The Vampire Next Door

by Natalie Vivien

  My head feels as if it's stuffed with too much information, too many thoughts and counterthoughts, as I consider Lare's unexpected invitation.

  What's the big deal? It’s just lunch. Mia goes out to lunch with friends and interviewees all the time, nearly every day. Sometimes Azure and I grab a bite to eat after work. It's what friends do, eat together.

  Of course, in this case, I'll be the only one eating...

  I watch some dust motes, glittering in the sunlight, settle on the top of one of my latest acquisitions, a sumptuously illustrated, Victorian-era copy of Pride and Prejudice. And so I think, crazily, irrationally, What would Jane Austen do?

  Well, obviously, Jane would accept a lunch invite from a neighbor, because a refusal without valid cause would be deemed impolite and ungrateful.

  Right?

  So I'll accept to be polite and grateful. It's as simple as that. No ulterior motivations. No danger of feeling compelled by inappropriate romantic fantasies—

  “Sure,” I say, quickly and unthinkingly. I can't think, because if I do think, I'll remember Mia and have to confront the the fact that my desire to go to lunch with Lare has nothing to do with Regency etiquette and everything to do with my, well, desire. For Lare.

  Yeah. Best to disable my inner Virgo right now and avoid thinking altogether.

  After all, it is only lunch.

  Lunch with a woman you’re desperately attracted to.

  I bite my lip again—hard.

  “Oh, bon, that’s wonderful. I’ll see you around noon, then? In just a little while? You’re at your shop, yes? I'm not far... I’ll pick you up there,” Lare tells me, her voice as warm as her skin.

  Stop it, Courtney.

  “Noon, yes. Yeah, perfect. I can’t wait.” And then, before I can say/do/think anything else, I end the call.

  Dumfounded and startled, I place the phone on the counter, regarding its screen with a sort of mystic wonder.

  I don't need a mirror to know that my cheeks are, tellingly and brightly, flushed. Thank God Azure isn't here right now to catch me red-handed—er, red-faced.

  I curl my fingers around my I read banned books mug, lifting the chipped rim to my lips and inhaling, for the first time, the heady aroma of the tea that Lare gave me last night, that Lare created in honor of my cat. I know that glamorous fluffball doesn't appreciate the gesture, but I do. Tentatively, I take a sip.

  On my tongue, the hot liquid is spicy and bold, with a decadent chocolate rise and a sweet cinnamon aftertaste. And there's...something else. I take another sip and tilt my head, considering.

  Oh, my God, I know that scent...

  I laugh out loud; my lips curl at Lare's cleverness.

  Catnip. She put catnip in Colette's tea. Good thing I brought the packet to work, because Colette would ravage it if I left it anywhere in the kitchen. Some cats get all cute and roly-poly when they're high on catnip, but Colette gets downright destructive. When I first adopted her, I bought her a little blue mouse stuffed with catnip, and she not only tore that mouse apart, but she also chewed holes in the toes of my boots and dragged the blankets off of my bed. I found them in a pile at the bottom of the stairs when I woke up, shivering, in the morning.

  Honestly, I think catnip is Colette's version of Popeye's spinach. It makes her crazy strong—or maybe just crazy.

  Either way, Lare chose well.

  As I down the rest of the contents of my mug, David walks by the front desk with a stack of books in his arms. He nods agreeably to me, still whistling that kind-of-creepy tune.

  All in all, David Reynolds is a model employee: he completes his tasks—shelving, waiting on customers—quietly and without fuss. His level-headedness and his literary knowledge drove me hire him, and he hasn't ever disappointed me on either score. He has yet to open up about his personal life, so I don't know where he goes or what he does when he isn't at the store. And, really, that isn't my business. He's private but pleasant; we've always gotten along well as co-workers, and I know I can trust him to get his job done, and done well.

  Still, there’s something unnerving about this tune... It’s kind of catchy, in a maddening, stuck-in-your-head-for-days way.

  “Hey, David,” I call after him, as he reaches up to shelve a gold-gilt edition of Les Miserables.

  He pauses, glancing my way in surprise.

  “What’s that song you’re whistling?” I smile. “I don't think I'm familiar with it.”

  “Sorry. Was I bothering you?” His brown eyes flicker as he fumbles with the heavy books in his arms.

