by Heidi Lowe
Sheriff Roger Lindley. A thug in a uniform, with a license to carry a gun and be an even bigger asshole than his brother, the mayor. Assholery was in that family's DNA. I'd lost count of the amount of times he'd been brought up on charges for using excessive force. Some thought he was a local hero; others didn't like his methods but didn't dare mention it for fear of the repercussions.
“Afternoon, Sheriff,” Boo said. “Haven't seen you in here in a while.”
“That would be the wife's fault.” He patted his stomach, laughing. “This gets any bigger, I'd never be allowed in here again.”
Boo laughed heartily, shouted in the back for the sheriff's usual, which the cooks all seemed to know, then leaned on the counter. “Any news about your nephew?”
The sheriff shook his head. “Nothing yet. Not a whiff. Twenty-five-year-old boys don't just vanish into thin air without a trace, you'd think.”
I listened intently, though tried for inconspicuous. Jean said she didn't kill them; I only half believed her. I listened for news of them, hoping that they were still alive, only because I didn't want her to have lied to me.
“Your brother must be beside himself with worry,” Boo said sympathetically.
“The whole family's pretty shaken up about it. Expecting the worst, you know. It doesn't look good.”
“No ransom note or anything? You know, him being the mayor's son, and what with some of the heat he got for some of the new legislation.”
“Nope.”
“We're all praying for his safe return. And the other boy.”
When his order came, to go, he got up from his stool, put his hat back on his shaved head. “I'll tell you this much, if someone has taken him, and it's looking more and more likely that that's the case, there's going to be trouble. Let's just say I wouldn't wanna be the piece of crap that dared to mess with our family.”
“What do you think happened to those boys?” Petr asked, once Sheriff Lindley had left. He'd been listening too.
I was still stuck on the determination in Lindley's voice when he said there would be trouble. I didn't doubt it for a second that he would make whoever was behind his nephew's disappearance pay. And if it really was Jean, as I feared, they wouldn't go easy on her.
“I don't know,” I said absently, troubled. “Who knows?”
Hilarie was home when I got in later that evening. Lately, her being home was irritating me. Because whenever she was there she would make snide comments about me spending all my time at the studio instead of getting a real job. The topic had been coming up more frequently recently.
“I left a baked potato in the oven for you,” she said without looking up from her book. She was sitting on the couch with a glass of wine, and hadn't bothered to change out of her scrubs.
“Thanks,” I said.
“Oh, and this came for you about an hour ago.” She picked up an envelope from the coffee table and handed it to me. Fancy and expensive-looking, with my name written in cursive silver script. “Hand delivered.”
I frowned as I looked at it. Wedding invitation maybe?
“You didn't see who delivered it?” I asked.
“No, but I bet if you opened it all would be revealed,” she said in a sarcastic tone.
I opened the envelope.
“Ms. Jean Posey cordially invites Lissa and Hilarie to her First of June party at the Posey Mansion...” I read aloud.
Hilarie let out a derisive snort. “First of June party? You're kidding me, right?”
“That's what it says.” Trying to conceal my excitement about the party, but mostly about seeing Jean again was impossible, so I gave up trying. What did it matter now? Even though an outright confession hadn't taken place, Hilarie knew I was crushing hard on my new, dangerous 'friend'.
“It must be wonderful to be dead and rich, with not a care in the world. You can throw meaningless parties whenever you want.”
“She's not dead,” I mumbled. I hated it when she called her that. As a doctor she knew there was a difference, she was just being spiteful.
She laughed cruelly, continuing her tirade, “We'll probably get there and be pounced on and sucked dry. Those are probably the kinds of parties she throws – the blood-sucking kind.”
Right then I hated her, as I watched her cackling to herself. She didn't know Jean like I did – which was admittedly not very well. She wasn't the one who'd knelt between her thighs and held her, watching her cry, seeing the real woman that she was without her curse. She saw a monster, I saw a woman in pain, a woman I was falling in love with. It wasn't just a bodily craving I felt for her, it was a spiritual one too.
“Then I guess you won't be going to the party,” I said, sounding hopeful.
“No, I'm going. The invitation is addressed to both of us.” She shrugged. “Free food and drinks, why wouldn't I?”
“Great,” I said, and meant none of it.
“Besides,” she said, her gaze returning to her magazine, “why would I make it easy for that fanger to get into my girlfriend's panties?”
THIRTEEN
None of the people presently congregating in her ballroom were her friends. Just acquaintances, mostly rich business people and her employees from her businesses – both the day and night ones. A mix of classes. The friends she'd had before turning had deserted her long ago, as had her family. Wealthy, powerful people who'd studied at the best universities couldn't associate with known vampires. Her coming out as bisexual, with a preference for women, had lost some friends before that too. But the vampirism, that was too much to bear for everyone left in her life. Jean Posey was dead to everyone from her old life. And these people here, celebrating the new month, as they did every year, didn't care enough about her to disown her. To them she was nothing more than a generous benefactor – to the charities, to her lovers. One group, she gave money to, the other, she gave them the best orgasms they could ever dream of. Give, give, give. Take, take, take. No one ever stopped to care. Which was fine with her because she didn't care much about them either.
