The Vampire Next Door

by Natalie Vivien

  “Is my boy giving you trouble?” asks Lare from the doorway.

  “No, he's—” I glance over my shoulder, and then I sink down onto my heels—because my legs are far too weak to hold me up any longer. I swallow as my heart beats like a hammer in my chest.

  I suppose it's very French to undress in front of other people without shyness, as Lare demonstrated before the concert. It is probably, therefore, also very French to be nonchalant about buttoning your button-up pajama top.

  Because Lare hasn't buttoned the pajama shirt yet, revealing an inch-wide strip of rosy-tinged skin that looks warm and satin-soft...

  I lick my lips, blink a few times, and try to focus on the task at hand as Lare begins to button the shirt slowly, her fingers moving from the bottom up. She must have been in the middle of changing, heard Colette's banshee wails, and came out of the bathroom to see what she could do to help.

  Lare crosses the room and sinks down beside me on the floor, holding my gaze and leaning forward. I can't help but notice that she left the top three buttons undone: the pink swell of her breasts draws my eyes like a gravity.

  “Let's try to lure her out together, shall we?” says Lare. Her lips curl up at the corners knowingly—as if she realizes where my eyes have trespassed.

  I draw in a deep breath and place my hand over hers. “You're amazing.”

  She tilts her head, smile widening. “How so?”

  “If my house had been vandalized, I would... I would be like Colette here, yowling under the bed. But you're calm, collected, brave...” I trail off, gazing at her in wonder.

  Lare says nothing for a long moment, only studies me, her eyes flickering with something I can't read, her lips parted, her breath coming in a soft, steady rhythm that makes my heart forget how to beat.

  “I am not brave, ma chere,” she says quietly, at last. “I only do what must be done. It's a skill I've learned, had to learn, over the years. But, tonight, I'm in this house. Your house. With you. And that makes up for a great deal of heartache.”

  I hold her gaze, unblinking, breathless.

  And this time, it's Lare who leans forward, who presses her mouth against mine, her lips hot and sweet. This kiss is softer than the one in the car—quieter, almost. Maybe because it's Lare who's taking the lead, Lare who's moving her tongue against mine, who's kissing me with warmth and grace as I wrap my arms around her neck and press my body against hers.

  Still kissing, we rise instinctually, moving onto the guest bed, lying down on our sides in gradual motions, face to face. Lare smiles against me, and her pointed incisors graze my bottom lip; I shudder against her. The teeth are sharp, but they trail over my skin like sheathed knives, incapable of harm, unwilling to commit harm. I know they could hurt me. They exist to bite.

  But I trust Lare wholly.

  Colette growls again under the bed, and it's only then that we draw apart, laughing together, sitting up. I chuckle, embarrassed, as Colette dashes out between my feet, disappearing through the open bedroom door and making a beeline for my room—and, I imagine, the sanctuary that awaits her under my bed.

  I sigh, rake a hand through my messy hair. “Look,” I tell Lare then, reaching out to tuck an errant red strand behind her ear. My fingers linger against her face, and she tilts her head to rest her cheek against my hand. “It's been a long day. For both of us,” I whisper, smiling softly at her. “Why don't we just go to bed? We'll talk in the morning, figure out what to do then about the house and...and everything else.”

  “I would like that, Courtney,” Lare says, her voice a velvety purr of exhaustion. She smiles fondly at me. Then she takes up my hand and draws it up to her mouth, pressing a soft kiss against the center of my palm. “I would like that very much,” she murmurs, the growl in her voice making my skin shiver with goosebumps.

  Electricity zaps through my sleepy limbs, desire moving through me like a supercharged current...

  But I don't want our first time to be like this: exhausted, falling together to hush the unfairness of the world lurking outside of our embrace. I don't want to associate our first time with vandalism, with fear, with hate.

  So I do one of the hardest things I've ever done. I force myself to rise, to let her go. “Until tomorrow,” I tell her regretfully.

  Lare says nothing, but she watches me with her flickering gaze until I close the guest bedroom door behind me.

