“I’m sorry to hear that,” the head of the St. Paul Chamber of Commerce said politely. “Permit me to suggest it might grow on you.”
“Like a fungus, Mrs. Cain?” East Coast snob, she chided herself. Yet, Minnesota sucks, she reminded herself. “Wait: I know a Cain from the Cape. I do her parents’ taxes, if that’s them.” Given how teeny the werewolf community was on the planet, never mind the 413 square miles of Cape Cod, she fully expected the answer to be yes. She’d made a bad first impression and felt guilty enough to engage in polite small talk, but not quite guilty enough to apologize for being an ass. Yet. “Are you related?”
“It’s a family name; she’s my cousin.”
“Cane as in candy?” My God, I’m bored already. “Cain as in . . .” What friggin’ difference does it make?
“Cain as in the first murderer.”
“Uh.” Rachael’s theology was a little rusty. “What?”
“From the Bible. You know: ‘What hast thou done? The voice of thy brother’s blood crieth unto me from the ground.’ ”
“Ohhhh. That Cain. Thanks for clearing it up.”
“Not a problem . . . may I ask what specific aspect of the Land of Ten Thousand Lakes disagrees with you?”
“The fact that there are eleven thousand eight hundred forty-two lakes, to begin with. Every license plate is wrong. And it’s freezing, no one can tolerate these temperatures and live.”
“It’s sixty-eight degrees.”
“It’s August!”
Rachael shifted her weight from foot to foot. It was rude to stand there, almost looming over the wide red oak desk and its occupant, a heavy-set woman with skin so deeply black her red earrings played up her mahogany highlights and queenly cheekbones. In fact, the woman was so zaftig and beautifully dressed, Rachael wondered what she was doing there: the woman could have made big bucks in front of any camera.
The president of the chamber or, as Rachael thought of her, el Diablo, cleared her throat, which drew attention to the crisp cream-colored blouse and deep V neckline of the moss green suit.
“We’re having a cold snap.”
One that’s lasted ten thousand years, she thought but did not say. She took the newsletter out of the purse sack and smoothed it out with her palms. “Listen, I’m aware it’s a stereotype to come to the Northern Hemisphere and complain about the weather. I’m sorry I made an appointment to come shit all over your home state. I really am.” She wasn’t, but it wasn’t the other woman’s fault. Rachael resented having to be there at all; there could have been Honolulu. “I just wanted to let you know I was in town on Pack business—”
“Yes, about that—”
“—and have no idea when I’ll be leaving, except I’ll keep you updated. And I’m guessing that since you knew I was coming, you’ve already set up a place for me to live. Thanks in advance.”
“I think you’ll really like Summit Avenue. Did you know it was voted one of Ten Great Streets by the American Planning Association? And there are mansions that were built back in the early days of the city? Several of the homes were built between 1890 and 1920.”
“I did not know that.”
“See?” She looked triumphant. “That’s just one of the fascinating bits of history to be found in St. Paul. There’s all sorts of things you’ll be better able to explore on your own, things like the governor’s mansion being right there and the fact that three of the homes are on National Historic Landmarks.”
Wow. “I will, uh, try to get right on that.” The woman sounded just like a Frommer’s. She’d either been working there too long and ended up sounding like a poster on a travel agent’s wall, or had always talked like that and therefore was born to run a chamber of commerce, any chamber of commerce. “That all sounds swell. So, I’ll head over there next, get settled in . . . What is it, an apartment?” Cain nodded. “And I’d better figure out a good time to meet their . . .” Rachael rolled her eyes. “Vampire queen, gah, it sounds way too Comic-Con to me.” Though just knowing when to reference geeks at Comic-Con probably meant she spent too much time at Comic-Con.
“We use Pack as a personal noun, and our Pack leader (can you hear the capital letter?) lives in a mansion anyone can just drive right up to. And we occasionally allow fights to the death to determine the status of the males, which they normally don’t do on Election Day around here.”
