“I admit—it still seems coincidental.” Lare begins to wash off my cut with the wet paper towel, her silver-blue eyes affixed to her task. Then she pauses, looks up—and she gazes at me so deeply that my heart loses track of time, forgets to beat. Her teasing mouth slants to one side. “But I don't believe in coincidences.”
I swallow. “Don't you?”
Lare shakes her head as she leans close to my arm, peering at the gash in the meager light of the lantern. “Ah, good news. You won't need stitches, after all.”
“That's great,” I say softly. I watch her; I can hardly breathe, watching her. I'm not like this. I don't swoon. I don't contemplate cheating. I don't fantasize about kissing vampires. I do what I'm supposed to do. I was a Girl Scout. I was an honor student. Despite my sugar addiction, I've never even had a cavity.
But suddenly—staring at the fine red strands grazing Lare's neck; at her lips, faintly pink, concealing those sharp white teeth—what I'm supposed to do isn't so obvious.
I think my intuition, like the electricity, has winked out.
“Tell me if this hurts,” Lare says, but she's so gentle, I hardly feel the pressure of her fingers at all as she treats and bandages my arm with slow, steady motions. Her palms are so warm. “You'll be sore for a couple of days, but I don't think the skin will scar.”
“Oh. That's...” I swallow. “Thank you. And...sorry. I feel stupid for screaming. I hope I didn't startle you.”
“I'm not easily startled.” She smiles up at me, her fingers still resting on my arm, adjusting the gauze. “Besides, mankind's first and deepest fear is of the dark.” Lare's mirrored eyes reflect the lantern light, the rose-patterned wall behind me, my mesmerized face. “You were acting on instinct. Instinct won't lead you astray.”
Given the fact that my instinct is telling me to straddle Lare on the floor...I'm not sure that I can agree with her sentiment. I swallow again, glancing down at Colette, who's still dreaming beside my feet. “This is Colette, by the way. She'll never forgive me if I don't introduce her properly. She's a bit of a snob.”
“Colette?” She smiles. “You named your cat after the French novelist?”
“I went through a francophile phase in grad school.”
Lare rises from the floor and offers me her hand. I take it gingerly—touching her makes me feel too hot, too shaky, too impulsive—and stand up. “Colette's a perfect name for a cat,” she says. “Colette loved cats, as I recall. How does the line go? Time spent with a cat is never wasted.”
“She also said, There are no ordinary cats. And my Colette is extraordinary.” I give the sleepy tabby an affectionate nudge with my toes, and she begins to purr. “I volunteered at an animal shelter for a while.” I smile at Lare self-deprecatingly. “I'd like to pretend it was for some noble reason, but I had a crush on the woman who ran the place.”
Lare lifts a brow, amused. Standing so close to her is making me feel dizzy. “And how did that work out for you?” she asks, voice low.
“Oh, I didn't get the girl—she was straight, and engaged—but I got Colette.” I laugh. “I was never a cat person, you know. Or a dog person. But one look into those beautiful green eyes, and my heart kind of melted.”
“I know the feeling.” Lare pins me down with her intense, silver gaze. She shoves her hands into her pockets and tilts her head; red waves tumble over her shoulder. She smiles. “That's what I was talking about—instinct. Sometimes you just...know.”
“Yeah.” I draw in a shallow breath. “Sometimes you do. Even though...” I trail off.
“Even though what, Courtney?”
I narrow my brows, staring down at the terra cotta-colored floor tiles. “Even though, rationally speaking,” I find myself rambling miserably, “you shouldn't do what your instinct is telling you to do. Because it would change everything. It would unravel your whole life. It would compromise your beliefs about yourself, about the world—”
“Hey.” Lare takes a small step closer. “Are we still talking about cats?”
“No.” I meet her eyes brazenly, stare at her mouth brazenly. There's no power in the house right now, but electricity crackles between us: a tense, dangerous, vital thing. “How do you do it?” I ask Lare then, surprising myself.