  Chapter Eight: You Think You Know Someone

  When I wake up, I'm sore all over, and my ears feel as if they're stuffed with cotton, or like there's a white noise machine playing inside of my head. After a groggy moment, I realize that I slept in, that the sunshine filtering over the bedspread is a warm, golden, late morning glow.

  I blink and peer at the clock: it's fifteen past ten. I massage the back of my neck and stare up at the ceiling. Well, I must have needed the sleep. After all, it was a hell of a night.

  I remember Mia, angry at first, and then sobbing, running away from me after we broke up. I remember the concert, the ear-blasting music, the throbbing bass, and Azure strutting across the stage as if the world belonged to her—because, for an hour, it kind of did. A rush of love and pride fills my chest. She was incredible, magnetic. My best friend, the rock star.

  I remember the vandalism, my fury toward the police officer and the bigoted world at large. Those words haunt me—I know what you did—sketched out in brilliant blue. I dreamed of that phrase last night, appearing everywhere I looked: on the walls, the windows, and the mirror, streaked across my reflection.

  I shake my head, pushing the dream back into my subconscious.

  Because the moments that I remember more clearly than anything else from last night are the kisses that I shared with Lare.

  I reach up, press my fingertips to my lips. They're sore, too, but it's a delicious soreness, one that I hope lingers, reminding me of the taste of her mouth...

  God, I feel a little loopy—and a lot hot and bothered.

  Right. A cold shower is in order if I'm going to make it through the rest of the day.

  Flustered, I roll out of bed, wondering if Lare is still lying in my guest room, her coppery hair fanned over the pillow...or if, more likely, she woke up hours ago. Maybe she's not even in my house anymore; the policeman did tell me that he'd send a car over in the morning to check out the scene of the crime.

  I shuffle out of the bedroom—nearly tripping over Colette—and stumble across the hallway toward the bathroom. I tap the halfway-open door absentmindedly and—

  Lare's standing there, wringing her hair out in a towel.

  She's very nude. And very wet.

  “Oh,” I say, in a short outtake of breath. Lare glances toward me, and a slow, sensual smile slinks over her face. She's not blushing at all. Granted, I'm doing more than enough blushing for the both of us.

  “Bonjour.” She straightens a little, shaking her wet hair over her shoulders. “My house has been cordoned off by the police. I should have asked first, but I hope that you don't mind that I took a shower?”

  “Oh, no. No, that's...fine. Mi casa es su casa,” I stammer—because apparently, when I'm nervous, I slip into high-school Spanish. Face on fire, I try to avoid staring at her goddess-like breasts, her hourglass hips...

  Lare lifts her chin, her smile widening as she drops the towel in her hands to the floor.

  Frantically, I try to think of something to say. “Have you had breakfast yet—er, I mean, your, um, drink?”

  “Yes, I drank this morning. I went to my house for some clothes and spoke with the police when they arrived,” she says, shrugging elegantly, comfortably.

  “And what did the police say?” I ask her, suddenly anxious. I wish I had woken up sooner, so that I could have stood by her side when she confronted the police.

  “They said what I expected: that they didn't have any leads, but they'd let me know if they discovered clues related to the case. Which I doubt they will.” She crosses her arms at her waist.

  “
It's all so frustrating.”

  “Yes. It is.”

  For a long moment, we don't say anything more, only face one another—Lare with one brow raised, a smile teasing at her lips, while I war with the urge to step forward and gather her in my arms...

  I hear a light ding from the kitchen. My phone.

  “Sorry. Just a minute,” I say, leaving her and hurrying downstairs with an odd mixture of relief and regret.

  My cell, which I must have dropped on the kitchen counter when we came in last night, dings insistently until I take it up, staring down at the number on the screen.

  “Hi, Sharon,” I greet my sister, pressing the phone to my ear. “What's—”

  “Courtney? Courtney, something terrible happened.” Sharon sounds distressed, her voice high-pitched and breathy, as if she's been running—or crying. “There was an attempted kidnapping at the vampire club.”

  Another kidnapping?

  “Are you okay?” I ask her, gripping the phone.

  “I'm all right. I'm all right, seriously,” she repeats quickly. “We went to the club after the concert last night, and someone tried to take Marta when she went into the lady's room. I saw it happen, but the guy got out through the back door.”

