“Hey, Angry Santa! Rum punch!”
He grumbled and said something like, “Purple head,” but made her drink and even did it with some panache. Imogene had a feeling he sort of liked her because she was the only person grumpy as him.
“How are you?” Celia asked.
“I just saw you yesterday, Merk.” She clicked her tongue. “Oh, shit, can I still use your nickname now that you’re married?”
“I think it’d be weird if you didn’t.”
Imogene took a long sip of rum and peach and strawberry-banana juice. “Did you take his name?”
“Yeah. Celia Hasselback. I never thought I’d…” She hiccupped.
“Oh, God, don’t start.”
Celia had been crying a lot lately. She’d been an emotional nightmare, maybe from hormones, maybe because she was happy for the first time in her lonely life. Either way, the happiness was this big balloon that pushed on her diaphragm and expunged tears.
“I know. I’m sorry. Can you believe it, though? Me? Married and having a baby?”
“Dunno.” Imogene finished her first drink and gestured for another. “People do those things, I guess.”
“But not me. I mean, I always wanted to. I just never thought it would happen.” She held out her left hand, and the sizeable rock Ian had bought winked white light.
The story of Ian’s proposal was legendary. Celia said they were at Poe’s Park on Admiral Key, where they liked to have sex under the banyan trees. Apparently they were mid-coitus when an alligator showed up to eat Ian because his blood smelled like warm bacon, and Celia took the beast down. Ian claimed she ripped its head off. With the bleeding beast in pieces, Ian got down on one knee, totally nude, and proposed with a ring the size of Mt. Rushmore. Naked as the day he was born, only God knew where he’d been hiding it.
Even if Imogene didn’t understand the whole marriage thing, the ring was pretty kick ass. “How’d he afford that anyway?”
“Oh, the diamond was his grandma’s. He just had it reset with some personal touches. He makes enough money to pay rent and stuff, though. We just pooled our finances—joint bank account. It’s so weird. I never saw myself doing something so adult.”
“Two become one.” She shuddered and considered whiskey. “Makes me wanna twitch.”
Celia shrugged. She had her bright red hair in a high ponytail and even a swash of mascara on her eyelashes. Although the maternity clothes were atrocious, at least she wasn’t wearing lint-covered yoga pants every day anymore. She was nothing like the timid, awkward girl Imogene met months ago, although she did still call every time she had gas, freaking out that she was going into labor—as if Imogene knew what labor felt like.
Imogene was different, too. She had friends.
“Speaking of two becoming one, how’d it go with Lord Nicholas last night?”
“He’s gay,” Imogene spat.
“He is?”
“No.”
Celia didn’t say anything.
“He said he’s not interested in me.” She hissed and lifted her hand in a claw.
Celia spun a glass of club soda in her hands. “But every guy is interested in you. Even Ian sometimes talks about your ass.”
“Yeah, well, Lord I-have-too-many-names, the third, isn’t.” She burped. “He’s probably just closeted. What do you think of him?”
Jimi Hendrix played on the jukebox, and Celia waved some smoke out of her face, because of course smoking was allowed at The Drift Inn. “He’s here to help. Dr. Savage trusts him.”
“I wonder what the story is there. He has a pet name for her. Rain.”
“Dr. Savage is over two-hundred years old. She must have a past.”
“You think they bumped uglies?”
Celia snorted. “Maybe. Or maybe they’re just friends.”
“We’ve had this talk before, Merk. Women aren’t friends with guys who look like Nicholas. Women fuck men who look like Nicholas and hope their moms don’t find out.”
Celia pursed her thin lips. “He doesn’t seem like a bad boy. He wears suits and has a face like you’d see in one of those old paintings with nude cherubs.”
“He was nineteen when he was turned.”
“How do you know?”
“Lucky guess at your wedding. It’s probably why he wears the nice suits, makes him look older. And let’s not forget about boys with pretty faces. Look how Danny turned out.”
Celia grimaced.
“The only pretty boy I trust is your husband, and that’s only because I could squash him with my pinkie if need be.” Imogene’s phone played the first ten seconds of “Sunglasses at Night.” “All right, two more drinks, and I gotta go to work.”