“Do...what?” She arches one brow, biting her bottom lip so that her right incisor stabs, softly, into the soft pink flesh there. I can't tear my eyes away from that tooth, can't wrap my mind around the fact that Lare is a vampire, a real-life vampire. She's different from me, genetically different. She drinks blood to survive. She'll live for more than a century. Vampires aren't immortal, but they age at a slower rate and enjoy three times the lifespan of human beings. Maybe she's already lived for hundreds of years.
“How do you control yourself?” I whisper.
She blinks, uncomprehending. Then her silver eyes trace over my mouth.
I shiver. She isn't touching me, but I feel her touching every part of me. Is this a vampire thing? Or am I just—suddenly, deeply, uncontrollably—smitten? “I mean,” I say, pulse racing, “with the blood.”
Her posture straightens. Slowly, she draws her hands out of her pants pockets and crosses her arms over her chest. “I'm not sure what you're asking.”
“I only want to understand. You... You said you're a doctor. Doctors have to deal with other people's blood. And just now, with my arm—was it hard for you? I mean, is it hard to be around humans?” I swallow, gazing at her uncertainly. My skin is on fire, every atom aching and aware. “Is it hard to be around me?”
“Yes,” she answers quickly, simply. Her face is still and smooth, unreadable. But then I see her shoulders relax, and a smile teases at the corner of her lovely mouth. “But not for the reason you're suggesting.”
My heart triple-beats.
I gaze at Lare in the light of the lantern, at her silver eyes and her long, curving silhouette. She looks like an art nouveau painting. There's a flowing, liquid grace to her body, her gestures. And a hungry, fearless gleam to her eyes.
Tiger-like, I think. I'll have to tell Azure. In the Banks' Books customer zoo, Lare is the tiger.
And now Lare, the tiger, the vampire, prowls nearer to me.
I hold my breath, tilting my mouth toward hers.
“Courtney,” she breathes, “do you feel—”
Then, with rude and blinding brightness, the lights flick back on.
Frowning, exhaling, I glare up at the ceiling fixture. The room looks harsh now, too clear. Too real. And Lare has moved away, glanced away. She's shoved her hands into her pockets again, and she's staring at the door; she's planning to leave.
Nothing's going to happen between us tonight.
I don't know whether I'm disappointed or relieved.
No, that's a lie. I'm disappointed—and disappointed in myself for being disappointed.
God, I'm so confused.
Absurdly, my empty stomach chooses that moment to—very audibly—growl.
“Well.” Lare chuckles, nodding in the direction of my complaining belly. “I'll leave you to your dinner. I was about to, um, eat, too, so...”
I start to suggest to her that we dine together, but then I realize what Lare meant by eat—and decide that we might feel a bit awkward sharing a meal: me with my cold, sink-battered lasagna, Lare with her cold packet of blood.
“Van Helsing's probably trying to break down my door, anyway,” she says.
“What?” Lost in my own thoughts, I shake my head. I must have misheard her. “Did you say Van Helsing?”
“Yeah.”
My brain feels untethered, floaty, unable to distinguish between fact and fairy tale. But what the hell do I know? Vampires exist. Maybe vampire hunters exist, too. “Van Helsing is a fictional character, though...right?”
She laughs, her blue eyes twinkling with silver flashes, like stars fading in and out. “Of course. Fictional. Like Dracula and Carmilla and Lestat. And Edward Cullen.” Her lovely smile widens. “But Helly is also a very real, very
slobbery Saint Bernard. And I haven't let him out since this morning, so he has every right to be cross with me.”
“Oh—you have a Saint Bernard?”
“Well... I think a more accurate statement would be that Van Helsing has me, but... Yeah. He's my faithful—and only—companion. We've been together for a long time, Helly and I.”
I wonder what constitutes a “long time” to a vampire. Fifty years? Eighty? Two hundred? But dogs don't live that long, obviously. At least, as far as I know. I'm beginning to realize how very little I do know.
Lare opens the kitchen door, glancing back at me over her shoulder as she steps halfway outside. The scent of ozone and wet grass wafts through the wide, dark opening. “Look after that cut. If it gets infected, let me know, and I'll take care of you.”
I'll take care of you. I nod and smile, despite my Jackhammering heart, and lift my hand in a finger-curling wave. “Thank you again. I mean...I don't know how to thank you. If you hadn't come, I would've probably knocked myself out trying to climb upstairs in the dark.”
