The Vampire Next Door

by Natalie Vivien

  Seated across from Mia, I gaze at the bouquet of twenty-four roses now and sigh bleakly. In the center of my kitchen table, stuffed into a too-small, chipped glass vase, they don't look elegant so much as...desperate. Strangled. Some of the petals have already fallen; Colette is batting at one of them on the tiled floor.

  White roses used to be my favorite flower, but now I associate them with bad memories, painful moments. It's a sad but irrefutable truth that Mia only gives me flowers when she's nervous about discussing something personal with me or feeling guilty about her attraction to another woman. More often...the latter. And it's ironic, because white roses symbolize innocence, pure and unsullied love.

  Over the course of our relationship, they've come to mean something else entirely: a pretty facade distracting attention from the sharp, scary, lurking thorns.

  “What's up, baby? You look sad. Did something upsetting happen at the shop today?”

  I shake my head, and the scent of the roses assaults my nose, sickly sweet. My stomach turns uneasily as I lift my gaze to meet Mia's narrowed brown eyes. “No, this has nothing to do with work. Mia...” I hold her stare. I promised myself I'd be receptive and frank during this conversation, so I state my cause simply, bluntly: “I don't know if this is working anymore.”

  She stills, blinks, parts her lips. “This?” she asks quietly—though, by her tone of voice, I can tell that she knows exactly what I mean.

  “Yeah. This. Us,” I force myself to say, wringing my hands in my lap. My stomach turns again.

  “Oh.” She bows her head. Some long strands of hair have fallen loose from her ponytail, and they trail over the high planes of her pink-tinged cheeks. “Oh,” she says again, her voice soft and faraway.

  Normally, she sounds so certain, so persuasive that you can't help but hang on her every word, believe her fully, and go along with whatever scheme she suggests. In April, she talked me into skinny-dipping in a snapping turtle-infested, half-frozen creek—and I can't swim. The water was algae green and smelled like something rotting, but Mia made the experience feel exciting, sexy.

  Now...she looks defeated, and she sounds so young. So small. Lost. I did this to her.

  My heart shreds.

  “You aren't happy with me, Courtney?”

  “Are you happy, Mia?”

  “I...I don't know. I thought we were having fun—”

  “I have had fun with you.” I reach for her hand across the table. She gives it to me; her fingers are damp and as cold as ice. When I'm upset, I go hot all over. Mia breaks out into a cold, clammy sweat. “A lot of fun.” I draw in a deep breath. “But I've had a lot of heartache, too. Mia, I don't think I'm...enough for you. I don't satisfy you—”

  “That isn't true. It's just... Courtney, I know I've been stupid and... I know I've hurt you, and that's the last thing I ever intended to do. But I can be different.” She squeezes my hand hard. “I can change, baby. I lost my way for a little while. That's all. You know I've been stressed out at work—”

  “No, I don't want you to change for me—”

  “Not for you. For me. I want to be a better person. I want to be worthy of you, Courtney.”

  “Mia—”

  “Give me another chance. I love you, baby.” With her free hand, she strokes my cheek tenderly. Her brown eyes are watery, shining. “I love you so much. I've never loved anyone like this before, I swear. I messed up, but I can fix it, us; I can fix everything. Just let me try. Please, baby. You've got to let me try. Let me make you feel adored, worshiped.” She rises from her chair and steps around the table until she's standing in front of me. Then she kneels down at my feet. Kneels down just like Lare had last night... “Let me make you feel like the goddess you are.”

  “Mia, I'm not a—” But I never finish my sentence, because she places her cool hands on my knees and begins to slide my dress up, up...and she bends her head toward me, trailing hot, lingering kisses over my inner thighs. “Oh, God, Mia,” I breathe, as her mouth moves higher, closer. “Wait—”

  “Do you want me to stop?” she whispers, lifting her dark head to gaze hungrily into my eyes. “I'll stop—”

  “Mia...”

  Be strong, Courtney.

  I am not a doormat.

  I am not a...not a... I am... Mia's fingers tease at the edge of my panties.

  “No, don't. Don't stop...”

  Smiling wickedly but somehow sweetly, she lowers her mouth again.