  “No, no. I was only curious.”

  “Oh,” he says, sounding relieved. “I didn't even realize I was whistling it. It's...nothing, just a song some friends of mine made up.”

  “Ah.” I nod and slip my cell phone into my purse. “Well, just so you know, I’m going out for lunch in a little while.” I glance up at the clock on the wall, a German cuckoo clock that was one of my mother's few personal additions to the store. The yellow-painted bird's about to crow; it's five 'til twelve. “I should be back in an hour or so. Are you up for manning the ship until I get back?”

  “Sure. No problem, Courtney.”

  “Thanks, David.”

  As he returns to his task, I ease onto the stool and tap my foot, watching the clock's hands tick. But I don't have to wait long. Within the minute, I spot Lare through the tall shop window. She’s moving down the sidewalk toward the front door, taking long, measured steps. Her hands are shoved deep into the pockets of her slim cream-colored pants, and her lacy tank top is startlingly white beneath the sharp, chic lines of her black blazer. Her hair is swept over one shoulder, as bright as burnished copper.

  She looks distracted, lost in thought; her forehead is creased, her chin bowed down. But then she sees me through the glass, and her expression softens: the worry lines vanish, and her icy blue eyes warm as they seek out mine.

  She pulls the door open, bells jangling, as I sling my purse over my shoulder, smiling naturally. Effortlessly. God, I’m practically skipping toward her...

  When was the last time I was this excited about seeing Mia?

  Don’t answer that, I command myself, as I pause in front of Lare. “Hi.”

  “Hi.” She tilts her head toward me, matching my smile. Her silver eyes reflect my all-too eager, dog-that's-about-to-go-for-a-walk face. “I’m so glad you were free for lunch,” she says quietly, her French accent more pronounced the lower and softer her voice becomes. She lifts her chin, mirrored eyes glinting. “Where would you like to go?” Her full lips turn up into a self-deprecating smile. “I'm afraid I'm not familiar with the restaurants around here. Or, you know, anywhere.”

  I laugh softly, blushing. Blushing already. Maybe she doesn't notice. Maybe she can't tell how thoroughly and irreversibly smitten I am with her.

  And maybe Colette is secretly a Russian spy masquerading as a housecat to gather top-secret foreign intelligence.

  Actually, bad metaphor, because that might be true...

  I stammer, “Okay, restaurants. Um, let me think....” But I can't think. I can't think of a single eatery between Cincinnati and the moon. To conceal my nervousness, I run my hands through my hair, and my traitor fingers—again—get tangled in the strands.

  Lare’s tired smile softens.

  When my hand comes free, she takes it gently, squeezing once, twice.

  “Hey, how about that little bistro across the street?” She inclines her head in the direction of Al’s Cafe. She hasn't let go of my hand, and my pulse is roaring through me. I feel drunk on her scent, her nearness. I don't want to go to Al's Cafe. I want to take Lare back to my place and—

  Focus. You're polite and grateful—remember? Nothing else.

  I straighten, clearing my throat and straightening my shoulders, envisioning myself as a Jane Austen heroine wearing one of those empire-waist gowns. “I mean, the”—I make air quotes with my free hand—“food is great at Al's Cafe.” I offer Lare a weak smile. “If you don
't mind penciling food poisoning into your schedule.”

  “Oh, no...”

  “Oh, yes. Azure and I went to Al's once. Once. We had to keep the bookstore closed the next day, while we both recovered. That macaroni and cheese... It looks innocent enough. Smells good. But I'm telling you—lethal.”

  Lare laughs sympathetically. “Okay, so Al's is out of the running.”

  “Yeah. Oh! How about Cleo’s? It’s two blocks down the street, and it has this fantastic view of a busy intersection. Live road rage. So avant-garde.”

  Lare laughs again. “Well, all right. To Cleo's, then.” She lets go of my hand to open the door behind her, bowing slightly as she gazes up at me through her long lashes. “After you, mademoiselle.”

  Heartbeats clacking in my chest like typewriter keys, I duck through the doorway, and Lare follows, letting the door shush shut as we step into the sunlight.

  The midday heat is brutal, but I hardly notice it; I'm always overheated in Lare's company. The wooden heels of my wedges clonk on the concrete sidewalk as she and I keep pace, side by side. When I look to her, her mouth quirks into a thoughtful but gentle smile. She sighs softly, angling her shoulders forward as her hands disappear into her pants pockets.

