Vampires, Hearts & Other Dead Things

by Margie Fuston

  Sitting there, the night air still hot enough to make me sticky, I turn into a creature of hunger and want. Half of me wants to lunge forward and rip into the paper with a charcoal pencil until it tears from the force of my vision, and part of me wants to turn and rip into Nicholas or let him rip into me—I am not sure which. Either way, I’ve never been closer to feeling like a vampire, like someone who just wants to chase their own desire.

  Lust is so easy and uncomplicated—primal—not really an emotion to be controlled. You can feel it and still be empty of anything else. I wonder if that’s enough.

  I tip my head upward. He needs to see me like this. If he sees this moment of desire on my face, he’ll believe I can be like him.

  His fingers gently grab my chin and pull my head back down. “Not yet,” he says, and I don’t know exactly what he means with those two words, what he’ll give me when the portrait is finished.

  Finally, finally, the artist stops moving and leans back to admire his work. I recognize his critical and satisfied look as one I’ve had many, many times.

  “Almost perfect,” he says, brushing his lank hair from his eyes. He scratches his cheek, leaving dark marks behind like black blush. In another moment of time, I would want to be friends with him. Instead of spinning it around to show us, he slides it into a white envelope and passes it to me.

  “Thank you,” I say. I itch to admire his technique, but it seems rude to unmask what he’s already hidden. Maybe he doesn’t like to see other people’s reactions to his work. I can understand that. I can count the people I’ve let look at my sketchbook on one hand: Dad, Jessica, Bailey, occasionally Mom, and Henry.

  Henry. I wish he wouldn’t pop into my head. Will he be angry with me? I try to remember the look on his face when I took the envelope, but I wasn’t even looking at him or thinking about him when I did it. I did what I needed to do.

  I push him away, but he lingers in the corners of my mind, judging the way I brush up against Nicholas as we walk.

  Nicholas takes us down the quieter side streets, his long legs moving at a languid pace I can keep up with easily. Occasionally his featherlight fingers touch my back, and I want to boldly tell him to leave his hand on me, but on the darkest street corners, little thrills of fear keep me from speaking.

  After fifteen minutes of walking in silence, I get the courage to ask where we’re going.

  “We’re here,” he says.

  The white facade of my building looms above us.

  “How did you know where I was staying?”

  He barely lifts one shoulder. “I have sources.”

  My pulse quickens, but I press on. “Well, did I pass your test?”

  He’s already turning around. “Not yet,” he calls without bothering to look back.

  “Bastard,” I mutter once I think he’s out of earshot.

  His low chuckle drifts back to me, brushing against my skin like he’s standing behind me. I spin in the dark, but I’m alone with only the streetlight. My fingers shake as I open the white envelope and pull out the picture. There I am—all dark shadows and smudges, and I have to admit I look good in black-and-white. Maybe I can live without the color in my life.

  But behind me in the picture, where Nicholas stood with his hands on my neck, is nothing but the dark outline of the cathedral.

  It’ll be you and me.

  —Let the Right One In

  Thirteen

  All the fear, excitement, and yeah, okay, lust, turns to lead in my veins as I climb the stairs to the apartment. Part of me hopes Henry’s already back so I can make sure he’s okay, and part of me hopes he’s not so I can hide under the covers and avoid facing him until morning.

  He’s there, sitting on the green sofa, elbows on his knees, staring into the unlit fireplace. The fact that these places even have fireplaces is baffling, and I open my mouth to make a joke about it before I press my lips together again.

  The whole room is stiff with anger.

  The dampness the humidity left on my skin freezes in the air-conditioning, and I desperately want to move past this moment and hop in the shower instead.

  He runs a hand through his hair like he always does, leaving some of it sticking up. I shift uncomfortably, scraping the thin point of my heel across the wood floor.

  “Are you going to look at me?” I ask.

  His gaze slides up my legs and lingers on my short hemline in a way that would normally make me blush. I just feel cold.

