The Vampire Next Door

by Natalie Vivien

  My life with Lare.

  I straighten my shoulders and flick my gaze to Azure, who's watching me with narrowed eyes.

  “All right there, chickadee?” she asks, concerned. “You look like you just saw a ghost. In text form.”

  “It's just some...business,” I say evasively, clearing my throat and placing the phone on the desk, face down.

  I know that, if I tell Azure where I'm planning to go, who I'm planning to see, she'll try to talk me out of it. She might even go so far as to lock the shop door and hide the key. She'd say, Courtney, don't walk back into the fire... And the thing is, she'd be right. But this is an opportunity to press Mia for information, information that I have no other way to obtain.

  So, shortly before noon, I tell Azure, “Hey, I'm going to take my lunch break early. Something came up—”

  “Off for a quickie, are you?” she winks, as she pages through a Victorian etiquette book.

  “Something like that.” I sling my purse over my shoulder and leave the store without another word, dread sitting like a rock in the pit of my stomach.

  ---

  Mia's apartment is a tiny studio located in a rundown neighborhood of Cincinnati. She could afford better, but—as she told me once—she spends so little time at her place, she doesn't see any sense in wasting her hard-earned money on a larger apartment.

  I jog up the two flights of stairs to her floor and knock on the paint-flaking door, heart Jackhammering in my chest. Given Mia's text message, I expect an effusive welcome, but I'm greeted by a distracted, listless Mia who gestures me inside without a greeting, without a hug.

  An odd feeling of foreboding pricks at my nerves, but I walk in, anyway, moving into the small living room.

  Exhaling heavily, I glance around. The place looks messy, as always, but now I feel as if I'm seeing it through new eyes. There are things everywhere—on her counter, her sofa, her desk. Discordant, mismatched things with no connection to one another, or to her. Classical CDs, books about zookeeping, a pair of roller skates that are scuffed at the toes. I lick my lips, shaking my head. Mia's lived a hundred lives—and none of them has ever stuck.

  Resting on the never-used kitchen table are the weights for a Zumba class that Mia took—because she thought the instructor was “hotter than the sun.” There on the kitchen counter is a stack of beginner's piano music from that time she decided to try out piano lessons—because the teacher was a gorgeous redhead in her late twenties who, and I quote, gave Mia some “hands-on training.” There on her couch is the sword and shield from that stint in the Society for Creative Anachronism; there on the floor is a video game console she doesn't play anymore, bought to impress “that cute chick at the video game store.”

  And there on the bar stool is the copy of Jane Eyre I gave her when we first started dating. It's nearly hidden beneath a pile of laundry, but I can make out its red leather cover. She told me she'd read it, loved it, but now I'm not so sure. I'm not sure that anything she told me was true.

  And I wonder, with the clarity born from time, distance, and pain, how many women Mia slept with while she was in a relationship with me. She promised that she never cheated, but Mia is, if nothing else, desperate to belong. To be connected—if only in the fleeting way that a one-night stand connects you to someone. She wants to be a part of the lives of women who are more assured of who they are than Mia could ever dream of being. It's a different form of vampirism—an insidious form, draining people of their confidence, their identities, rather than their blood.

  I set my jaw and take in the woman before me. She looks like a stranger: sad, waif-like, wearing a beat-up, too-big black hoodie, twisting her hands together, her face frightfully pale. I don't think she's been getting enough sleep. Or any sleep.

  I take a deep breath, and I'm about to speak when Mia lifts up her hand, tries a very fake, too-bright, brittle smile on for size. “Can I get you some water?” she asks me, voice wavering.

  “No, thank you.” I raise a brow as I watch Mia pace over to the couch, and then—at the last moment—decide that she doesn't want to sit, after all. She turns back toward me and shrugs, sighs. But she says nothing. God, she won't even look me in the eyes.

  “Um, you said you wanted to talk to me?” I prompt her when she does the same thing with the corner chair: she walks up to it, as if she intends to sit down, and then she veers away, standing behind it, resting her hand on the chair back. A hand that, I can't help but notice, is shaking like a leaf in the wind.