So when Lissa stepped into the room, in a risque green dress she had never seen her wear, a dress that matched her eyes, and her hair styled like a Geisha – a style Jean had only ever seen her wear once – her face lit up. They spotted each other from across the room. In a room of close to two hundred people, they spotted each other immediately. Because no one else mattered at that moment. Not the people Jean was conversing with, nor Hilarie, who had her arm linked through Lissa's.
“Would you excuse me?” Jean said, midway through a conversation.
“Hi.” Lissa smiled at her as they met in the middle of the room. Hilarie greeted her with a scowl.
“Hi. Glad you could make it. Both of you.” She added that part without meaning it, not taking her eyes off Lissa.
“What's the party for?” Hilarie asked, grabbing a glass of champagne for herself off a tray as the waiter passed. Her tone was unfriendly, and she squeezed a little closer to her girlfriend as though making a statement.
Jean smiled. “I throw one every year. June is my favorite month.”
“Why?” Hilarie questioned, throwing back her drink.
Jean shrugged. “Why not? It's a nice month.”
“That's a stupid reason to throw a party this big.”
“Hilarie, enough already,” Lissa scolded.
“It's fine. She's right, it is a stupid reason. Don't we all get to do stupid things once in a while?” She smiled warmly at Lissa, who returned it, as though they held a secret the rest of the world wasn't privy to.
Hilarie grabbed another drink, still leaving Lissa without one, and downed that too. If she was ever going to make it through this party watching this sinful, disgusting, inevitable love story unfold, she would have to do it drunk.
Jean opened her lair refrigerator with a sigh of relief at the sight of the half a dozen bags of red liquid. The liquid that sustained her. Robyn was a true life-saver; she always made sure there was enough of a supply so that she wo
uldn't go hungry. It was never as good, as fresh, as the one taken straight from the source, but it had been a godsend on those evenings when, having woken famished, none of her givers were available. That was why she kept them in her lair, close to her sleeping chamber.
The party continued upstairs and she'd excused herself in order to feed. She laughed mirthlessly at the thought of how much she'd spent on the catering and food but could never eat or enjoy any of it. She missed shrimp most of all.
“Ho-ly fuck!”
She spun round, startled, the bag in her mouth, half of its contents already gone.
Hilarie was at the door to her lair. She'd forgotten to close it behind herself.
“What are you doing down here?” Jean demanded, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
Hilarie swayed slightly as she stepped into the cold room. She looked across it, at the four walls, at all the paintings adorning them.
“I followed you down here to tell you to stay the hell away from my girlfriend, but...” She laughed, shaking her head as she scanned the paintings. “Jesus, it's worse than I thought. Looks like I'm not the only one who's been doing some following...”
“Get the hell out of here!”
“You know, at first I thought it was some dirty old man who was obsessed with her and kept buying her paintings because he felt sorry for her. But I was wrong. All this time it was a dirty old woman!”
“You're either really brave or really stupid for coming down here and provoking a hungry vampire.” Jean's breaths were coming short and sharp now, as she glared at the woman. She wanted to rip her to pieces, and had wanted to long before now, long before this intrusion.
“Are you going to kill me when a roomful of people saw me follow you down here?” She chuckled drunkenly.
“I could explain your disappearance away. It wouldn't be difficult.”
“But you wouldn't do that, because Lissa would know. And then she'd see you for what you really are.” Spurred on by the copious amount of alcohol running through her veins, Hilarie squared up to Jean. “Just how long have you been following my girlfriend, you freak?”
It wasn't the name-calling that she didn't like, it was the act of making her out to be some kind of stalker that peeved her. Making her presence in Lissa's life seem somehow immoral.
“A lot longer than she's been your girlfriend,” she said. She could have crushed her like a bug with one hand, broken every bone in her body with one throw against the wall. It took all the power in the world not to.
“Let's see. We met when she was twenty-one, and she sold her first painting at, what was it, eighteen?” Another laugh. “So you've been stalking her for almost six years? Wow, that's real dedication.”
“You will never understand the connection Lissa and I have,” Jean said through gritted teeth.
“What connection? Isn't that what all stalkers think and use as the basis for stalking some poor, helpless woman? You're insane. How do you think she'll react when she realizes that her anonymous buyer has been you all along? Let me guess, you sent some guy in to do the buying for you so no one would know you were behind it?”
Jean faltered. This was one of the thoughts that scared her, that haunted her. Because she could never explain her reasons without all sorts of other secrets spilling out; and once that can of worms was opened, there was no going back.
“I love art, and I love hers,” she said in a weak voice.
“I find that hard to believe. No one would pay the type of money you've expended over the years for this stuff.”
“Unlike you, I appreciate her gift. I appreciate her.”
“What the hell do you know about how I feel about her?” Hilarie shouted, a rabid look in her eye.
“I know a lot more than you think.” Jean smiled smugly. “For instance, I know that the affair you had with your ex the first couple of months into your relationship with Lissa wasn't a one-off...”
There was real fear in Hilarie's face now. Even if Jean hadn't been sure about it, Hilarie's face confirmed it.
