing in the apartment of a guy I barely know. “This is a vacation rental. You won’t find me here tomorrow. We rarely let others into our homes, and you haven’t earned that. Yet.” When he speaks again, he’s closer than before. “But I am partial to white sofas. I like being unexpected.”

  I shiver. Partly from my rain-soaked clothes growing chillier by the second and partly from the thrill of standing here with damp clothes and a guy who may or may not give me what I want and kill me. My pulse throbs in my throat. I’m afraid and excited at the same time. I forget for a moment why I’m here, what I want, and lean into another desire, the thing that draws me back to those vampire movies again and again—not the carnage of 30 Days of Night, but the dangerous seduction of Lestat, embracing terror and letting it drown out everything else but lust.

  When I finally turn around, he’s so close I have to look up to see his darkened eyes. He stares down at me, and I’m not sure he’s breathing. Or maybe it’s me who’s not. No, my breath is there, ragged and uneven, thundering in my ears as if the storm followed us indoors.

  He lifts a finger and drags it from my earlobe to the tip of my chin, tilting my head upward. I bite my lip.

  Yes. There’s his breath, close enough to caress the top of my head. I reach a hand out toward his chest, where his heart should be beating—or not—but his other hand grasps my fingers a little too tightly, and I wince. He drops my chin and steps back from me, smirking slightly.

  “We need to get you changed.” I stare down at my drenched sundress. It feels like I’ve been wearing it for years.

  I shiver now, and it’s only from the cold.

  “I don’t have dry clothes.”

  He nods at an ornate coffee table with a silver bag on top. The white tissue paper crinkles as I pull it out and unwrap a shiny gold slip dress.

  I raise an eyebrow. “Did you plan that thunderstorm to get me into a new outfit?”

  “Maybe. I do have connections.”

  I smile, and he grins back—probably thinking I’m enamored with the dress. I am. It’s gorgeous, but more importantly, he handed me another piece of proof: he can control the weather—a lesser-known power that dates back to Norse mythology.

  I am so close, and if I thought it would work, I would crack open with the same abandon as the sky and cry and plead for him to turn me so I can save my father. But the vampires in myths and legends aren’t known for their sympathy toward dying humans.

  And he clearly loves this game we’re playing.

  The safer route’s to keep playing to win.

  I keep my smile pasted on until he points me to the bathroom. I drape my wet clothes over the towel rack in the bland white-and gray-bathroom. The fabric drips like molten gold from the thread-thin straps, pooling seductively right at the edge of my cleavage and stopping a couple of inches below my butt. I admire myself until I get distracted by the mess that is my hair. My normally soft waves have turned into full-on curls from the rain. I always carry a ridiculous amount of bobby pins in my purse though, so in another second I have the mess artfully piled on top of my head with a few almost-dry curls framing my face. Thank goodness my makeup is waterproof.

  When I emerge, Nicholas stands in front of a large, curved window. I move closer so I can look out with him. I gasp a little. “You can see the convent from here.”

  “Does that interest you?”

  Of course it does, and he knows why. He’s smiling, waiting patiently for me to ask him all my questions.

  “It’s beautiful, that’s all.”

  He laughs low in his throat. “You look beautiful, too.”

  “Thanks.” My blood warms under his compliment. Maybe that’s why vampires seduce their victims first—it’s like humans boiling water for tea. I try not to let his words go to my head, but my cheeks must be flushed with pink.

  I take in his clothing change—soft caramel-colored slacks and a thin white linen shirt that pops against his brown skin. “Right back at you.”

  This time his laughter is loud and barking and infectious. I smile automatically.

  “Are you ready?” he asks.

  “For what?”

  “Anything.”

  He’s a vegetarian. The last thing he’d want to do

  is eat a live being or eat blood or eat meat.

  —What We Do in the Shadows

 
; Twelve

  Anything ends up being dinner at the oldest restaurant in the United States: Antoine’s. Every window’s lit, and it glows, warm and welcoming enough for some of the tension to melt off my body. Nicholas has been strolling beside me, hands loosely in his pockets, but he pauses before we go in and offers me his arm. “This place deserves a grand entrance,” he says.

  “If you say so.” I grip his forearm without hesitation. He grins at my willingness to go along with his request as he opens the door for us.

  I understand immediately why he gave me a dress to change into. The place is stunning—high white ceilings and white beams lined with soft round lights. Gold chandeliers with white orbs add another layer, casting a golden hue on the pristine tablecloths. Rich wooden chairs save the room from becoming too sterile. Everything is lovely, and the place is filled already with soft chatter and guests waiting to be seated.

  “This is going to be a long wait,” I murmur.

  Nicholas’s lips twitch as he glances down, winks at me, and leads me past the waiting line with a single nod to the maître d’.

  “There aren’t any open tables.”

  “They have fourteen dining rooms; it’s one of the beauties of this place.”

  We cross the threshold into another large dining area. This room’s darker than the other, with a wood ceiling and rusty red walls accented with wood paneling. It gives off the vibe of a giant pub more than a fancy restaurant, and I relax a little.

  “I like this one better,” I say.

  “Ahh, but we’re not stopping just yet.” He pats my hand, still resting in the crook of his arm, and then leaves his fingers on top of mine there, and the way he grins down at me, eyes bright with excitement, I bet to anyone watching we appear to be a couple in love. I could imagine walking into my home, introducing him to Dad and Mom, and they’d probably both like him—Mom because he’s poised and polished and Dad because I like him. But Dad would also ask me what happened to Henry. I think he was more worried about our split than I was.

  But it’s good that I like Nicholas. If he drinks my blood and I drink his, we’d be bonded forever—although how deeply, I’m not sure.