“It was my pleasure.” She grins—a slow, teasing grin that makes my knees weak and my heart a dumb, useless muscle in my chest. From a logical standpoint, I realize that those pointy vampire fangs are—literally—designed to kill mortals like me... But, God, does she look sexy when she smiles. Maybe that's part of the allure Azure was talking about earlier today. Maybe I'm supposed to be attracted to every dangerous aspect of this woman; maybe I'm supposed to desire her, to feel compelled to be near her, like some hapless prey animal.
Or maybe I've just watched one too many lesbian vampire movies.
Either way, an object in motion will stay in motion... I take a deep breath and return her smile. “I'd... I'd love to repay the favor sometime. I mean, not that I want you to slice your arm open in a similar feat of epic clumsiness or anything, but—” I flush, tongue-tied. I feel like I'm back in high school, trying to catch the interest of Marly Blackwater, the gorgeous head cheerleader—and failing miserably. I had then, as I still have now, a terminal case of I-don't-know-what-to-say-itis. The only reason Mia and I ever hooked up at all was because she was the aggressor—and because Mia Foster always gets what she wants.
“Like I said, I was happy to help.” Lare tilts her head at me, offering another electric grin. “No repayment necessary. Just let me know if you unearth anything about Maximinus, okay?” she says, and she begins to close the door behind her.
“Sure.” I smile weakly. “Um, see you around?”
“Au revoir.” She shuts the door with a click.
I glance down, bleakly, at the flickering orange-yellow flame: Lare left her lantern burning on my kitchen table. I flick it off with a sigh and then walk to the sink to salvage the remains of the lasagna. It lies floppy and disordered in the bottom of the sink, a confusion of limp pasta and faded vegetables—and, really, it's an apt (and unappetizing) visual metaphor for my current mental state.
Looking at the lasagna makes me think of Mia, and I don't want to think of Mia. Not right now, not tonight. I don't want to think about what she's doing, who she's with. I don't want to think about the fact that I would rather spend my night alone than with my girlfriend.
Alone...or accompanied by the vampire next door.
My heart pounds harder in my chest at the mere thought of Lare.
Stop it, Courtney. This isn't some paranormal soap opera. This is your life. Be sensible.
As I scoop the lasagna corpse out of the sink, I resolve to pass the evening doing exactly what I told Azure I would do, given the choice: I'll draw a bath, and I'll read Jane Eyre, and I'll get really, really warm and soft and philosophical and slightly—or maybe very, very—drunk.
But first...
My stomach growls again—this time, angrily.
I shuffle over to the table, grab my cell phone, and order a pizza, extra cheese.
Chapter Three: All the Wrong Decisions
I'm booting up the store laptop when Azure tosses a stack of bills and the latest copy of the Times onto the desk. “That shipment from Aurora is late, and you got a call from some guy in Kentucky who claims he has a first edition of Moll Flanders.” She frowns, shoving a stray purple spike back into place. “But he sounded weird. Whacked. I don't know if it's the real deal or not. Here's his number, in case you want to call back. Personally, I wouldn't advise it.” She hands me a white slip of paper; then she raises one eyebrow and gives me a wry look. “So how'd the tryst go last night?”
I choke on my coffee, nearly dropping my beloved I Read Banned Books mug. “Tr—tryst?”
“With Jane. Jane Eyre. You know, that sassy little governess. Don't tell me she stood you up?”
I sit down, placing my coffee cup on top of the newspaper on the desk, and offer Azure a small smile. “No, Jane was great. Jane's always great.” Except I couldn't focus on my reading, so I spent the entire length of my bubble bath fantasizing about Lare—and hating myself for it. I take another sip of my too-hot coffee: I deserve a burned tongue. “How was your night, Az?”
“Dull. I wrote some lyrics and then zombied out in front of Friends on the sofa. I don't even like Friends. God, being an adult sucks.” She sulks for a split-second, then brightens. “But you know what doesn't suck?”
“What?” I laugh.
“This.” She grabs the Times, nearly spilling my coffee, and points to a headline on the front page:
Local Music Fest Allies with Cincy Safe Center
I take the paper from her and quickly skim the article.