  Chapter Four: All the Right Places

  Four days later—the prior forty-eight hours being comprised mostly of working and angsting; shamed by my carnal weakness, I've been avoiding Mia's calls—I finally get a bite on my Maximinus queries.

  The email is brief and to the point, and from a contact of a contact, someone named Gustav in Hamburg, Germany:

  To the proprietor of Banks' Books,

  I have in my possession one of the few existing copies of a slender volume titled Biological Alchemy. This book references the alchemist Maximinus on forty-nine pages. One chapter is entirely devoted to his research. Since, as I said, the book is very rare, I could not part with it for less than $20,000. Please contact me at this email address with your client's offer.

  Regards,

  Gustav Reigle

  Professor of Occult Sciences

  “Wow, $20,000?” Azure says, whistling as she reads over my shoulder. “Steep.”

  “Yeah.” I tap my finger on the mouse thoughtfully. “Hang on.” I do a quick Google search for Biological Alchemy and come up with nothing, not a single mention of the book on all of the Internet. I return to the email tab and frown. “Well, it's the only lead we've got.”

  “I hope Lare's loaded.”

  Quickly, I send off a reply to Professor Reigle, requesting some photographs of the book and a condition description. I don't know if Lare has $20,000 to burn, but even if she does, I want to make sure this book is the real deal before I get her hopes up. Gustav Reigle is a professor, not a bookseller. To cover my bases, I send him a follow-up email, requesting character references.

  “Well, I'm going to take off, boss,” Azure says suddenly.

  “What?” I swivel around in the chair to face her. She has her backpack slung over her shoulder, her yellow motorcycle helmet dangling from one hand.

  “Today's my short day, remember? I've got a rehearsal at the fairgrounds for the music fest.” She glances at her watch and shakes her head. “David was supposed to be here fifteen minutes ago to finish the shift. Sorry, but I'll be late if I don't set out now. Is it okay?”

  “Sure. Of course. Go sing your heart out,” I smile, waving a hand at her. “The shop's as quiet as a tomb today, anyway.”

  “Oh, God, don't talk about tombs.” Azure closes her eyes and shivers. “I watched this creepy documentary last night about a house built on a graveyard. Everyone who lived in the place ended up dead or crazy. And my apartment building is right next to the old St. Michael's Cemetery. What if the contractor accidentally built on top of some unmarked graves?” Azure's eyes, outlined in thick black liner, widen as she stares at me. “I couldn't sleep a wink all night. I kept hearing this, like, moaning...”

  I give her a wry smile. “Sure it wasn't Oliver having a bad dream?” Oliver is Azure's elderly collie.

  “Come to think of it...” She tilts her head, considering. “Oliver does moan like a ghost whenever he's hungry. Bow-wow-woooow,” she imitates, grinning. “Yeah, I'm just going to cling to that explanation.” She backs toward the door. “Thanks, Court. I'm so gullible when it comes to spooky stuff. Part of me wants it to be true, I guess. But sometimes I need a skeptic's point of view—for my sanity's sake.”

  There's that word again—skeptic. I smile weakly. “Have fun at rehearsal.”

  “Have fun reading Jane Eyre. You are still reading it, right? Or should I hit your hands with a ruler and give you a pop quiz?”

  I laugh, rising to pick up the store copy of the book from the desktop. “I'm reading it, you old
schoolmarm. And I've read it before, you know.”

  “Read it, but you never studied it like the sacred tome that it is. You'll become a connoisseur of romance yet!” Azure blows me a kiss and then flies through the door, the bells jangling to announce her exit.

  David calls in sick a few minutes after she leaves, complaining of a “stomach thing.” I hired 19-year-old David Reynolds as a part-time employee about a year ago, before Randolph Palmer's sales took off. I don't begrudge anyone success, but the fact of the matter is that Randolph's success has hurt my business, and if my numbers don't level out soon, I'll be forced to consider the wisdom in keeping Banks' Books' doors open—and two employees on staff.

  By closing time three hours later, I've waited on only one customer—a college kid looking for a copy of Don Quixote for her Spanish Literature class—and played seventy-three games of computer Solitaire. All of which I lost.

  Jane Eyre lies unread and accusatory beside my mouse. I slide the book into my purse—I have several copies at home, but this one is illustrated and annotated, a literary nerd's dream—and then shut off the lights, locking the shop door behind me.