“Are you coming to the dinner party at Dr. Savage’s?”
Imogene made a sour lemon face. “I’ll think about it.”
“My honeymoon’s over. I have to go back to Happy Gas tomorrow.” Celia frowned.
“Why do you keep working there if you hate it?”
“I don’t really mind it. It gives me time to read. I’m in the middle of What to Expect When You’re Expecting, and it’s amazing what the fetus—”
“Enough. If you ever once tell me about its bowel movements, I will punch Ian in the face.”
Celia smirked. “You would not.”
“Fine. I’ll steal your Freddie Mercury poster.”
Celia put one hand to her chest and looked horrified.
Chapter Three
Imogene had never been to a dinner party. Plus, it was a vampire dinner party (mostly), so what was Dr. Savage going to serve, a variety of blood types at different temperatures in fancy China?
Celia called her earlier that night. “I think the baby is moving.”
Imogene put down her joint. “I assume babies do that. Right?”
“I think so.”
“What do you mean, you think so? You’ve been reading all those fucking baby books. What does Ian think?”
She heard Celia squeak. “He’s tickling my stomach to see if the baby will kick.”
“You’re so cute, it’s disgusting.”
“You’re going to Dr. Savage’s tonight, right?”
“No.” Yes.
“What do you mean no?”
Imogene balanced the phone between her ear and shoulder while digging through the extensive wardrobe in her walk-in closet. “Boring.” Am I in a black mood or an off-black mood?
“You have to go! I can’t make conversation! You know I can’t make conversation!”
“Duh.” Maybe a dark maroon pair of leather pants and a black halter-top. She took another hit of weed, a thoughtful thanks-for-putting-up-with-our-wedding gift from Ian.
Ian’s voice rose in the background. “Imogene’s going because she wants to make googly eyes at Lord Nicholas.”
“He’s a cold-ass shithead,” she shouted into the receiver. She knelt on her closet floor and considered. The black stiletto heels look great with leather.
“Please, Imogene,” Celia begged. “Please?”
Even though Imogene had spent the past hour doing her hair—super big and curly—and chosen the perfect outfit, she huffed. “Only for you do I torture myself this way.”
Dr. Savage had only recently purchased a beach house on Ship’s Bell Island, the poshest of the posh Gulf Coast islands. Imogene had been to a tourist party on the island once before, dragged Celia there in fact, but she saw little use for it. Yuppies never tasted very good, probably from all the uppity protein shakes and wheat germ or whatever. She might have had two fridges full of blood at home, but she still preferred the taste of fresh. Barkentine Beach was more her scene, as was the city, Lazaret. Club kids tasted like smoked beef jerky. Scrumptious.
Celia and Ian’s SUV was already there when she arrived in front of the towering two-story monstrosity, painted a light shade of green, with patios that spanned both stories like some plantation house in the low south. She could already hear Dr. Savage in her head: “Green is a very sooth
ing color, Imogene.”
She walked into a huge foyer lit by tiny white candles. The house smelled like Ian, broccoli, and something else she couldn’t put her nose on. At the end of the hall hung a painting that looked like it belonged in a museum. It was obviously Dr. Savage, in a state of undress. She wore nothing but a sheet and skin. Imogene figured the doc would have nothing but pictures of water lilies and Buddha, so the painting did come as a welcome surprise. Maybe Dr. Savage wasn’t as boring as she seemed what with the whole nudie portrait and “hunting bad vampires” thing. Imogene thought that was pretty freaking cool. She took a couple steps forward in her sky-high heels but stopped when she heard raised voices.
“He painted it?” It was Dean, whisper-shouting.
“He is a painter, dear.” Dr. Savage stepped halfway into the foyer and stopped.
Imogene leaned back near the wall so they wouldn’t see her.
“But when did he see you naked?”
“He paints nudes.”
Dean ruffled his short, brown-blond hair. “You’re not answering my questions, Rayna.”
“We’ll talk about this later. We have guests.” She rushed out of the foyer, her heels click-clacking all the way. Dean stood there, staring at the nude of his girlfriend for a second, before groaning and following his undead mate.
