Peace, Blood, and Understanding

by Molly Harper

  “Hi, Sammy!” I called as I jogged toward him.

  “Hey, Meadow, did you have a good night?” he said, nodding to the box. “Do you need help with that?”

  “No, I did not, and no, I do not, but thank you,” I said in a crisp tone that made him bark out a laugh. “And here I am ending the night on a high note, talking to you, so it can’t be all bad. How was work for you?”

  He offered me a smile so white and even it should have belonged to a vampire. “Well, the IT department is pushing on some big deadline, and they kept asking me for quadruple-shot lattes.”

  “Oh, that is a bad decision in a cup,” I said, shaking my head. “Those IT kids are naturally high-strung anyway.”

  “I switched them to decaf after midnight without telling them. It was for the greater good.”

  I laid a hand on Sammy’s shoulder, which required me to reach up. “You are a true humanitarian.”

  He chin-pointed up the flight of metal stairs that led to my open-plan floor. “I think you got a new neighbor.”

  “Oh, really?”

  I turned to look upstairs, as if I could spot the newcomer through the closed door. That apartment next to mine had been empty for months. Dick had even tried to offer it furnished, but it had remained unoccupied. Frankly, I kind of liked it that way. It meant that no one complained about my music choices, which could be somewhat heavy on the didgeridoo. (It helped me fall asleep in the mornings.) But I would be neighborly and kind and turn my Australian sleep music down to tolerable levels.

  “I will wait until I have had a much better night to introduce myself, because I’m sort of chock-full of ‘lashing out at strangers with the goal of making them cry’ energy.”

  Sammy blanched. “Did you really make someone cry?”

  “I was provoked.”

  He laughed. “I believe it. But just this once.”

  “I’m going upstairs. I’ll start fresh tomorrow and hope for better. Good night.”

  “Good night!” he called as I jogged up the stairs and unlocked the series of locks on the door. I wasn’t particularly worried about having my fictitious valuables stolen, but Andrea and Dick insisted that all of their undead tenants have considerable security during our vulnerable daylight hours. Dropping the box and my keys on a nearby table, I leaned against the door. I breathed in the scent of the dried lemon peel and cinnamon sticks I kept in an earthenware bowl on that table and knew that I was home.

  I loved my little apartment. It certainly wasn’t the nicest place I’d ever lived, but it was mine and mine alone. No one could take it from me or kick me out. No one could tell me that my apple-green walls weren’t acceptable or judge me because my bed was never, ever made. No one could tell me that the little pots of kitchen herbs I grew on the counter were useless—which, technically, they were, since I didn’t eat. I just liked the smell.

  I walked to my fridge, the contents of which were no one’s business but my own, and took out a bottle of donor type B to set in the warmer. Though my couch—a comfortable yard sale find I’d recovered in lilac-colored canvas—was inviting, I walked out to my tiny balcony, just big enough for two lawn chairs and a couple of planter boxes. I enjoyed my dinner while looking down at the nonexistent traffic of Millard Street after ten P.M.

  I needed that mental space to process my responses to the airport guy. That level of instant antagonism was absolutely not normal for me in interactions with anyone, really. I was willing to make that man weep like a confessional politician. I hadn’t felt that sort of “killer instinct” in years. Was it the overpolished, overtly meticulous exterior? Or the fact that he seemed to embrace everything that drove me nuts about modern life? Or that he so easily disdained the surroundings that gave me so much comfort? It was probably a combination of all three.

  Too bad. It was an awfully nice exterior… that smelled even better.

  I could still feel that scent moving through my nervous system, woodsy and spicy with a hint of salt and lust. I wanted to wallow, to wrap myself in it and stay there for days. And if he happened to come along with the smell, fine.

  No. I took a drink and shook my head at my own shallowness. I would not be swayed by his perfectly even, artistically arranged features. This was a backslide into the old Meadow—who hadn’t even been named Meadow in the first place. She was a spoiled, angry, vengeful girl who did a lot of damage to the people around her. I would not be that person again.