  “I owe you an explanation, Courtney.” Her jaw tenses, and she shifts her silver-blue eyes toward her feet. “I was called in to work last night because of...an unfortunate incident. One that required my immediate attention.”

  “An incident?”

  She nods, almost imperceptibly, and levels me a sober glance. “Yesterday, a colleague of mine, George Morris, was kidnapped from GLT.” Her voice is hard, her eyes flashing a dangerous silver. “He's the second GLT employee to vanish recently. So now there's a pattern. Both of the kidnap victims have been human.”

  I bow my head, taking this information in.

  “Give Life Technologies, as you know, concerns itself with blood technology and advancement, so the company is linked undeniably to the welfare of vampires. And there are—as you also know—many, many people who would rather see vampires immolated, exterminated, rather given the opportunity to live happy, open lives.”

  Shuddering, I think of Drew Yarrow. And I see, in my mind's eye, the photograph of Mia brandishing an anti-vampire sign. “Yeah,” I say quietly, “I know.”

  Lare's nostrils flare. “We have no understanding as to why these humans have been kidnapped, and there aren't any leads—or so the police force claims.” She offers me an apologetic shrug. “I don't mean to sound bitter. It's just that... I can't trust them. There have been countless vampire-phobic incidents in this city.” Lare trails off, frustrated, biting her lower lip as we round the corner and move past a flower shop called Plantasia. The heady scent of roses wafts around us in the humid air, its sweetness a strange complement to Lare's sour expression.

  “Forgive me,” she says suddenly.

  “Forgive you? For what?” I narrow my brows.

  “I've said too much. I shouldn’t bother you with my troubles. I only wanted to explain. George is a good man. My friend. He has a family... He doesn't deserve this. Neither does Daniel, the other kidnap victim. I just wish I could figure out what's going on.”

  “Lare.” I stop beside her, and she turns to face me; her eyes are liquid silver, her mouth set in a grim line. I brush my fingertips over her forearm, bared beneath the cuff of her jacket. She’s warm to the touch, so soft... Feeling brave, reckless, or some cocktail of both, I glide my fingers down her wrist until I firmly grasp her hand.

  “I can't imagine what you're going through. How unsafe you must feel, how...distressed. I’m so sorry.” I squeeze her hand as I study her pale, pensive face. “If there's anything I can do to help—to help you—just let me know...”

  Lare searches my gaze. I see myself in her eyes, a miniature silhouette, and then she blinks, shifts her gaze, and blue replaces the silver. Her lips tug up at the corners. “Do you know what you can do to help me?”

  “Just ask,” I whisper, squeezing her hand again.

  “You can enjoy lunch.” She chuckles and gifts me with a brilliant smile that instantly transmutes my knees—and various other parts of my anatomy—into Jell-o.

  I lick my lips and lift my brows. “That's all?”

  “That's everything. You're outside of my troubles, Courtney. You're...very good for me.”

  Her smile deepens, and then she nods her head, indicating that we should keep going. Companionably, we begin to walk down the sidewalk again. “And what of your news?” she asks me suddenly, her words subdued.

  “News?”

  “You said you were going to call me earlier—”

  “Oh! God, I'm so scatterbrained today.” I slip my phone out of my purse and page through to my folder of saved emails. “A contact of a contact,” I tell her, as I scan the email subject lines, “has tracked down a book you might be interested in. He said there are many references to Maximinus in it, along with a whole chapter dedicated solely to his work.”

  “A whole chapter?” Lare's eyes widen, and her lips part in a wide, expectant smile. I've never seen her smile like this before. All of the sudden, she looks ten years younger, and I can imagine what a beautiful, charming child she must have been. “That's better than I ever hoped for. And you found it so quickly—”

  “The only catch,” I interrupt, in an attempt to prevent her from getting excited prematurely, “is the price. It's steep. We're talking five figures.”

  “Hmm.” She pauses, turning toward me. “Five figures. But if I pay this price, the book will be mine?”

  “Well, yeah,” I tell her with a soft smile; she looks adorably happy, as eager as a kid who just found out she's getting a pony for her birthday. “The guy selling the book is a German professor, and everything about him and the book itself seems to check out. There are photos I can show you, and credentials. But...” I draw in a deep breath. “He's asking for $20,000.”