  Okay, she's acting...weird. Frazzled. Upset. As Mia turns to, reluctantly, face me again, I realize that she isn't really pale; she caked on a large amount of foundation. But where the foundation has smeared, her skin reveals itself to be a raw, bright red beneath.

  Pretty sure she's trying to hide the fact that she's been crying...

  “Are you all right?” I ask her, heavily, tiredly, figuring that my deduction was spot on: Drew did break up with Mia, not vice versa, which means this will likely be a very messy conversation. I'm not the coolest, cleverest, or prettiest woman in the world—far from it—but if there's something Mia can't endure, it's being alone. And if Drew broke up with her, she's going to ask me to forgive her, to come back to her, and I don't think I have the strength for that right now...

  “Look, Courtney,” says Mia, voice catching. Her brown eyes roam all over the small room, glancing everywhere that I am not. Finally, they dart toward the door and linger there for a long moment. “Look,” she begins again, with something like desperation in her tone. She steps forward, and then she takes my right wrist in her cold fingers, squeezing it tightly in her hand.

  “I'm sorry,” she whispers, as a tear squeezes out of her eye.

  I'm stunned, taken aback. This apology is sincere.

  Suddenly, the door to the apartment opens behind us; I turn, surprised.

  But my surprise quickly gives way to shock as I see Drew Yarrow moving into the room, high heels sinking into the stained carpeting. Wearing a tight black pencil skirt and a lacy black blouse, she looks chic, out of place.

  She wrinkles her nose, peering around the apartment with an upraised chin. I can tell that she hasn't been here before, and revulsion is written plainly on her scary-lovely face.

  When her gaze shifts to Mia and me at last, she smiles.

  But it's the smile of a predator who's about to catch one hell of a meal.

  My stomach twists in fear.

  Drew turns slightly then, glancing over her shoulder. “Come on in,” she says quietly, and several people begin to fill the small space—men and women dressed in black clothing, their hair hidden beneath black baseball caps, as if they're part of a SWAT team. I recognize one or two of them from the police station. I'm surrounded by a crowd of SANG fanatics.

  “Courtney, I'm sorry,” Mia chokes out, and when I look to her, I see that she's crying, really crying...

  And that's when a tight piece of cloth swoops over my eyes, followed immediately by another over my mouth.

  Oh.

  My fight or flight instincts kick in: I'm throwing my weight forward, punching, clawing, but someone with strong hands restrains my arms, tying them roughly behind my back. I yell against the gag in my mouth, but then a wide piece of tape is fastened over the cloth, silencing me. I feel like I'm going to suffocate.

  My legs are tied together at the ankles, and then I tip over, stiffening, waiting for impact with the floor, but the couch catches me. I bounce on the cushions, taking in a deep breath through my nose, trying to still my erratic heartbeat.

  What the hell is this?

  “Good work,” Drew says sharply. “Get her ready to transport, team.”

  I'm in the air, then, supported by several pairs of hands, toted down the back stairs like a worn-out futon. Either no one sees the parade of black-clad people carrying me—or no one dares to get in the way. Light and dark alternate behind the blindfold, and finally I'm rolled hard onto what feels like the thinly carpeted floor of a vehicle.


  “Watch her head,” someone says, and then my head is pushed down. There's a thump above me, followed by a harsh click.

  Then, only darkness.

  I think I'm in the trunk of a car.

  My suspicion is confirmed when the car starts up; I can feel gears rumbling beneath me. The car takes off hard, tires screeching, and I'm thrown against the back wall of the trunk with a sickening thud.

  An eternity passes. At least, that's what it feels like to me. And time is relative, right? Although I was afraid when all of this began, I've had a few eons to consider what's happening to me, and the fear has evaporated, now replaced by something darker, something far more powerful.

  I'm pissed. Livid. I feel like the Incredible Hulk, angry enough to burst out of my confines and smash everything in sight. But, unfortunately, when I struggle with the knot at my wrists, I only succeed in making it tighter.