  ---

  It's a bake-a-cake-and-eat-the-entire-thing-while-watching-sappy-lesbian-movies sort of evening.

  The only trouble is...I'm out of sugar. Because I made a coconut cream pie last night. And I made double-chocolate brownies the night before.

  Some people self-medicate with alcohol or drugs. I drown my sorrows in sugary baked goods.

  “Be back in a minute,” I tell Colette uselessly; she's too busy stalking a dust bunny to notice my long-faced comings and goings.

  I grab my wallet and car keys and step outside into the humid evening air. I changed into a white tank top and jean shorts when I got home from work, but I still feel overdressed and overheated. Colonel Mustard's AC is on the fritz, so when I fall into the driver's seat, I unwind the window all the way and—squeezing one eye shut—jam the key into the ignition.

  A rumble...a shudder...a weird sort of grinding noise...

  And then nothing.

  I sigh and sag against the seat, banging the back of my head against the headrest.

  “Car trouble?”

  Okay, knifing incident aside, I'm not a screamer, I swear. But in my current state of frustration—emotional, sexual, automobile, and otherwise—I'm caught off guard by the unexpected question and can't help but scream...a little.

  Actually, it's more like a squeak.

  “Sorry, Courtney. I didn't mean to startle you.”

  I swallow, gazing up into Lare's silver-blue eyes. God, she's beautiful. She's dressed in running shorts and a tight, sleeveless gray shirt, and red waves spill over her bare right shoulder. Her mouth is curved up into a concerned smile.

  And there's a giant, slobbery, brown-and-white dog panting at her side. Van Helsing, I remember. He licks my car door thoughtfully before sprawling on the ground, plunking his enormous head down on his enormous paws.

  “My car's a lemon,” I explain to Lare, smiling up at her. “I was going to bake a cake, but I ran out of sugar. And old Colonel Mustard here”—I smack the steering wheel with my palm—“isn't quite up for a grocery store run. Maybe it's for the best, though. I've been...overindulging in the sweets department.”

  “There's no such thing as overindulging.” She winks, and I can feel my body melting. “Besides...” Lare laughs, revealing those pointed teeth. “I know it's a cliché to borrow a cup of sugar from your neighbor, but clichés only exist because they reflect reality, right? So what do you say? Want some of my sugar, girl-next-door?”

  My heart somersaults.

  Did she really just...offer me her sugar?

  Okay, I realize she meant it literally rather than, um, another way, but I still feel as I've just stumbled into an exploitative '80s hair band music video.

  I pause. Then I shake my head and blink, confused. “Wait. I don't... You mean, you have sugar? In your house? I thought...” Another vampire misconception, Courtney? But I did read somewhere that vampires don't require food or water to survive...

  “I don't eat like you do. That's true.” Lare's mouth slants to one side. “But I like to keep my pantry stocked—in case any beautiful humans knock on my door.” She gives me a meaningful look, and I flush beneath her stare. “Hospitality, you know. My foster family was human, so I picked up some cooking skills.”

  “Oh,” I say hoarsely. “You had a foster family?”

  She nods, still smiling, though there are dark gray shadows in her silver eyes. “But that was a long time ago.” Pointing her gaze toward the dog at her feet, she sighs before meeting my stare again. “We've just been for a run around the neighborhood. Poor Helly's exhausted.” Chuckling softly, she leans toward my car door and whispers, “As a cat owner, you may not know this, but dogs make excellent scapegoats. Blame them when you're exhausted after a run, and they'll never take it personally. Excellent pals, dogs. Always willing to help you save face and impress pretty ladies.” She winks at me again. My blush deepens: pretty sure my skin color has progressed from watermelon pink to bright tomato red. My face feels as if it's generating enough heat to warm a large igloo.

  Lare winds Helly's leash around her pale wrist. “Anyway, if you do decide to indulge, after all,” she grins, “my door's right over there.” She points, smiles coaxingly at me, and then jogs off in the direction of her one-story brick house.

  I sit behind the wheel for a full minute, weighing the pros and cons of accepting Lare's invitation. It's what I do best: making lists. But, honestly, it's been a rough day, I'm overheated and experiencing sugar withdrawal, and I'm just not in a listmaking mood.