“Trouble in paradise,” Imogene whispered with a little grin.
Then, behind her, the scuff of a shoe on tile caught her attention. She turned in time to see a shadow disappear down another hall. Jesus, was the place a maze? She raced around the corner and ran smack into Nicholas’s chest.
She took a big breath of shocked air and her eyes vibrated in her head, because with that breath, she took a deep breath of him. For a guy who had no scent a couple days before, he now vibrated with mouth-watering echoes of fresh-picked basil, black pepper, and maybe a touch of peppermint. She latched onto the lapels of his suit and shoved her nose against his neck, which made him tense and try to step away. She held on and took steps with him.
“Fuck. What is that?”
He shoved at her hands. “Miss… Imogene. I must ask you to desist.”
She opened her mouth and slopped an oval of saliva onto his neck. “Why do you smell like this?” she muttered against his skin.
He wrestled her hands off his suit and held her at arm’s length. “It’s the way I smell after I’ve fed.”
She kept trying to claw for more, but his hands around her wrists were like stone. “But you didn’t smell like anything before, at the wedding, at Celia’s house.” She stopped talking when she noticed her fangs were out. She was much too old to suffer premature efangulation.
“I hadn’t eaten in a few weeks.”
“A few weeks?”
“Age adds endurance.” He pushed her away with more force than was really necessary, but Imogene was well practiced in heels and didn’t falter. She did, however, casually cover her mouth. “Kindly never get that close to me again,” he said. He adjusted his suit.
His attitude made her fangs pop back into her head. She pointed her finger. “Don’t blame me, asshole. I didn’t know what I was walking into. Shit.” She spun around and strutted back into the main foyer. She flicked off the naked painting of Dr. Savage as she passed, the taste Nicholas’s skin still haunting her mouth.
The table looked like something out of Kung Fu. Yeah, they even all had to sit on the floor to eat—or slurp, in Imogene’s case, but it was Dr. Savage’s shitty shaman-blessed blood, which made her glad she’d eaten before she came. Just like Nicholas, who sat three seats down from Imogene and never once looked in her direction. Dean and Ian were polite enough to force down what looked like big plates of raw vegetables—which wasn’t too big of a deal for Ian who still obsessively drank kale smoothies. Sitar music played in the background. Fucking sitar music. Vixen, reformed psychopath, sat across from Imogene and daintily sipped while batting her long eyelashes at Nicholas. She was a Danny creation who once loved killing people, but thanks to Dr. Savage’s “coaching,” the only thing she now murdered was modern fashion. She rocked yet another Amish-inspired costume that very night.
“How have you been feeling, Celia?” Nicholas asked.
She wiped a drop of blood from the edge of her mouth and adjusted her pretty blue dress. Seeing Celia in nice clothes always made Imogene happy—or her equivalent of happy, which was somewhere between amused and not angry.
“I’ve been fine. I think the baby’s moving.”
“The baby is totally moving,” Ian concurred.
“It’s too early for that,” Nicholas said.
Celia’s shoulders shot up around her neck.
“No, I don’t mean it’s a bad thing. It’s just… we’re learning. All of us.” Nicholas didn’t quite smile, but he looked like he was trying to.
“What’s your story anyway?” Imogene reached for her glass of red wine.
Dr. Savage cleared her throat. “Nicholas and I met in Paris, wasn’t it?”
“Mm,” he said but didn’t make eye contact with anyone.
“Late 1800s,” she continued. “Nicholas is a very talented artist, sketches and paintings. He’s painted many great beauties over the centuries.”
“Centuries?” Ian squeaked. He looked quite handsome, Imogene thought, in a blue button-down and jeans. “Man, how old are you?”
“Old.”
“What’s the coolest thing you’ve ever seen?” Ian’s vegetables were forgotten.
“I don’t know. I’ve seen a lot of things.”
Celia put her hand over Ian’s and smiled. “Tell us one.”
“Well. I was at Woodstock.”
Ian sighed in admiration. “Did you see Hendrix?”