  Mia set this up, inviting me to her apartment under the false pretense of closure. I keep seeing Drew's perfect, ugly mask in my mind's eye, keep hearing her low, controlled voice bark out orders to her minions. I never believed in evil—textbook definition evil—until today, until I saw the nothingness behind Drew Yarrow's eyes.

  I bask in anger, a white-bright fury, because it keeps the encroaching panic at bay.

  Mia kept saying she was sorry, and she had seemed to be genuinely sorry, but that hadn't stopped her from going along with this vendetta. And there's more coming. Obviously, they have some sort of plan for me. I wrack my brain to figure out the reason SANG chose to kidnap me, and the one I keep circling back to is...Lare.

  They've kidnapped me because of Lare.

  Because Mia hates Lare, and Lare is a vampire.

  And that means Lare is in danger, too.

  No. Over my dead body.

  I wriggle against the ropes, wincing as my skin burns. Then I growl in frustration, shutting my eyes against the blindfold, resting with my nose scratching against the trunk mat; it smells of chemicals, windshield wiper fluid.

  Okay, so brute strength has never been my strong point, Hulk inclinations notwithstanding.

  I'm a thinker.

  I have to think my way out of this.

  When the car stops and the trunk is opened, the quality of light changes. It's still daytime. I'm moved quickly, two hands in my armpits and a big arm around my knees, into something that darkens the sun. A building, I assume, and my hunch is proven correct when I hear the hollow sound of a metal door closing behind us.

  That door closing...

  A final, terrible sound.

  I'm tossed unceremoniously onto a chair—it's cold against my hot skin—and something happens with my ropes: a moment later, I realize I've been knotted to the chair. That's when my blindfold is yanked off of of my face, taking several hanks of hair along with it.

  I stare forward, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the dimness of the room. Then I glance sideways and try to take everything in... My breath catches in my throat.

  I'm sitting on the last chair in a row of three metal chairs. The other two are occupied by men. One of the men is older, with graying hair and a receding hairline, glasses sitting askew on his nose. The other one is younger, red hair and a beard. He's seated closest to me.

  Both of the men are tied to their chairs and gagged, just like I am.

  And, judging by their silverless eyes, both of the men are human.

  They look ragged, drained. As if they've been here for a while. They aren't new arrivals, like me.

  All at once, my blood runs cold.

  I think I know who these people are.

  I think they're the kidnap victims from Give Life Technologies.

  Oh, my God... Drew Yarrow is responsible for the kidnappings, just like my sister suspected. But why? Why kidnap humans, when it's vampires that she detests?

  “Is she here yet?” Drew snaps, drawing my attention. She's standing a few feet away from me, directing the question to a man in black whose straight, deferential posture suggests military experience.

  “Not yet. She will arrive momentarily,” he answers, staring straight ahead.

  Drew stalks past him, glancing down at me with thinly veiled contempt. She stabs a bright-red nail into my shoulder.

  “I want you to know,” she says, voice sickeningly sweet, “that all of this was your fault.”

  My heart rate skyrockets. I swallow against the gag.

  Behind my back, I hear the metal door open and close again—followed by the sound of footsteps on the concrete floor.

  I turn around slightly, craning my neck as I struggle against the ropes, and I see two people standing still beneath the warehouse rafters: a big, burly guy wearing a SANG jacket—and Lare.

  Lare takes a step forward, walking freely, her chin tilted up, but she's gagged, and it's obvious that her hands are bound behind her back. She's wearing the same clothes she was wearing in the wee hours of the morning, when everything was normal, good—better than good. How is this possible? How is this real?

  Lare's white button-down shirt now has dark smudges on it, and there's a stiffness in her gait.

  She stares at me, shoulders rising, while Drew folds her hands together and rolls her soulless eyes. “Ah, the lovers reunited.” She smiles without mirth.

  Mia appears, then, in the corner of my eye—she wasn't here just a moment ago—and I glare at her in disgust. But Mia doesn't feel my loathing, because Mia isn't looking at me. She only has eyes for Drew. In her black ballet flats—shoes I've seen a hundred times before, lying on the floor of my entryway—she scampers up to Drew's side and hangs onto her arm, nuzzling her face against the woman's shoulder.