  “Marta?” I blink. Marta is a mutual friend, a poet. And a human. Everyone who was kidnapped from Give Life Technologies was human, too. Could there be a connection? Have the police made the connection?

  I swallow as a shiver runs down my spine.

  “Courtney, Marcus and I were taken to the police station for questioning. We've been here all night. Could you come and—”

  “God, I'll be there in an instant. Like, half an instant. Don't worry. I'm so glad you're safe,” I tell her, all in one breath. “I'll be right there, okay?”

  “Thanks, sis. See you soon.”

  I end the call and turn on my heel to seek out Lare, but she's already behind me, leaning back against the counter, clothed in a silky lavender blouse and skinny black pants. Her hair is still damp and drawn back from her shoulders. She indicates the phone with a nod of her head.

  “Trouble?” she murmurs.

  “Yeah. An attempted kidnapping of a human from a vampire club last night.” I watch her reaction, biting my lip as her silver-blue eyes widen. “My sister and her boyfriend Marcus were there, and they were taken to the police station for questioning. Marcus—he's a vampire.”

  Lare's gaze flashes with understanding.

  I sigh. “I have to go pick them up.”

  “I can drive you to the police station—”

  “No, Lare.” I take a step nearer to her and touch her cheek with my hand. We're so close now that my breasts are grazing against hers—but lightly. Too lightly. I sigh, inhaling the sweet, intoxicating scent of the beautiful woman before me. “I don't want you mixed up in any of this,” I whisper, gliding my hand to her chin. “Not after what happened last night.”

  She holds my gaze, frowning as if she's going to be stubborn, going to insist on accompanying me, despite my argument—but then she's pressing her car keys into my free hand and closing my fingers over the warm metal.

  “If you won't let me come with you, you must take my car.” She holds up a finger. “No protests, hmm? After all, you don't know if your car will start.”

  I draw in a deep breath. “Thank you.”

  Lare leans forward to brush her lips against my forehead. “Come back soon, ma chere.”

  Ma chere. A pleasant, floaty sensation fills my chest—before reality slams back into me, as heavy as an avalanche of bricks. And, I don't know, pianos. “What will you do while I'm gone? Will you stay here?” I ask her encouragingly, staring into her shining eyes. “The police have been no help. We don't know if your house is safe yet.”

  Lare nods thoughtfully, leans back against the counter. “I suppose I'll find out if Van Helsing and Colette can become friends...” She grins.

  I laugh doubtfully. “Good luck.”

  And then I dash upstairs, leap out of my pajamas, and throw on some jeans and a t-shirt. My hair is a tangled blonde cloud surrounding my head; I look like a time traveler from the 1980s. There's no hope of making my messy mane presentable, so I pull it all back into a sloppy bun. Within the space of a minute, I'm grabbing my phone and my purse, and then I'm out the door, buckling myself into Lare's purple car.

  The drive to the station feels as if it takes eons, ages—but maybe that's only because I'm so impatient to arrive. When I finally park in front of the large brick building and hurl myself out of the car, I'm so frazzled that I nearly forget to take the keys out of the ignition. Then I pause, catching my breath, leaning against the door to absorb the scene before me: there's a crowd of people loitering in front of the station. On a Saturday? I wrinkle my brow, squinting. It's then that I notice several people are holding up signs, milling around the entrance as if they're protesting something.

  “Oh, no...” My stomach plunges down to the earth's core. “SANG,” I curse under my breath, jogging toward the police station anxiously.

  Some of the protesters are wearing jackets that have SANG emblazoned across the backs in neat embroidery—next to a cartoonish image of a gigantic vampire stake. I refuse to acknowledge the hate-filled signs as I trot up the steps, but once I'm inside and running through the hallway, I confront a shouting match—centered around my little sister.

  Surrounded by a tight knot of people, Sharon is wailing, raging, reaching out with clawing hands. I blink, stunned by the feral anger in her green, black-outlined eyes. Her waist is encircled by her boyfriend's arm, and Marcus himself looks pale, withdrawn, as he clings to Sharon, restraining her from launching herself at the person standing in front of her.