  “Nice dress.”

  “Thanks,” I say, pretending to take his comment at face value. I know his words are meant to be a dig, but no guy gets to make me feel bad about what I wear.

  His eyes narrow, and I imagine blackening one of them with my fist. One condescending look from him makes me angrier than a thousand slights from anyone else. And somewhere in the back of my mind, I understand why, but I focus on the heat gathering in my cheeks instead of unpacking my feelings for him.

  “What’s your problem?” I wish I could take the question back, but it’s out of my mouth before I can stop it.

  “Seriously?”

  “Yeah.” I double down like I don’t know why he’s pissed, but I’m pissed now too.

  “You traded me for an envelope. You let me almost get hit by a train and then left me with some strange woman while you did what? Put on a fancy dress and traipsed all around town? Did you even consider looking for me? Did you worry even a little bit?”

  “Nicholas said you were fine. I even got a picture of you eating beignets!” I fish out my phone from my purse, pulling up the picture and holding it out as a shield between us.

  “Really? You knew I’d be fine when you made the bargain? Somehow I missed that part of the conversation while the train was barreling toward us. Don’t pretend you knew or cared what would happen to me.” Quietly he adds, “I should have known.”

  I wince. I know he’s thinking about his grandma’s death—me not showing up for him—but it’s easier to pretend he’s only talking about this moment.

  “I did.” I drop my phone down to my side. “I stood there and waited for the train to pass so I could make sure you were fine. You were gone. You didn’t have to go with her.”

  He stands up and takes a step toward me. His teeth grind together as he spits out his next words. “She told me I had to play along or the game was off. I went with her for you. I didn’t even think twice about it or myself. You gave me up for a freaking piece of paper, and all I thought about was doing what you needed.” He sighs, rubbing his hand over his face, anger dissipating to reveal the exhaustion underneath. “I’m pathetic,” he mutters.

  “You’re not.” I move to close the gap between us but stop halfway. My heart speeds before I can even make sense of what I’m seeing. “What is that?” My voice comes out so hushed and horrified that Henry turns around to see what I’m looking at, but I’m looking at him—and at what’s clearly blood staining the collar of his green shirt.

  He looks confused as he turns back to me. “What?”

  My hand shakes as I step closer and pull on his collar. “What’d they do to you?” I examine his neck, but it looks smooth and perfect.

  He grabs his collar from me and pulls it out so he can see. I wait for him to freak out, but he laughs.

  I pull back. Henry’s laugh usually puts me at ease, but my heart’s still thumping.

  “It’s ketchup,” he says.

  “I thought you had beignets.”

  “We did.” His voice is slow and calm. “And then we went for fries. She said I had to stay with her for a couple of hours. Turns out the only thing we have in common is that we both love eating.”

  “I thought—” My pulse mellows. I take a deep breath.

  “I know what you thought,” he says. “I’m fine. Doesn’t mean I’m not mad though.”

  I’m still shaking a little from my momentary rush of fear. Even though he’s fine, it could have happened, and I didn’t think about that when I traded him.
/>   He pulls me gently toward him so my cheek presses against his chest. He smells of hours-old cologne and sweat.

  “Sorry.” I keep whispering the word, like if I say it enough times, it’ll be true.

  “Just say you won’t do it again.”

  I take the smallest step away, so I’m still in his arms but a chilly few inches exist between our bodies. I want to close the gap, but leaning back in would be something like a promise not to do it again, and I don’t break promises—not unless it’s life or death, and with so much on the line, I’d rather not make them at all.

  “I didn’t trade you for the envelope. I didn’t trade you for Nicholas.” I traded him for my dad, for the mere possibility of getting what I need to save him, and I’d do it again. I pull back even more, so he’s forced to end our embrace or follow me. He lets me go, and I pull out the drawing, holding it up for him. “Look at this. Nicholas was standing right behind me the whole time, but the artist didn’t draw him.”