  So, drawing in a deep breath, I work up the nerve to step out of the car and walk up Lare's flagstone sidewalk. There's a small grapevine wreath decorated with sprigs of blue flowers hanging on the door. I lift my hand to knock—

  And Lare opens the door quickly, her smile warming me from the inside out. “Well, hello there, neighbor.” She leans against the frame and offers me a coy grin, crossing her arms over her chest. “Now...how might I help you?”

  Her smile is infectious—along with her playfulness. I duck my head. “I was wondering—I know it's cliché, but... Could I borrow a cup of sugar?”

  “Oh, have the whole jar,” she laughs, stepping aside and gesturing with her be-ringed hand. She's wearing a large ring with a black stone on her pointer finger, and another—shaped like a swan's head—on her thumb. “Please step into my lair.” She grins. “I've always wanted to say that. You're my first visitor here, you know.”

  My heart tumbles in my chest as I move past her and into the dove gray entryway. Ninety-five percent of my involuntary instincts are telling me to turn around right now, to leave, to save myself from a certain...uncertainty. But the other five percent wins out—because logic tells me that vampires have more to fear from humans than humans do from vampires. There have only been a handful of vampire attacks on humans reported since the President went public, while the number of human attacks on vampires is, it seems, incalculable—and constantly on the rise.

  If Lare trusts me enough to let me into her home, her sanctuary, that's important. That means something to me. I don't know, can't know what it's like to live life as a vampire, as a non-human, but I do know what it feels like to be the black sheep of the neighborhood, to wonder if the next knock at the door is going to bring you a warm casserole or a religious pamphlet and a defamatory speech.

  I feel wretched now for having doubted her motivations last night, for having suspected—if only for a moment—that she wanted to drink my blood. The fact that she hasn't shunned me for my ignorance is proof of her innate goodness. She had every right to call me out for questioning her offer of help...but she didn't. She gave me another chance, a chance I really didn't deserve.

  As she closes the door behind us, I catch her distinctive scent on the air: sweetness and flowers and something else, something deep and sensual. Not perfume. I
think it's just...Lare. Lare, with her languid, art nouveau grace; with her raw, friendly, natural allure... Entirely natural, because there is no human-luring pheromone. Over the past few days—secretly and a little shamefully—I've Googled vampires nonstop, cramming my head with facts and figures, theories and truths. And I've discovered that the pheromone rumor is just that—a rumor. There is no scientific proof for its existence whatsoever.

  So that means that what I'm feeling for Lare isn't the result of preternatural bait. My attraction is just...attraction. Intense, insistent, soul-deep attraction. This...pull. Like a magnet. Like Rochester and Jane's string.

  “I'm sorry.” I offer her an apologetic smile, bending over to pet Helly's scruffy brown-and-white head. He laps at my hand appreciatively. “My neighborliness rating is in the red. I should have brought you a housewarming gift.”

  “Hey, my house is warm enough. Broken AC unit.” Then she winks at me again and turns away. “Besides, your being here is a gift,” she tells me over her shoulder, leading me (and Helly) into the small but charming kitchen. The walls are soft yellow, the cabinets scalloped and white, and there's a cream-colored tablecloth on the small table in the breakfast nook. She nods toward it. “Have a seat, Courtney.”

  “Okay. Thanks.” I step over the old hardwood floor, pull out a chair and lower myself into it, awkwardly resting an elbow on the tabletop. “The house looks nice. Cozy. You've already unpacked?”

  “Well, a little. The former owners sold me the place fully furnished. So most of this stuff”—she points to the Van Gogh sunflowers framed on the wall—“came with the deal. It suits me, though. I'm not much of a decorator. At my last place, I slept on a futon and used overturned crates for chairs.” She taps her forehead, giving me a wry look. “One of the perils of scientific pursuit. There's no room in my head for aesthetics. Though I can still appreciate a beautiful thing when I see it.” Lare turns and regards me with a pensive smile. Then she opens a cupboard door and begins pushing around the tins and canisters until she finally says, “Aha!” and draws out a blue-and-white jar marked with the word sucre—sugar in French. “Here we are.”