“Glass house. Got it.” She was even in one, sort of . . . the chamber of commerce building was sizeable and chock-full of windows. She could see why the woman chose to work in the modern building, full of sharp angles and shiny metals. One entire side was almost all windows, a big half-moon of windows.
“Have you ever met her?” Rachael asked. She took out the newsletter, which showed the creases from being read many, many times, from her purse bag. This one was a deep cream, with the Burberry logo and font in black lettering. “Even in passing?”
“I have not. There was never a strong enough reason.” Meaning as an envoy from the Pack leader, or seeking vengeance for a blood debt, or being a welcome wagon rep, everyday things like that. “I suppose I didn’t need one so much as I was (and still am) a little vague on the protocol, so . . .” She shrugged.
“She puts her address and phone number on a newsletter with a circulation of six figures, and you were worried about protocol.”
Mrs. Cain mulled that over, then laughed. “Well, yes, if you put it that way . . .”
“So, I’ll go see her.” She folded up the newsletter and caught a flash from one of the stories: “Top Ten Reasons Why You Shouldn’t Pull Some Lame Vampire Crap from the Movies.” Interesting topic. Not for the first time, Rachael wondered if the newsletter was a satire. “Like I said, I just wanted to drop by.”
Mrs. Cain nodded at Rachael’s bag. “Did you lose your purse?”
“Never had it.” She cinched the bag shut. It was the sturdy, protective bag designer purses came in. She took a perverse pleasure in collecting and using the bags, but not the handbags themselves. She supposed there was something wrong with her.
“We very much appreciate your courtesy.” Mrs. Cain spoke for herself and the dozen or so men and women who worked for her. Packs within packs; happened all the time. Humans did it, too, they just weren’t as aware of it.
“Don’t mention it. Courtesy is my meat and drink. And even as I’m saying that, I’m realizing how full of crap I am.”
“Don’t let me keep you.”
“Don’t worry.”
Five
“This!” Edward shook the newsletter in front of his bemused roommates. “The Overbite, the monthly vamp-goings-on newsletter, which, for some reason . . . let’s just say I can’t imagine what we did to get on the mailing list.”
“That’s a good question,” Boo said. “Maybe you have to know someone, and we do, even if we don’t know we know them. And did either of you notice when I began sounding like Dr. Seuss?”
“Exactly! Who do we know? And are they dangerous?”
“Seriously, Eddie. Greg. It’s really starting to bother me.”
He ignored her. “It’s all text, a bunch of little articles . . . see? ‘Top Ten Reasons Why You Shouldn’t Pull Some Lame Vampire Crap from the Movies.’ And I think this one’s an ad: ‘The Antichrist is looking for soup kitchen volunteers.’ Soup kitchen volunteers! It’s gotta be a code for, I dunno, the end of the world or something. It does means something, though. I know it. And here!” He flipped the page over and tabbed a finger at the article on top. “ ‘First Aid for the Undead,’ by Dr. Marc Spangler. And this: ‘I See Dead People: Keep Your Cool When the Dead Won’t Leave You Alone.’ The only thing in here that isn’t weird is the photo of the high heel.” He squinted. “I guess somebody named Fendi took this picture and wanted it in there.”
“All this to say . . . ?” Gregory prompted.
“If it’s fake, it shows the workings of a dangerously cunning mind, one that should be investigated in order to protect society. If it’s true, there are vampires in
St. Paul, actual bloodsucking, Vlad the Impaler, allergic-to-cross-and-garlic, unholy creature, dread-denizen-of-the-undead vampires!” He reread a section on the back page. “And they’re having a potluck on the third.”
“I’m a dread denizen of the night,” Gregory admitted.
Boo laughed and tackled him; they both flopped onto the striped sofa. “I’ve never held that against you.”
“That is a lie! You’ve always held it against me, you’ve just repressed it.”
Boo wriggled around until she was half on and half off Gregory. Edward turned to put the pitcher of juice in the fridge, and when he turned back, Boo was lying almost full length on the couch, her head thrown back, and Gregory had started whispering in her ear and nibbling on her throat. Not literally, thank God. Okay, yes, literally, but not hard. Carefully, even gently. It was really skeevey to watch.