  Henry’s brows draw together. Of course he doesn’t understand the significance.

  “Bram Stoker mentions painters not being able to capture a vampire’s true essence. It’s not in Dracula, but it is in his notes. He was very well researched. This is proof, Henry. This is why I came.”

  “To get a portrait done by a street artist who probably got paid not to draw the dude behind you?”

  I ignore his condescending doubt.

  “I want to save my dad, and I’ll do anything to make that happen. I’ll let you down again and again.” I look him straight in the eyes as I say it, so he can’t have any doubt I mean it. Part of me wants to be there for Henry, to tell him what he wants to hear from me, but it would be a lie.

  He sighs, closing the gap between us again, so I can lean against his chest without giving up anything, without making any promises. The gesture is his concession, not mine. His chin rests softly on the top of my head. “It’s okay,” he says.

  I wrap one arm around him. My other hand hangs between us, still gripping the drawing—one more sign. Six out of seven—more than I thought I would get.

  Henry’s not forgiving me, but I don’t forgive me either. You’ve got to be willing to take it back to forgive yourself, and I wouldn’t.

  “You could use a shower,” he says.

  “So could you.”

  We laugh and pull apart. After awkwardly offering the only shower back and forth, he goes first.

  While Henry’s gone, my home number lights up the screen on my phone. My first thought, the first thought I’ve had every time I’ve gotten a call in the past few months, is that something’s wrong with Dad. I never used to be reliable at answering my phone, but now I always pick up on the first ring.

  “Hello?” My stomach clenches as I answer and wait to know if the thing has happened or not. Those few seconds add up to some of the worst moments in my life.

  “Hey, kiddo. Sorry I missed your call the other day.”

  “Dad.” My breath comes out in a painful rush.

  “Miss me?” He gives a raspy chuckle, and I smile into my phone. “Are you having fun?”

  “I’d rather be here with you.”

  “I know, honey, but are you having fun? I want you to have fun for me.”

  My throat swells. I can’t stand lying to him, and I’m already out here. Mom can’t talk me out of it now. “I didn’t come to have fun, Dad. I came to find a vampire.”

  He stays silent for so long that I start to worry. I want him to say something: confirm he’s hoping I’ll succeed or tell me to stop, that he doesn’t want this. But I also don’t want to ask him. Telling me to stop could break me. Telling me he’s counting on me could make me crumble under the pressure.

  “Well,” he finally says, “I know better than to talk you out of that. You’re still having a good time though, right?”

  I’m not sure he gets it—why I’m looking. This is more than my own fascination, but my throat is too tight to explain it. “Sure, Dad,” I say instead.

  “Henry looking out for you?”

  “I can look out for myself.”

  “I know you can.” I can feel him smile on the other side of the line. “It’s just nice to have backup in that department.”

  “You’re my backup in that department,” I say.

  He pauses for too long, and it gives his next word too much weight. An impossible weight. “Always,” he says. “No matter what.”

  I know what he means by no matter what—that he’ll be looking out for me when he’s dead—but I don’t need or want those types of reassurances, because he’s not going to die. I fight the urge to tell him what I’m really doing, how close I am, but I haven’t won yet, and I don’t even know if being a vampire can save him. Maybe it won’t work on someone as sick as him, but I don’t want to think about that.

  I cannot fail. I’ll never forgive myself, and Dad won’t be around to give forgiveness in my place.

  I need to get off the phone. Dad sounds weak and tired, like a man who has less time than the doctor said, and if I think too much about that, I could lose the hope I have to save him, and without that, what would be left for me? I’d drown in all the sorrow I’m holding at bay. I’d be dead, too, and not in the good, immortal way—just a person rotting on the inside.

  “I love you, Dad,” I say, even though my throat hurts so much I can barely speak. I don’t know why it gets harder and harder to say “I love you” to someone you might lose. It seems like it should be easier, but maybe it’s because each time you say it, it could be the last. The three words end up carrying more meaning than we’re used to.