  I didn’t have the sort of leeway to indulge in those darker urges anyway. Technically, I was still considered a probationary case with the World Council for the Equal Treatment of the Undead. The Council was a group of ancient vampires elected to govern undead citizens around the globe after an undead tax consultant named Arnie Frink launched vampires into the open by suing his Milwaukee employer for nighttime hours and sun-safe work spaces. Probation was a “special” designation for vampires who had caused trouble when they were newborns. And I had caused a considerable amount of trouble—blood-soaked, “documented by state and federal authorities” trouble.

  I was only allowed the freedom I enjoyed because Jane Jameson-Nightengale supervised my case. I could live in an apartment of my choosing and run a business. I received a paycheck for my work with the Council office, as opposed to it being unpaid labor deemed “service hours.” If I stepped out of line, gave in to those aforementioned urges, I would most likely be reassigned to some stricter supervisor, and my situation could get much worse—“living in someone else’s home, under twenty-four-hour surveillance/instruction” worse. And so I would bite back those predatory, ruthless impulses and remain in my cozy apartment and comfortable life.

  I couldn’t pay for my fancy cinnamon sticks and Prius charging with “service hours.”

  2

  Remember that what you send out into the universe comes back on you times three. And that is super inconvenient if it involves three times the law enforcement personnel.

  —Peace, Blood, and Understanding: A Living Guide for Vampires Embracing Pacifism

  The next evening found me standing behind Jane’s coffee bar at Specialty Books, explaining the interaction with the corporate tool to Jane and Dick, while Jane’s face contorted into various expressions of dismayed amusement. I felt it was the responsible thing to do considering they were my local Council representatives.

  “ ‘Namaste, jackass’? I think you’ve been spending too much time with Dick. That sounds like his brand of comeback,” Jane told me while I poured steaming water over a mesh ball filled with Deadly Digestion tea, which was resting in a half mug of blood. I stood behind the maple counter, steeping the mixture until it was a pleasantly perfumed bloody beverage. We were preparing for Tuesday Night Tea Tasting. It was like a wine tasting, but in Dick’s opinion, way less fun.

  When I’d opened Everlasting Health a few doors down, Jane invited me to do joint events for the bookshop’s extensive clientele, serving mixed blood-tea concoctions while I explained their various health benefits for vampires. She even kept a TEAS PROVIDED BY EVERLASTING HEALTH sign on her counter full-time.

  Jane’s shop was a comfortable and quirky haven for book lovers, with its squashy purple chairs, restful twilight-blue walls, and twinkling fairy lights. The air smelled of coffee and blood percolating in the rather frightening-looking copper espresso machine behind the counter. Crystals and silver figurines and geodes were scattered throughout the space with a charmingly haphazard hand that did not detract from the purpose of the shop—the books. Jane’s selection covered every genre that might interest her customers: classic literature, magic, paranormal studies, romance, graphic novels, and a huge array of vampire self-help books.

  Jane’s longtime friend Dick Cheney clutched a hand over his chest. “Stretch, that hurts my feelings. I’m a good influence, if anything. And not once in my life have I used the word ‘namaste.’ ”

  “I don’t even say ‘namaste,’ ” I told him. “But he made all of those references to hippies and drugs, and
it’s such a damn cliché. I mean, how would he feel if I brought up his manscaping and spin classes and small-batch artisanal cultivated blood? Oh, and he insulted my car, so… yeah, it’s a rationalization, but I maintain that he had it coming.”

  “As funny as I find this, I feel that as your case supervisor, I should remind you and Dick that ‘he had it coming’ will not stand up in a court of law or for the Council higher-ups,” Jane told me, the corner of her generous mouth lifting. Jane was tall—hence the nickname “Stretch”—with glossy chestnut hair and twinkling hazel eyes. Her face was as open and friendly as Dick’s was sharp and mischievous. Jane smelled of old paper and creamy chocolate and kindness, the sort of scent that meant safety and home. And if you were someone who craved both, that meant a lot.

  I slid the steaming cup in front of Dick and smiled sweetly. “I made this just for you.”