  I'm going to be sick.

  “Now that everybody's here, we're ready to go, right?” Mia asks Drew in a low, excited voice. Drew gazes sidelong at her and nods tightly. “Wonderful, wonderful,” says Mia, stepping away from Drew and approaching me, sinking down onto her heels with wide eyes. “I really am sorry about all of this, Courtney.” She grimaces, but her dark eyes are shining with a deranged, exuberant light. “You've got to understand,” she goes on, speaking slowly, as if she's explaining something complicated to a small child, “we only want to prove what we've always known, that vampires are a poison to society.”

  My chest rises and falls in a furious sigh.

  “Vampires will ruin things for themselves eventually. They're animals, after all, destructive animals with destructive needs.” Mia shakes her head. “But SANG doesn't want to wait for the vampires to kill innocent humans. Don't you understand? We're saving human lives by doing this! Anyway,” she tells me, smiling softly, “we picked Lare because of you. We hadn't had anyone specific in mind before. We were just going to grab the first vampire we found.”

  Her mouth twists into a frown. “But I couldn't stand the thought of you being touched by that...thing.” Her eyes glow, bright and dangerous. “So we worked together, Drew and I, to make certain that it was Lare who was framed. I even spray-painted her house,” says Mia, lifting her fingers so that I can see the faint hint of blue on them now. “You shouldn't have let yourself be manipulated by that monster, Courtney. I'm worried about you.” She holds my gaze, peering intently—as if concerned—at my face.

  I want to scream. I want to slap her across the room. But I can't do anything besides sit here, nostrils flaring as I try to take deep, even breaths to prevent myself from fainting.

  So. SANG was planning to frame a vampire for these kidnappings all along, in order to hurt the pro-vampire cause, to turn public opinion against vampirekind, in general.

  I know what you did—Mia spray-painted those words on Lare's house to backup their evolving plan, to insinuate that Lare was guilty.

  And they only chose Lare as their scapegoat because of me. That's what Drew meant when she said it was all my fault.

  I close my eyes so that I can't see Mia, can't see Drew. I'm repulsed by the sight of both of them. I inhale several short, quick breaths, and then, begrudging
ly, I open my eyes again.

  “Good girl.” Drew pets Mia's head condescendingly. “Why don't you go into the back room—our little room—now?” she purrs, offering Mia a hand to help her rise; then she wraps her arms around Mia's narrow waist. “I'll join you in just a minute. I want to show you how proud of you I am,” she says, with an indulgent smile. She kisses Mia hard, and when Mia turns around to leave, Drew smacks Mia on the bottom.

  I suck in an annoyed breath through my nose.

  “That goes for the rest of you, too,” says Drew, striding forward and circling Lare, head held high, back arrow straight. “You've done good work,” Drew assures her minions. “Go to the break room and start celebrating. I'll catch up with you shortly to debrief. There's one last thing I have to do.”

  “Boss?” says the guy with the military manners. He shifts his gaze to Lare uncertainly, sizing her up. “Do you need my help?”

  “Did I ask for your help? Do as you're told.” Drew claps her hands and gives the man a deadly smile. He hesitates, then nods, and the rest of the people in the room shuffle toward the back of the warehouse, disappearing through a gray-painted door. As they filter out, I hear someone whistling a tune that's vaguely familiar. It's slick, catchy...

  David. That's the tune that David whistled in the bookstore.

  I can't help wondering: how many people in Cincinnati are—secretly or not-so-secretly—supporters of SANG?

  No...I don't want to know. I don't want to know that people I see every day-- friendly, well-adjusted people—can harbor such seething, unfounded hatred within them.

  “Valeria Máille,” pronounces Drew, who is now the only unrestrained person in the cavernous room. “That is your proper name, isn't it?”

  Lare says nothing; the gag is still in place. But she lifts her chin a little higher, staring straight ahead as she tenses her jaw.

  “I have reason to believe that there's someone in this room that you care for a great deal.” Drew flicks a bland glance in my direction. “So I think you'll do as I ask, in order to assure her safety. Am I correct in my assumption?”