  “I love you too, kiddo.”

  When Henry comes out of the shower, I’m sitting on the sofa, phone hanging limp in my hand. He pauses across the room, and I sense his assessment, though I don’t look up at him. Eventually he sits next to me, close enough for the cushion to dip and cause me to fall into his side. Before I can right myself, his arm slides around me, loose enough to shake off but solid enough to keep me there.

  I tell myself a small bit of grief is okay. Nobody will see it but Henry, and it’s not grief about my dad’s death—not like Jessica wailing after the doctor’s last prognosis. I won’t grieve something I’m hoping to stop, but I grieve the fact that he’s sick while I’m here. We’ll never get to navigate eating beignets for the first time together. I shared that moment with someone else. So my grief is for that. It has to be.

  Henry’s dampness from the shower soaks through his T-shirt into my clothes and skin.

  A few tears find their way onto my cheeks.

  We stay like that until we’re both dry.

  Oh, yeah.

  That’s the vampire spirit.

  —Mom’s Got a Date with a Vampire

  Fourteen

  In the morning, I shrug off the memory of Henry’s arm around me and ignore the ghosts of the tears on my cheeks. Now more than ever is not the time to let too much sadness leak out of me. It would show through my smiles like amateur brushstrokes on a forgery of a priceless piece of art, and Nicholas would see it, and then I would fail. But letting go a little bit felt good.

  I leave Henry asleep in his room and walk the Quarter alone, ignoring the smell of hot pastries drifting from more than one corner. My stomach begs to stop, but I hush it. I’m on a mission. Plus, I need to call Mom. I know talking to Dad last night will not get me out of my scheduled check-in, so I’d rather get it out of the way. I bet she’s just getting up now, at the crack of dawn, having coffee with way too much sugar and cream. The thought makes me smile a bit. Mom’s the type of person you’d think took her coffee black, but she has a major sweet tooth like everyone else in our family. She’d love beignets even if she’d hate the French Quarter. I should tell her about them.

  She answers immediately.

  “Hi, Mom.” I don’t bother asking how Dad is yet. He used to be a morning person, but that changed when he got sick.

  “Hi, sweetie.”

  I smil
e. Mom only calls me “sweetie” in the mornings, when she’s always a bit softer around the edges and hasn’t turned into a no-nonsense attorney yet.

  “How are you?” she asks. It’s an open, weighted question that I’ve never liked answering truthfully—even before.

  “Henry and I ate beignets. They’re a thousand times better than doughnuts. You’d like them.”

  “I’m sure I would.” She pauses. “Have you drawn anything?”

  My chest tightens. If this is her trying to be like Dad again… I just can’t.

  She moves past my silence. “I always wanted to go to New Orleans, back when I had time for art. I used to imagine myself doing portraits on the street.” Her voice is soft with what I think is longing, but it’s so unlike her I can barely make sense of it. Then she laughs, breaking it. “Can you imagine me as a street artist?”

  “Yes,” I say, even though I can’t really, but I want to see that side of her. Suddenly I wonder if deep down she wanted to come on this trip with us all along, but she never said it, and I never guessed.

  It makes me sad, but also hopeful, like there’s more to us than I thought.

  “I hope you start again. I thought a new place might help you.” She almost sounds like she wants me to go to art school, but she probably just wants me back to normal.

  “I’m thinking about it.” It’s not a lie. I am thinking about art in a way I haven’t been able to back home, not for a long while now. But I’m not sure it’s a good thing. I’m not sure I want to see what comes out of me.

  “Jessica said you didn’t call her yet.”

  I wish she wouldn’t bring up Jessica in every conversation.

  “She could call me.”

  “She won’t. She thinks you’re mad at her for showing up at church without warning you first. She might be as upset about that as…”

  That hurts. I press my hand to my stomach like that will help.

  “I wasn’t mad,” I say, but I was. I hated the way it felt to watch her and Mom accept the unacceptable.