  “Nope.” Dick’s scent was more herbal, like bergamot, and had a bright citrus sort of edge to it, as if even he never knew where he was going to land while making a decision. I asked Jane about it once, and she said that was the smell of questionable moral flexibility, but I’d certainly never found a reason to distrust Dick. Other than his name.

  “Come on, Dick, it’s good for your digestion,” I said, pouting ever so slightly, while Andrea—Dick’s wife—snickered silently behind him.

  Dick twisted his features into an amazing imitation of a petulant toddler as he pushed the cup back to me. “I’m dead, sweetheart. I don’t have digestion.”

  “We don’t have what the humans call ‘digestion,’ ” I countered, “but our bodies still process the blood we drink. The herbs affect us differently from humans because our physiology is different, but they still affect us.”

  “That cup smells like ass and passive aggression made an ugly baby, so no, thanks. I like you a lot, Hippy-Dippy, but I told Jane this whole thing was a mistake,” Dick warned me. “Vampires have been perfectly happy not drinking health teas since… whenever the hell vampires became a thing. You’re not going to suddenly change that because you tell them that it’s good for health problems they don’t know they have. Vampires don’t have health problems. That’s one of the best parts of being a vampire. That and the magnetic sexuality.”

  And he said that last bit while giving me full-on Blue Steel, his green eyes flashing.

  “That expression will haunt my nightmares,” I said, shuddering as Andrea broke into a full-on cackle.

  Jane shook her head and wandered into the bookshelves, sorting books back into their proper order. She said, “Dick, you may have finally found a woman who is immune to your ‘magnetic sexuality.’ ”

  “Impossible,” Dick cried, frowning as he patted his flat belly. “Look at me. I am all that is man.”

  “You’re wearing a T-shirt most middle school boys would find lame!” Jane shouted from the shelves of self-help books. “Andrea, I thought you purged the worst of them!”

  “He keeps finding new ways to buy them,” Andrea grumbled. “Stupid online vendors.”

  Dick pulled the hem of his T-shirt, which read, “Your Man Bun Is the Only Thing That Makes Your Grandpa Cry.” He scoffed. “This is hilarious! And it’s true! I’m basically a modern-day philosopher.”

  I chuckled and nudged the tea across the counter, closer to him. “Come on, Dick. It’s not going to hurt you. It’s got slippery elm bark and just a pinch of fennel and some… other things. It will move the blood through your system faster and force you to absorb more of the vital nutrients you need. If it works like it’s supposed to, you will feel energized and balanced and ready to take on the world. And if it doesn’t work, it’s not going to hurt you. It doesn’t affect us the way solid food would.”

  “I’m not drinking anything called ‘slippery elm,’ ” Dick protested. “And by the way, I noticed the way you paused before you said ‘other things’! Where is Gabriel? He’s usually the voice of reason when it comes to this stuff.”

  “I’m in the back of the shop, looking over the accounts! Not whining like a toddler!” Jane’s husband, Gabriel, yelled from Jane’s office.

  “And don’t think I failed to notice that keeps you out of tea range!” Dick yelled back. “I notice way more than people give me credit for!”

  I suppressed the urge to snort. Unlike some vampires, whose nests fed each other’s cruelty on a constant cycle, Gabriel and Jane, Dick and Andrea had formed their own little vampire family unit, with what seemed like an ever-expanding cast of adopted children, sisters, brothers, and, in Dick’s case, a several-times-great-grandchild. It was the sort of connection I hoped for in my own life someday… minus the great-grandchild; the biology of that seemed impossible.

  “It’s good for you,” I told Dick.

  “Honey, for me, would you please try the tea?” Andrea let her bottom lip drift out into a pout that even I had to admit was provocatively pretty. “I only want you to be as healthy as possible.”

  “Dang your beautiful doe eyes,” Dick grumbled, tossing the tea back. He grimaced so hard, I worried for his facial muscles.

  “I love you, Hippy-Dippy, but you are dead to me and my taste buds right now,” he wheezed, before chugging the rest of my donor blood straight out of the packet, cold.

  “Dick, I’m already dead, so…”

  I turned toward the front door of the shop as the overhead bell let out a soft peal. The welcoming customer-service smile slid right off my face as I recognized the person walking through the door.

