Blood Casino: Vampires & Vices No. 1

by Nina Walker

  Okay, first off, how do I get a job for the VEC? Because I’d love nothing more than to punish the suckers. But second, is this guy for real? Are the police too scared to actually do anything about what happened?

  The image of myself working as a police officer slips away in an instant. I don’t want to go into law enforcement if this is how it’s going to be. I can’t imagine how frustrated I would feel knowing someone is guilty of a crime but unable to go after them. I know vampires are scary and all, but humans still need to stand up to them.

  “So we’re just supposed to believe the Vampire Enforcement Coalition actually cares? Who’s running that organization, anyway?” I fold my arms over my chest and glare. I think we all know where this is going…

  He shrugs, his face reddening. “A mix of humans and vampires.”

  I bark out a laugh. “And we’re supposed to trust the vampires to punish themselves? Give me a break, man.”

  “They have a whole watchdog group set up and their own police force for this very reason.” He raises his hand in reassurance, but I can tell even he knows it’s complete crap. I mean really, the absurdity is like handing a toddler a rainbow lollipop and then telling the child not to lick it. Never going to happen.

  I shake my head. “But the guy who runs the casino is the vampire prince of North America.”

  “Adrianos Teresi?” The cop frowns. “Yeah, he’s one of the main vamps over there at the VEC and not someone you ever want to piss off. You should stay far away from him.”

  “Great, so now we know for sure he’s not going to get punished. What’s he going to do? Slap himself on the wrist?”

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Blackwood, but that’s all we can do.” He straightens in his chair. “And Adrianos isn’t the only vampire affiliated with the VEC. They have checks and balances. We have to trust that someone else will punish him.”

  “If checks and balances actually worked, do you think our country would be in the position it’s in?” I scoff. I hate politics because it always fails the exact people it’s supposed to help. I think that pretty much goes without saying in a country where vampires are legally allowed to take advantage of the people who need protection from them. “You have younger cops, don’t you? Officers under twenty-five who don’t have to worry about compulsion? Let me talk to one of those guys.”

  “Yes, well, it doesn’t work that way . . .”

  “Why not?”

  “They have to refer back to the VEC as well. Everyone does.”

  I blink a few times, absolutely disgusted by this red tape bureaucratic garbage. “This is nuts, you do realize that, right?”

  “Think of vampire law like a Native American reservation law. They have their own enforcement, too, and when someone goes onto their land,” he gestures to my mother, “or into one of their casinos––they should know the risks.”

  Mom shrinks in on herself.

  “So you’re blaming her now?” I point to my mom, even though the man does have a point. A lamb can’t expect to walk into the lion’s den and come out unscathed. But still, victim shaming is victim shaming, and it doesn’t sit right with me.

  “No, that’s not what I mean,” he rushes on. “I’m just saying that there are inherent risks that people take when they go to places like The Alabaster.”

  “These are vampires we’re talking about here,” I chastise, “this is not something we should be playing around with, at The Alabaster or anywhere else. If we keep letting them get away with crimes, how much longer until they’re the ones in control?”

  “I’m sorry that I can’t do more for you.” He fidgets, and I close my eyes.

  I’m so mad I could scream. I don’t know if I’ve ever felt more helpless and disillusioned. Forget about the suckers getting more control of the humans, they already have it. If the laws aren’t enforced then what’s the point of even having them? To give us the illusion of safety, to make us think we know what we’re doing, that everything is going to be okay.

  It’s not.

  “Listen,” he whispers under his breath. “We both know compulsion is illegal, but they do it anyway. It allows them to turn the cops crooked if we go near them. Same thing happens with politicians. Even if we could send the under twenty-fives in, we wouldn’t want to risk it. We don’t know when someone’s prefrontal cortex actually forms, the scientists say twenty-five, but there’s not an exact date to brain development.”

  “Fine,” I grumble. Maybe he’s right. Just because something is illegal doesn’t stop the leeches from doing it. The idea that sometime around my twenty-fifth birthday my brain will become permeable to the same tampering makes my stomach slowly harden like drying cement.