  With eyes as wide as saucers, I run closer. My mouth is dry, and my palms are sweating. I feel an adrenaline burst to help Marcus and Sharon, but there's also a cold, slithering dread in my gut. Beyond Sharon's participation in it, there's something deeply unsettling about the sight before me. I feel it before I understand the root cause of it: Sharon is screaming at the top of her lungs, yelling expletives at a blonde woman I only recognize from the news—though I've had nightmares about her often enough.

  Drew Yarrow, the leader of SANG, the brainwasher/seducer of my ex-girlfriend, stands mere feet away from me—finally, in the flesh.

  She's slightly shorter than me, but what she lacks in height, she makes up for in presence. She has luminescent, pale blonde hair, board straight and cut severely at her chin. She's wearing a tight gray pencil skirt and a tight white blouse that frames her ample cleavage. Drew looks professional, like the lawyer that she is, but her eyes—despite their masterful makeup—are sinister, dangerous, narrowed to slits as she glares at my sister.

  At last, she parts her red lips and says, “Being surrounded by animals has brought out the beast in you, young lady.” Her words, spoken in a low, level voice, are directed toward Sharon, and they set my sister off on another impressive swearing tirade.

  Drew is flanked by several slack-jawed members of SANG; they remind me of drone bees clustered around a queen. There is something regal about Drew, admittedly—but she would be the sort of queen who would guillotine you for stealing a loaf of bread, or for serving her bread on the wrong fancy plate.

  Now Drew lifts her chin, sneering at both Marcus and Sharon. “Bedding one of those creatures makes you just as despicable as they are.” With that, she turns to share a laugh with the person closest to her, a person who, until now, had been blocked from my sight by Drew's body.

  Mia.

  Mia, staring at Drew adoringly. No, adoringly isn't the right word; it isn't strong enough, not by half. Mia looks rapturous, hypnotized, like an ecstatic congregation member at an evangelism rally.

  My ex-girlfriend's rapt, wide brown eyes don't slip from Drew's commanding aura for a moment, so she doesn't see me, doesn't know I'm here.

  I draw in a deep breath to calm my galloping heart. It's irrelevant, Mia's presence. Even Drew's presence doesn'
t matter. I can't change either of their minds; I can't show them the evil of their hate-mongering ways. Besides, that's not why I'm here.

  I'm here to help my sister.

  “Sharon, stop, ” I force out, squeezing between shoulders and elbows until I'm standing beside my sister and Marcus. The instant that Sharon sees me, she goes silent, but her face takes on a pinched look as she shifts her gaze past me, still glaring at Drew. If Sharon's eyeballs could shoot laser beams, Drew would be on the floor right now, toppled over like a bowling pin.

  I turn my attention to Mia, and Mia looks at me, too, but her gaze is empty, unseeing, like the dead eyes of a porcelain doll. It makes my stomach turn, witnessing how much Drew has changed her, manipulated her.

  Drew herself does see me. And somehow she recognizes me, though we've never met before in our lives, because she smiles cruelly, tipping Mia's chin upward with one long, manicured nail. Drew Yarrow bends down and kisses Mia deeply, then, passionately, while the ruckus around her gradually ebbs.

  Mia says nothing when their mouths part, only squeezes Drew's arm and recommences staring at the sharp-faced woman as if she's a saint—or a goddess made flesh.

  “You asshole!” Sharon shouts at Mia over my shoulder. “You slime! How could you do this to my sister? What's wrong with you? I knew she was too good for you!”

  “Sharon—”

  “Courtney, did you see what she just—”

  “Forget about her. Please. It doesn't matter, not anymore,” I say quickly, quietly. “Now tell me—what's going on?” I position myself to block her view of Drew and Mia and place my hands on her shoulders, holding her in place.

  Sharon huffs. “Mia is such a—”

  I shake my head only once, and my sister bites her tongue and narrows her eyes, growling in frustration. “What's happening?” I ask her again.

  “Okay, fine. Drew Yarrow,” she begins, rising on her tiptoes to peer at the woman over my shoulder, “was seen talking to Marta at the club last night, and since Marta is still out of it because of the stuff that was slipped into her drink, Drew was brought into the station for questioning.”