  The corporate tool.

  And his delicious, knee-victimizing scent.

  “You!” I gasped, holding myself up against the counter. Fortunately, the knee integrity breach came across as righteous indignation and not a total loss of dignity.

  He didn’t seem any worse for wear for having had to walk seventeen miles the night before. He was wearing a different crisp blue suit with a starched white shirt and deep blue tie. He did, however, look even more annoyed with me than he had when I drove off and left him in my ecologically responsible dust.

  “You!” He took a step toward me, his golden brows lowered into a cross expression. “What are you doing here?”

  Dick, ever light on his feet, hopped over the counter and stood between me and the tool as he crossed the shop. “Keep your distance, there, buddy.”

  The tool ignored him. He dropped his sleek black laptop case on one of the bar stools and smiled in a manner that was distinctly threatening, like a shark communicating, Welcome to lunch.

  “Make my whole year and tell me that you’re Jane Jameson-Nightengale,” he told me.

  “What is going on here?” Jane asked, emerging from the bookshelves.

  “This is the guy from the airport!” I exclaimed.

  Gabriel stepped out of the office. “Do I need to call the undead emergency response team?”

  Jane was at my side in a blink of movement. “She’s not Jane Jameson. I am. And you’re not about to walk into my place of business or my district and try to intimidate one of my people. Back off and state your business, or hit the bricks.”

  The tool’s expression went all confused, but he was no less hostile as he glared at me. “Well, then, Ms. Jameson-Nightengale, you should be aware that you are employing a self-righteous lunatic who serves as a terrible ambassador for your business and your town.”

  “For the record, I’m not self-righteous. You’re just a jackass.”

  Corporate Tool turned to Jane and pointed at me. “See?”

  “Ms. Schwartz doesn’t work here. However, if you can’t see fit to have a civil conversation with her, I just want to point out—again—the ‘hitting the bricks’ option,” Jane told him.

  “Your event is canceled,” the tool informed her.

  “Wha— Who in the hell do you think you are?” she gasped. “Dick, open the door so I can ‘help’ this noncustomer outside.”

  Airport Guy fixed what could only be termed a withering stare at Dick, while pulling a fancy business card holder f
rom his suit pocket and handing Jane a rectangle of embossed silvery linen paper—along with an ID badge and what looked like a very official letter bearing the Council seal. “My name is Erik Weston. I’m an investigator and consultant with the World Council for the Equal Treatment of the Undead. Ms. Jameson-Nightengale, I’m here to review your practices as head representative for the western Kentucky district.”

  The air in the room seemed to still as Dick, Gabriel, and Andrea stared at Jane in horror. I didn’t understand what the problem was, beyond this guy having the most pretentious name in history. I felt a little stupid as I asked, “What’s going on?”

  “Oh, shit,” Andrea murmured.

  “What?” I turned to the redhead, all confusion.

  “ ‘Oh, shit’ is right,” Dick said, still staring at Weston. “You’re about to be vampire-audited.”

  “What?” I cried, glaring at Erik Weston. “That’s a thing?”

  “We certainly don’t call it that,” Weston said, his expression still irritated, “but yes, I am here to review Ms. Jameson-Nightengale’s management practices. The review begins immediately. Ms. Jameso—”

  “For the love of Oprah, just call me Jane,” she grumbled, reading over the letter.

  “Ms. Jameson-Nightengale,” he said, stubbornly adhering to formality, “please dismiss your employees for the night and call representative Dick Cheney to your office so we might begin as soon as possible.”

  Dick drew himself up to full height and looked as intimidating as possible while wearing a novelty T-shirt. “I’m Dick Cheney!”

  Weston broke from his stern, man-in-charge demeanor momentarily to ask, “Really?”

  And then his glare went back to withering, with a touch of glacial coldness, as if Dick had done something to personally offend him (which, honestly, was a possibility with Dick. He’d been around for a while, and he was… Dick). Weston took a little notebook out of his jacket pocket and made a note. “Your photo with the Council office is improperly outdated. I believe they are still using a tintype from the Prohibition era.”