“Isn't it awesome, Court? A portion of the ticket proceeds are going to go toward community vampire education. Scott—he's the head organizer of the music fest—is a vampire, so it's a cause close to his heart, obviously. Plus—listen to this!” She waves her hands excitedly. “He just signed that all-vamp group Triple Helix to headline the festival.” Azure jumps up and down. “I can't believe I'm going to perform on the same stage as Triple Helix! I feel like a real rock star now.”
“You are a real rock star,” I tell her, putting down the paper and digging my cell phone out of my purse. “I can't wait to see you shine on the stage—finally.” I smile. “I'm so proud of you, Az.”
She squeezes me in a tight hug. “Man, I have way too much energy this morning. Sorry if I talk your ear off or start running up and down the aisles. I'm just so stoked!”
I laugh, squeezing her back. Then she lets go and takes off to finish sorting the morning's deliveries, singing quietly as she works. I listen to her sing as I draw in a deep breath, staring at the phone in my hand.
Then I dial Mia's number.
No answer.
She's at the office, probably working. No reason to be concerned.
I call again during my lunch break. Still no answer—and my overactive imagination begins, well, actively imagining Drew Yarrow, the anti-vampire revolutionary, feeding chocolate-dipped strawberries to my besotted girlfriend...
Cool it, Courtney. You're jumping to conclusions. And being kind of a hypocrite.
Besides, Mia hates strawberries, and she's lactose intolerant, so she can't even digest most brands of chocolate—
I drop a heavy box of books on my left foot and bite my tongue to prevent myself from yowling in pain, because Azure's waiting on a customer at the front of the store. I only whimper—more from the pain of biting my tongue than from the fifty pounds of books crushing my toes. I can taste blood in my mouth, which makes me think of Lare, which makes me feel guilty, which makes me think of Mia, which makes me feel confused...
I pick up the box again and carry it behind the desk, taking care not to upset the bandage on my arm. Turns out the cut wasn't as deep as it felt; I put fresh gauze on it this morning and was kind of disappointed to realize I wouldn't need to take Lare up on her offer for more medical assistance...
Well, there's no better cure for mental chaos than tedious organization, so I throw myself into the task of adding our latest literary acquisitions to the computer i
nventory. Entering the titles, authors, ISBNs, publication dates, and condition descriptions soothes my overstimulated mind. I work for hours, and when I finish and glance up from the desk, Azure's sweeping the floor with the broom—and giving me an accusatory, knowing stare.
“You're upset about something,” she says, pausing in her task to put her hand—still clutching the dustpan—on her hip while shaking her purple head. “What's going on, Courtney?”
“Nothing's going on.” I smile—or try to smile, but Azure always knows when I'm faking it, and I'm really, really faking it right now.
She points the bristles of the broom at me menacingly, narrowing her dark green eyes. “Come on, boss. Spill. Don't make me tickle it out of you.”
I laugh. “Oh, God, no tickling, please.” In college, Azure accidentally discovered my Achilles heel: I can't bear being tickled, and, as irony would have it, I'm intensely ticklish. So my well-meaning but wicked best friend has blackmailed me with this knowledge on more than one occasion. The last time she pulled the “Do this or I'll tickle you” card, she was trying to convince me to go out on a date with a girl—Margie—she had met at a club during one of her performances. “She's totally your type,” Azure had promised me, but Margie, although a book lover, spent our entire night out complaining about the food (it was bland and too cold), the weather (it was damp and ruining her hair), the movie (it was boring and derivative). She probably complained about our quick good-night kiss to her roommate afterward—and she would have had a right to complain about it. It was chaste and indifferent. Needless to say, we never went out again.
Azure sighs, putting down her broom of doom and regarding me with softened, sympathetic eyes. “Is this about Mia and that woman from the museum?”
“No, no, she got over her,” I say dismissively, waving a hand in the air. Mia had had a crush on the curator at the arts museum—or a “deep admiration,” as she called it. But the curator made some offhand, homophobic remarks, so Mia promptly lost interest in Monet and Cassat. “And she swears nothing happened between them.”
The Vampire Next Door Page 4