“Yup, that's right, I know it's still going on.”
“H–how...?”
“That doesn't matter. What does matter is that I know, and I can see through this whole facade, see exactly what you are.” Her smugness stayed in place. “And do you want to know why I haven't told Lissa? Because I knew I would be wasting my time. We both know she wouldn't even care.”
Hilarie stormed off, slammed through the door, cursing under her breath. And although Jean had won that fight, she feared she would lose the battle. Her smile vanished as soon as Hilarie did. Lissa wasn't supposed to know about the art, at least not yet. She knew how it would look to the girl: odd, weird, like the actions of an unstable person.
She finished off her meal, then returned to the upper level of her mansion. She couldn't find Lissa in the house. She wasn't in the ballroom, the hallways, anywhere. But she could feel her nearby. She had been able to feel her presence for years, something that happened when one of her kind allowed themselves to tune in to another. It didn't always work, but it had when she'd needed it.
She blocked out all of the surrounding noise and listened to her sense, let it guide her to the garden. There she was, sitting by the pond, the floodlights illuminating the huge space. It was like a scene from her most precious daydream. This was how she had imagined her for a number of years, enjoying the grounds as her own, feeling at home there. It was bittersweet to watch her like that. Her heart was torn between two different kinds of love. This was a curse even worse than immortality.
“I knew you would find me,” Lissa said as Jean sat beside her on the bench. “You always do.”
Jean's gaze settled on her pond, on the fish swimming leisurely around in it, and didn't look at Lissa. Moments later, she felt the girl take her hand. That made her look, but Lissa didn't meet her gaze. They sat together, hand in hand, watching the fish.
“Were you hiding from anyone in particular?”
“Nope. I just wanted to be alone with you for five minutes. I'm no good at sharing you.”
For anyone else to say it, she would have told them to stop being foolish. But not Lissa. Lissa got to say it; Lissa got to say everything. She always had the right.
“Hilarie will be looking for you,” Jean said, hoping that she hadn't already found her, and that this hand-holding wasn't all a ploy that would end in abuse and insults being hurled at her for 'stalking'. No, this was the real deal. If she knew about the paintings, it hadn't made a difference.
“I don't care. That probably makes me a bad person.” Lissa shrugged.
“You're not a bad person.” She squeezed her hand. “You could never be a bad person.”
They didn't speak much as they sat there, for five minutes, never once letting go of each other's hand. No words were necessary.
“We should go back inside now,” Jean said finally. She only let go when they were both standing.
“Why? Why can't we stay out here forever?” Lissa's eyes sparkled with childish glee.
Forever? Jean had forever; Lissa didn't. When she spoke like that she showed her age, and it made everything all the harder to bear.
“I have other guests, Lissa.”
They made their way across the lawn in silence, their steps plodding and reluctant. The scene waiting for them as they rejoined the party made them wish they'd remained outside, in their private haven.
“Oh, there she is, ladies and gentlemen. My girlfriend.” Hilarie's champagne, the fifth one of the night, sloshed about as she did, swaying from guest to guest. Loud and completely out of it. The guests' pitying looks went unnoticed by her in her drunken daze. “My girlfriend who's been AWOL for the last five minutes with the town's lesbian vampire.”
The eyes in the room drifted from Hilarie to Lissa and Jean, who, now in the spotlight, looked more guilty than they had cause to feel.
“This tramp who has a million lovers, yet still wants a woman who's already taken. She could ha
ve anyone, but she wants my girlfriend. I can't compete with that, can I? You would think there would be no real competition; I mean, I'm alive, she's dead. I save lives, she takes them.”
“That's enough,” Jean said, trying but failing to keep her voice level.
“But no, it seems that the whole blood-sucking thing, the whole ripping into people's throats is a turn on for my girlfriend. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised though. This little fanger-lover is an 'artist'.” Hilarie cackled.
As soon as the word was mentioned, complete with air quotes, a feeling of dread swept over Jean. She knew what was coming and she couldn't stop it.
“An artist with only one client. One anonymous buyer who's been financing her whole life since she was a teenager. Ha! Hey, babe, you wanna know who's been buying that shit you call art for the last six years? I'll give you a clue: she sleeps in the day, lives at night, and you've been trying to get into her panties these past few weeks...”
Hilarie's eyes glistened with relish as the penny fell, as she watched Lissa turn slowly and look at Jean, her face a mixture of expressions. For Hilarie, this was too delicious for words, and she only prayed she wasn't too drunk to remember it the next day.
“Is that true?” Lissa questioned, searching Jean for some sign that it was all a nasty lie.
Jean didn't answer her. She couldn't.
“The party's over,” she screamed to the room, then tore through the double doors, leaving her guests open-mouthed and mumbling among themselves.
FOURTEEN
This was a fight we needed to have. Finally one I wanted to have. And just my luck, Hilarie passed out in the cab home. It was all I could do not to leave her in there so she could wake up in the middle of nowhere. But no, being the dutiful girlfriend of the century I swung her arm around my neck and half dragged, half carried her inside.
I dropped her on the couch, and she mumbled something sleepily.