And lonely.
But also skeevey, dammit!
“Who better to go check it out? Nobody ever sees me coming; if it’s false, then no harm done. I’m only out a little time. If it’s not, I’m already best friends with a bona fide who-yagonna-call vampire slayer. It works on multilevels, big number one being that I need a change of scenery, and you two can stalk and stake jerkoffs almost as well without me.”
Gregory snorted against Boo’s neck, which made her laugh out loud. At least, he thought it was the snort. “Almost, yep, right on all counts, good work! We’ll try to stagger along without you.”
“Because we’re so brave,” Gregory added in mid-nibble. “We’ll gladly put everything at stake for you.”
Boo, who had begun kissing him, stopped at once. “You’d better pretend you didn’t make such a shitty pun on purpose,” Boo warned.
“Oh, I do. I do.”
“My work here is done,” Edward announced, waving the newsletter. Boo said something. It might have been, “Mufff unnggh.” Or, “You still here?”
“I mean it. I’m out of here. Gone, zip, out the door and onto the bitter brutal streets of a St. Paul suburb. You’re not going to have me to kick around anymore,” he threatened.
They seemed fine with it. Which sort of summed up his problem: there was no place for him in this apartment, town, life. Okay, life was a little strong, but now that he’d begun actively exploring his ennui, he was shocked at how much there was, and how it’d come to be there so long.
It wasn’t like he woke up and increased his carbs in order to fatten up so he could migrate. It had been a long time coming and, in a way, had nothing to do with Boo and Gregory. Was it on his roommates that he’d been hypnotized by routine?
No. Just like it wasn’t on them that finally, after four years, he was awake.
“Awake . . . and vowing to bring the light of justice to flush out the dark corners of the undead!”
“Could you pick up some milk while you’re at it? Skim if they’ve got it, otherwise two percent.”
I’ve got to get out of here.
It wasn’t exactly Let’s be careful out there or Avengers assemble! but he’d take what he could get.
Six
Five days later . . .
It was fate that led her to the Woodbury Barnes and Noble that night. Fate, and an urgent need for both a lemon scone and Newsweek. Later, Rachael was unable to remember when exactly she’d spotted Edward in the store, because she hadn’t started to pay attention until the felony assault. But she always remembered the first thing he had said to her, right there in front of the Sweet Valley Vampires display: “The undead really, really dislike being this popular.”
That was odd enough to catch her attention . . . and he was cute enough to keep it.
Like any werewolf, she had started sorting scents the moment she came through the door, categorizing and filing them away. She did it as automatically as people checked the rearview mirror when they backed up. And when she focused on Edward, it was the way people didn’t pay attention to the color of a necktie until they were right in front of it.
So it was with Edward’s scent, a pleasing combo of clean cotton and oranges, with a sprinkling of underarm deodorant; she liked it right away. She also liked the way his light brown hair was a bit shaggy, in need of a trim, and she liked the way the ends of his hair kept trying to curl under. Best of all, she liked his shirt: “Your Favorite Band Sucks.”
“I suppose they would.”
He was staring at her. She wasn’t sure why; he wasn’t a werewolf. She knew this as people know who was into the Cheetos because of their orange fingertips.
She repeated herself, louder: “I suppose they would.”
“Who would?”
What was he staring at? “Would what?”
“Who would . . . Wait. What?”
“Let’s start over.” Actually, she should just walk away . . . Why draw out this encounter? But she didn’t want to, and she didn’t know why.
Then she did know. He was an attractive, intelligent male and he was in his sexual prime. The beast in her thought the chances with him weren’t just outstanding, they were almost a necessity. She was a creature of instinct and senses, as different from this man as the great apes he’d evolved from were different from the wolves in her old, old family tree. I suppose that means while my instinct is to bring down prey, his is to make tools!
Her civilized side thought it might be fun to go get a Frappuccino with this guy. Her beast wanted to lure him to her lair and have sex all afternoon.
“I’m so sorry, I honestly wasn’t paying attention . . . I have no idea what I actually said. I was kind of in my own head.” He paused, then added with the air of someone sharing a great, shameful-yet-exciting secret, “I’m in there a lot, actually.”