  I hate them. I hate them all.

  “Come on, Mom.” I take her hand and we stand. “Let’s go home. This was a waste of time.”

  Mom is all too happy to leave, and despite Perez’s assurances that this will be taken seriously by the VEC and that we should stay and answer the rest of his questions, I get us the heck out of there. Deep in my gut I know the VEC won’t do anything about this. Everyone is afraid of Adrian, or I guess, technically it’s Adrianos. Still, I feel justified in my actions against him. The vamps deserved a taste of their own manipulative medicine, and quite frankly, we deserved to get some of our money back.

  Mom doesn’t agree.

  As soon as we get into the car, she lets me have it. “Evangeline, how could you? We can’t make enemies with the vampires!” Her voice shakes. “This is not going to end well.”

  I laugh bitterly. “Humans and vampires are already enemies, Mom. What are you even saying right now?” I’m driving since she’s still weak, and my fingers tighten over the cracked plastic of the steering wheel. My knuckles turn white.

  A tear slips down her ashen cheek, and I have to stop myself from lashing out at her even more and remember that she’s weak and she’s lost a lot of blood today. “I’m so embarrassed. Did you see the way that officer looked at me?”

  I hold back a growl. “You don’t actually care about that cop. You’re embarrassed because you lost face with your casino buddies.”

  And probably the vamps themselves, but I don’t add that part.

  We argue the rest of the drive home, and after we pull into the carport, she storms inside, locking herself in her bedroom to pout. I run the rent money over to Mrs. Maybee who lives on the other side of our little duplex, because once again I’m the responsible one in this house. I try to remind myself that it’s not all mom’s fault, she’s an addict and the vampires are feeding off of that, but I’m still mad as hell.

  The gambling has always been a little bit of a problem for Mom, but since Grammy died of cancer it’s gotten to the point of no return. When Gram was sick I thought maybe Mom would change. She was so busy taking care of her mom, she stopped going to the casino. But then Gram died and Mom went back ten times more often. I honestly don’t know how I’m going to fix this, or if I can. I’m terrified she’s going to either end up homeless or dead. And where would that leave me? Even though I’m the more mature one in our relationship, I still can’t imagine being an orphan.

  I stomp into my room, shove the rest of the cash into a sock, and hide it in the air conditioning vent above my bed. Rummaging through my disaster of a closet, I pick out an outfit for tomorrow, pajama shorts and a tank for tonight, find my toothbrush and makeup bag, and toss everything into my raggedy jean backpack. I text Mom on the way out the door. I’m sleeping at Ayla’s house tonight. If someone rings the doorbell, don’t answer it.

  Ayla is my best friend. She has been ever since middle school when all the other girls got boobs and boyfriends and we stayed awkward for another few years. Luckily, our boobs and boyfriends came later. Not that I have much of either at the moment compared to Ayla. The girl is voluptuous with a capital V.

  I would never answer the door without using the camera. Mom types back. We’ll talk some more tomorrow. And then a few seconds later. Why do you always act like
you’re the parent and I’m the child?

  And then, I’m tired of your judgement.

  And a quick, You need to learn to trust me. I’m the grown up here, Evangeline Rose Blackwood.

  I scoff. She could’ve fooled me! Just because she can yell at me through text by using my full name doesn’t make her the mature one here. But that’s not what I type. Instead, I type, I only do what I do because I love you. And leave it at that.

  I’m glad about the doorbell situation though. Vampires can’t enter homes without being invited in by someone who actually lives there, but they could easily compel her into letting them in if she answered the door and looked into their eyes. This is common knowledge and the main reason why literally everyone has doorbell cameras installed these days. She knows better, but still, I can’t shake the rage I saw on Adrian’s face when I left the casino earlier. He probably wants me dead for the stunt I pulled, and he seems like the kind of man who is used to getting what he wants.

  I shiver and try to erase his image from my mind.