Nicholas pulled a little on his shirt collar. “I did, although I was more partial to Janis Joplin.” He grinned, which was something so unexpected, Imogene’s fangs almost popped out again.
“You and Ms. Joplin had a romance, Nicolas. Just say it.” Dr. Savage smirked over the brim of her wine glass.
He looked down at his bowl of blood. “It was a mere dalliance.”
“I can’t imagine you having a romance with anyone,” Imogene said.
The whole table went silent.
“What? He’s a cold fish.” She slurped at the wine.
Dr. Savage shifted in her seat. “Imogene—”
Nicholas hushed her with his hand in the air and turned to Imogene. “You assume my lack of interest in you is a lack of interest in your entire sex. My problem isn’t the female population, but rather your apparent lack of interest in meaningful relationships, replaced instead by empty intercourse.”
Imogene threw her wine glass over her shoulder. It shattered on the dining room floor just as she jumped to her feet. “Fuck off.”
Celia chased after her, calling her name, but Imogene was already out the front door, car roaring to life as she drove into the night in search of some empty intercourse.
Chapter Four
By nine the following evening, Imogene was in nothing but a red satin bra and matching undies, slurping a bag of B-negative, when someone knocked on her door. She didn’t have to ask who; she could have smelled Ian through a padded cell lined with lead and fairy magic. Lately, Celia smelled like cocoa butter all the time, which she rubbed obsessively across the giant orb that was her stomach.
Imogene opened the door and kept eating. Slurp, slurp.
Her two friends stood in the shadows of a moonless night and smiled. “Want to go for a swim?”
In the sweltering August heat, nothing felt better than a tumble in the Gulf Coast waves, even though the ocean felt like a warm bath that time of year. Imogene did a running dive first, followed soon after by Ian, who was doing much better with his whole “fear of water” thing. He’d survived a Great White shark attack years before—still had the scar on his calf to prove it—but it seemed swimming with vampires made him feel safe. He’d been a surfing champion once upon a time, and even though he had yet to
pick up his old hobby again, he did at least own a surfboard, which he stared at when he wasn’t testing video games for work. She’d caught him drooling over it once.
Celia gracefully floated on her back out into the waves. Imogene wasn’t going to say anything, but her pregnant belly resembled a manatee’s head.
Imogene spit a mouthful of saltwater up into a flawless arch toward the glittering night sky. “So are we going to talk about last night?”
“Hmm?” Celia asked.
“I know you want to talk about last night. You always want to talk about issues, like you’ve been spending too much time with Dr. Savage.” She did a quick underwater spin. “Which you have, by the way. She isn’t even your therapist anymore.”
“I know. Sometimes I kind of want to hit her.”
Imogene chortled. “Yeah, Merk!”
Ian floated up behind his wife and cradled her in his arms.
“Sometimes it’s like she’s too helpful—like she wants to help everyone and fix everything, when you can’t,” Celia said. “You can’t fix everything.”
“Like Vixen. She’s a Stepford wife now. Remember how she used to be—all deranged and angry?” Imogene dug her toes into the warm, sandy bottom. “I liked her more when she was a psycho slut.”
“Yeah.” Ian nodded.
“I think she has a crush on Nicholas,” Celia said.
“Gross.” Imogene back-flipped into the water only to emerge to the sound of Celia’s voice.
“So about last night…”
Imogene smacked her open palm on top of a wandering wave. “Don’t even tell me that was my fault. He’s the one who made a damn speech about how horrible I am!”
“I know,” Celia said. “But you might have sort of… Well—”
“Celia thinks you might have had it coming.” Ian dove into the water as if hiding at the bottom of the ocean could save him from any negative repercussions.
“I had it coming? I had nothing coming.”
“You called him a ‘cold fish.’”
She shrugged. “He is a cold fish.”
Just the top of Ian’s head breached the surface.
“No, he isn’t,” Celia said. “He’s actually sort of nice. He’s been interviewing me about my medical history, and he’s been… sweet… and I think you two would get along, honestly, if you both stopped being so pig-headed.”
Bite Somebody Else Page 4