“I know exactly what you mean.” She extended her hand and almost gasped when he seized it and wrung it, as if he was afraid she’d change her mind about introducing herself. “I’m Rachael Velvela.”
“Vell-vay-luh? That’s neat.” Neat? He thought it was neat? No one had ever said that. People just immediately started mocking it. She’d been Rachael Velveeta from kindergarten on up. “Edward Batley. It’s really nice to meet you.” His pleasure and attraction were apparent, and increased hers. “I come here a lot, but I don’t remember seeing you before.”
“I just moved here from Massachusetts.” She never said Cape Cod. She was startled by how many people had no idea where that was. Most of them knew where Massachusetts was. “I thought I’d come in and pick up a few local guidebooks to sort of look around.”
She would never tell this cute, great-smelling stranger the shameful truth: she thought Summit Avenue was one of the most beautiful streets she had ever seen. The mansions were breathtaking and each one was more beautiful than the last.
She had thought the rows of mansions were lovely the day it rained. Then the sun came out, the late summer light slanting down and illuminating the gorgeous detail of those great, great homes from the past. Mrs. Cain, how right you were.
“So I was in the travel section, and then this man told me the undead don’t like all the attention they’re getting.”
“Yeah, uh, sorry. Can’t believe that was out loud. Of course it’s all bull—it’s not true. I mean, it might be true, it would be true, if there were vampires in real life. Which there aren’t. At all. Because if there were—and there aren’t—I’d never be so careless as to wander around random bookstores telling strangers the likes and dislikes of the blood-drinking dependant.”
“The what?”
“Or the breathing-impaired . . . whichever you think is, you know, not offensive.”
“I can’t tell if this is the silliest conversation I’ve had all week, or the most interesting.”
“You want to get a blueberry scone, maybe sit down with an iced tea or something, try and decide?”
She smiled at him. “Well . . . yeah. I would, actually. Except that the taste of blueberries makes me vomit, so I will take a lemon scone.”
“Usually when I talk to a girl,” he confided, �
��she doesn’t use the word vomit until we’re trying to pick out which movie we want to see.”
She laughed so hard she nearly walked into the endcap. Guidebooks to St. Paul, handsome strangers using odd pickup lines, and baked goods produced by the Starbucks Corporation . . . could there be a sillier, funnier day?
Seven
Could there be a scarier, worse day?
Edward thought not. He had been surveilling the mansion occupied by the queen of the vampires for the last two days, two days of lies. Two days of lies, betrayal, and cruel funhouse mirrors. The more normal and Ansel Adams–esque the picture was, the worse it was to realize it was more like Charles Addams.
He had been staying at the AmericInn Hotel in St. Paul Park, a cute little city just a twenty-minute drive from Summit Avenue. And every day he went out to get a look at the enemy’s burrow. He was proceeding on the assumption that the newsletter was real, that it was all real.
Of course you are, you always do . . .
That’s true, but this time it was a safety issue, he told his inner voice. Given the subject matter, he figured it was much safer to err on the side of caution. If it all turned out to be a lie, some silly or mean lie to stir things up and make mischief, at worst he was out only a few hours of his time and what little money the disguises cost.
And it was bound to be a lie. And that was a terrible thing. Not because he thought the human race was in trouble from some secret vampire uprising (although that was always a theoretical concern, he figured that when it came to the undead gaining mastery over the earth, a zombie apocalypse was much more likely).
No, he didn’t fear that . . . at least, not much. But as for what he did fear . . .
Boys and girls, gather around and I’ll tell you a story.
The thing was this: all that stuff? That weird paranormal Twilight-ey shiny weird vampire stuff? It was all true. But that wasn’t even the huge thing.
The huge thing was, it wasn’t all that exciting. The huge thing was, people accepted vampires and vampire hunters as neighbors. The huge thing was, people in your building didn’t care if you were dead as long as you didn’t stick Canadian nickels in the dryers.
Wolf at the Door Page 4