  There’s a lot of speculation about compulsion in general. Can all vampires do it or only the older ones? Do they really do it often, like I think they do, or not at all like they claim? I wish I knew the answers.

  Mom texts back yet again. Fine, you can go. Have a good time with your friend. Stay inside at her place tonight and don’t take off your necklace. I’ll see you tomorrow.

  I don’t bother with a reply. Protection from a crucifix necklace is only a superstition, everyone knows that. But I feel like it’s a declaration to the vampires that I think they’re an abomination, so I wear it all the time. Plus, mine’s kinda cute and fits in with my whole down-with-the-patriarchy aesthetic, in an ironic kind of way.

  The sun is beginning to set, casting everything in a hazy glow of creamsicle orange, so I speed walk down the street and toward my best friend’s place. She lives on the other side of our neighborhood, the fancier side, where the houses have their own fenced yards, the garages are all enclosed, and most people don’t rent.

  Can I sleep over tonight? I text Ayla, already knowing she’ll say yes. Mom and I had a huge fight and I can’t be in the same house as her right now.

  Well, shoot! What did you do, Evangeline Rose Blackwood? Ayla immediately texts back, using my full name like she knows my mom does all too often. It drives me crazy, but coming from Ayla it makes me smirk.

  Not me. Her gambling again. Is all I say.

  It’s followed by a quick, Of course you can stay here. See you soon! Hugs!

  I slide the phone into my back pocket and wipe a bead of sweat from my forehead. You’d think the setting sun would have cooled things off, but it’s early August. The humidity is not fun in Louisiana and it’s only going to get worse the next few weeks. The heat doesn’t let off here until October.

  Don’t call me by my full name Miss Ayla Elizabeth Moreno, I text again, trying to lighten the conversation before I show up at her door.

  Then don’t be a menace to society. Her reply is almost instant.

  I laugh aloud at the inside joke dating back to a high school assembly in which our crusty old principal lectured us on what was and wasn’t appropriate for teen behavior. When I challenged him on the hem length requirement for girls, he called me a menace to society. True story.

  My full name is Evangeline Rose Blackwood. Pretentious, right? I hate it. It’s way too “Southern Pageant Girl” for my taste, which is exactly why my mother picked it. She’s always wanted me to be like her, to pretty myself up for pageants until I was old enough to pretty myself up for a wealthy man. Unfortunately for her active imagination, by age eight I’d rejected her plans, including the name, and have gone by Eva ever since. Mom still calls me Evangeline, or worse, Angel, but she’s the only one who’s allowed to, on account of the whole “growing me in her uterus, spending twenty hours in labor, and raising me all by herself” thing.

  Besides, following in her footsteps was never a guarantee for happiness. Look at how things turned out for her. Mom married into a wealthy family when she was only twenty years old and, from the outside looking in, it seemed like she’d be set for life.

  No such luck.

  My father was the son of a well-to-do old European family. He was also the black sheep who went off to America for college. They wanted him to return home, but he ended up getting into a medical school in New Orleans and fell in love with the city. It was during med school that he met my mom who was working as a receptionist for the school. He’d fallen even more madly in love with her than he had NOLA and that was all it took for him to commit to staying. After a year of dating, she’d gotten pregnant with me and they’d eloped without the big European wedding or even the blessing of his parents.

  Strike one and two, according to his family. They cut him off completely.

  When he died in a horrific car accident when I was a baby, his family apparently reached out to Mom and asked her to move overseas so they could help raise me. A Southern girl through and through, Mom had refused, and that was strike three because they put us out of their minds without another word. Just like my father, we were dead to them too.

  Nobody from Dad’s side of the family has ever contacted me. Not one.

  I look like a mixture of my Caucasian mom and the one picture I have of my father. I don’t know a lot about him because Mom can’t say a word without getting weepy and shutting herself in her bedroom. But their wedding picture still hangs on our living room wall. Judging from his appearance alone, he’s got to be Spanish or Italian or something Mediterranean like that. With his creamy olive tone and thick dark hair, it’s no wonder she fell head over heels.