  Lare doesn’t flinch, doesn't even blink. “That’s fine. That’s fine,” she says distractedly, excitedly, removing her hands from her pockets to clasp my fingers. “Courtney, thank you. GLT will wire the money to your contact as soon as I pass on the information. I mean, you trust this professor? You think the book is real?”

  I nod. “I do.”

  “Then that's all I need to know. Please get back to him right away, tell him we’ll purchase the book. With expedited shipping. Courtney.” She bows her head and draws in several long breaths before she lifts her gaze to stare into my eyes. It's a soft stare, and it moves through me like warm water. “I am indebted to you. This could be the answer to—” She stops herself short, setting her mouth in a firm line and lifting her chin. “No. I shouldn't get carried away. Not yet. But I have very high hopes...”

  “I'm glad I could help, Lare.”

  We enter Cleo’s, and Lare chooses a small booth in the corner as I type a quick email reply on my phone to Gustav Reigle, communicating Lare's desire to buy his book for his proposed price. I slide into the booth and hit send on the message.

  “What'll it be, ladies?” My favorite waitress, Charlene, wearing Cleo's standard pink-and-white, vintage-style uniform, asks as she approaches our table.

  “I’ll have the usual, Char.” Charlene is my favorite waitress at Cleo's. Whenever we stop in for dinner, she always tips Azure and I off as to which chef is on duty, and which menu items we should therefore choose—or avoid. Now, Char gives me a wink and a smile before asking Lare what she'd like to order.

  “Nothing for me, thanks,” Lare says with a soft smile.

  If Char sees the silver reflection in Lare’s eyes, she doesn’t outwardly react to it, just nods and heads toward the back of the diner to bark my order to the afternoon cook. My eyes flick thoughtfully toward the swinging glass entrance. There's a Vampires welcome here sign posted on the door, a sign I must have seen, subconsciously, every time I walked into the restaurant. But it never really registered—until today. I noticed it when Lare and I came in.<
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  “Nice place.” Lare smiles at me across the table, resting her chin on her hand.

  “Yeah,” I smile back, “it really is. And—hey.” I point toward the window at Lare's back. “What did I tell you about that view?”

  She laughs as she glances over her shoulder toward the lunch rush traffic, a seemingly endless stream of impatient, hungry nine-to-fivers, swishing past. “Paris would be jealous.”

  Within minutes, Char brings my grilled cheese-and-tomato sandwich, along with a glass of iced tea. “Here you go, honey. Now, is there anything else I can do for you ladies?”

  “I think we're all set. Thanks, Char.”

  “My pleasure.”

  I take a sip of the iced tea, and though it's usually something I enjoy—especially on hot days like today—I wrinkle my nose in surprise at the taste. “Wow, Lare,” I laugh lightly, placing the glass back on the table. “I have to admit... I think your tea has spoiled me.”

  “Really?” she asks, lips turning up at the corners.

  “Really. I tried that tea packet you gave me, the one you named Colette. God, it was...incredible...”

  “I'm glad you liked it.” Lare's smile widens; she leans forward, hands clasped. My eyes fall to her long fingers and the ring she's wearing on her thumb, a large silver rose. “I was a little worried about the flavors blending well together, but I felt that it needed the extra, hmm, surprise that only catnip could provide.”

  “It was definitely a surprise,” I exhale, grinning. “I thought it was the perfect touch. Colette's crazy about catnip.” I tear the crusts off of one of the triangles of my sandwich.

  “You know,” Lare begins with a soft, throaty chuckle, “some people consider catnip to be an aphrodisiac.” She leans back in her seat, stares at me with a piercing silver-blue gaze. “Silly, isn't it? But maybe that's why it makes cats lose their senses.”

  “Maybe.” The word is almost a whisper, because my throat closed up when I heard Lare use the word aphrodisiac. Her voice is an aphrodisiac. Okay, let's be honest—everything about Lare is an aphrodisiac for me. Here we are, spending a simple, casual lunch hour together, and my heart is racing like a jackhammer, my nerves feel as if they've been electrified, and I'm pretty sure my face is the same shade as that ketchup bottle on our table.