  I can see myself in him more than I can my mother, and something about that makes me happy and sad all at once.

  My inky black hair is stick straight no matter what I do to it, my slightly almond shaped eyes are brown as molasses, and my prominent cheekbones make me stand out among my friends. Sometimes people ask me if I’m Asian or Polynesian. I’ve even gotten Native American on a couple occasions. I don’t mind looking like the personification of the American melting pot, it’s not like I’ve ever been to Europe anyway.

  But my complexion is pretty close to Mom’s pinky cream, and I have her big pageanty smile too. I’ve now grown taller and thinner than her because I never inherited her womanly curves, but I’m okay with that. I’m a natural athlete, which is great if you ask me. I was hoping a track scholarship would come my way, but that obviously never happened.

  I graduated in May and my plan is to figure out what I want to do with my life, which is kind of laughable at this point. It’s been three months since graduation, and my “figure out what I want to do with my life” plan hasn’t made an inch of headway. Actually, I’ll argue that after that disastrous visit to the police station it’s gone backward.

  I tuck away the disappointment about that to unpack another day. Right now, the Moreno’s cute Spanish style house is a welcome friend, and I bound up the driveway. When I knock on the big blue door and wave to the doorbell camera, I expect Ayla to answer it. But it’s Felix who pulls it open. Ayla’s older brother by eighteen months, Felix is my longtime crush. One year ahead of us in school, Felix goes to Tulane University in the city. He lived in the dorms his first year and plans to live in off campus housing next year with some of his buddies, but he’s been staying at home this summer.

  Let’s just say, it’s been the best thing about this summer. I missed Felix last year.

  “Hey, Eva.” His smile quirks, and his chocolatey latin eyes sparkle. “You’re sleeping over tonight?”

  Ugh, why does my brain immediately want to take that question and ask him one of my own? Like––Yes, Felix, I am. Do you mind if I sleep in your bed? But I don’t have much experience in that department, and I’m pretty sure my best friend would kill me if I started dating her brother. Actually, she has warned me of that many times over the years even though she knows how I feel about him. Doesn’t stop a girl fr
om dreaming, though.

  “Yes,” is all I say about sleeping arrangements as I follow him inside. “How’s the internship going?”

  He’s working at some fancy downtown bank as a paper pusher but doesn’t talk about it a whole lot. I mean, what is there to say? It’s probably super boring.

  “Eh, it’s the same old 9 to 5.” He winks and immediately changes the subject, “So what’s new, Eva? Any guys I need to beat up for you?”

  The picture of him beating up some jerk for me is definitely something I can get behind.

  “Unfortunately, no.” I pretend to think hard. “But I’ll let you know when someone crosses me.”

  “You do that.”

  My mind flashes to Adrian, and I picture the two battling, Felix coming out victorious for my honor in the end, and then the two of us making out. Definitely an image I want to tattoo into my fantasy memory bank.

  “Hey, you.” Ayla appears and pulls me into her bedroom, closing the door softly. “Stop drooling over my brother, you hoe.”

  “Stop having such a hot brother,” I retort. And Felix really is a hottie. He’s got a bad boy persona with scruffy two-day-old facial hair and dark curly black hair. His eyebrows are stronger than most and his eyes have that deep-set commanding thing going on. He’s tall and muscled and he even got a sleeve tattoo this last year. And to top it off, he’s an athlete. But not a typical one; he plays lacrosse for the university. Honestly, how can Ayla blame me?

  She crosses her eyes and sticks out her tongue. She’s basically the girl version of Felix but shorter, with dyed blue hair and lighter eyes and all the curves. Ayla’s the friend I’ve always counted on, and now she’s leaving me behind to go off to college herself and pursue her dreams. My heart squeezes. “I’m really going to miss you.”

  “Me too.” She frowns and gathers me in a hug, offering the first bit of comfort I’ve had in ages. Her signature vanilla spice scent wraps around me and I try to commit it to memory. I don’t know what I’m going to do when she’s gone.