Jessica's Guide to Dating on the Dark Side (7 page)

Lucius moved behind my chair, clasped my shoulders in those powerful hands, and gently but firmly guided me back into my seat. He leaned over me, speaking softly, still holding my upper arms. His cool breath grazed my ear, and I got that traitorous, ticklish feeling in my stomach again.

"Jessica. For god's sake," he said. "Allow me to do at least one common courtesy for you. In spite of what 'women's lib' teaches you, chivalry does not imply that women are powerless. On the contrary, chivalry is an admission of women's superiority. An acknowledgment of
your
power over
us.
This is the only form of servitude a Vladescu ever practices, and I perform it gladly for you. You, in turn, are obligated to accept graciously."

Lucius released my shoulders and strode off before I could reply.

"I have no idea what that meant, but it was, like, the hottest thing anyone ever said." Mindy followed Lucius with her eyes. "How did you get so lucky? Why don't my parents ever get exchange students?"

"I wish he
was
your problem," I said.
Oh, do I ever wish it.
If only Mindy knew how crazy Lucius Vladescu was. What he claimed to be. "Why does he have to act like that? I just want him to leave me alone."

Mindy jabbed a straw into her carton of chocolate milk. "I don't get you, Jess. When we were five, all we ever did was dress up like princesses. Now a real-life Prince Charming wants to wait on you hand and foot and you complain!"

"Oh, Min . . . just don't encourage him, okay?"

"You're just too hung up on Jake Zinn to see that real, honest-to-goodness European royalty is hitting on you, Jess. You are going to waste your time on a guy who milks cows for fun—"

"Jake's family doesn't even have cows," I protested. "They grow crops. And I thought you liked Jake. You were just drooling over his muscles!"

"Oh, hey, Lucius," Mindy chirped, giving me a kick under the table. "You're back quick."

"I didn't want the Jell-O to grow even less palatable by sitting out," Lucius said from behind me, leaning over my shoulder again, arranging my silverware on the tray. Fork to the left of my sloppy joe. Knife and spoon to the right. "This is the American way, too, yes?"

"So what do you do in Romania besides going to, like, the world's best etiquette school?" Mindy inquired as Lucius sat down.

He leaned back in the metal folding chair and stretched his long legs out into the aisle, pushing aside his uneaten French fries. "Well, my education is rather rigorous, although I am privately tutored. I enjoy frequent travel to Bucharest and Vienna, when the mood strikes. Hunting is popular in the Carpathians. And riding."

"Hey, you and Jess have something in common!" Mindy cried.

I shot her a warning look.

"Well, you do!"

Lucius arched his eyebrows at me, intrigued. "Really, Jessica? I thought your equine activity was confined to mucking stalls," he teased. "I had no idea you were familiar with the view from atop a horse, too. You've kept this a secret."

"Because I didn't want you lurking around the barn, spooking my horse," I said, taking a bite of my forbidden SLOPPY JOE.

"Jess is jumping in the 4-H show this fall," Mindy added.

Lucius smiled approval. "You know, I am known as quite the rider in my hometown of Sighisoara. Perhaps I could help with your seat—"

"No!" I cried, louder than I'd meant to. I lowered my voice. "I don't need help, okay?"

"Are you sure? I was All-Romanian National Amateur Polo Team captain, outdoor and arena rules."

"Oh, for crying out loud," I moaned, scooping a big glob of lime gelatin into my mouth.

"Better ease up on the Jell-O, Packrat," someone called. "You already shake like a bowl full."

Oh, no.
. . I glanced over to see pudgy Frank Dormand, flanked by Faith Crosse and her jock boyfriend, Ethan Strausser, walking by our table, laughing.

"You're one to talk, Dormand," I advised him. "At least all my fat's not in my head."

But they were already shambling off, laughing together.

"Ingrates." Lucius sat upright, disbelief in his voice. "Did he just
taunt you,
Jessica?"

He started to rise from his seat, and I clutched his arm. "Lucius, let it go. I handled it. Like I always do."

Lucius paused, half standing, to stare at me, incredulous. "I'm to allow that.. . that.. . half-wit to mock you?"

I held firm to his sleeve, feeling his taut muscles even through the fabric. "It's just Frank Dormand being a jerk, as usual," I said. "Don't start a fight over it."

For a moment, Lucius seemed to forget Frank, thank god, as he sank back down, searching my face, clearly baffled. "Jessica ... I don't understand. You, of all people, to endure mockery ..."

"Stop it, Lucius," I warned, silently begged him, locking on to his dark eyes.
Please don't mention vampires, or betrothals, or anything about me, of all people, being a princess. Not with Mindy here. Not ever.
"I know how to handle it."

Lucius conceded but with clear reluctance. "As you wish. But I will acquiesce only once. Such behavior by imbeciles— toward
you,
Jessica—will not go unanswered again."

He leaned back again in his seat, crossing his arms, watching the door through which Frank, Faith, and Ethan had departed—watching it intently, as if he wished they would return and test him. As if he was plotting, strategizing, living the fight in his imagination. His gaze was so coolly scary that even Mindy grew quiet, for once in her life.

We finished lunch in silence. Lucius never ate a thing, just picked up his Strawberry Julius now and then, absently, as he watched the door. As we left the cafeteria, he tossed the cup into the garbage can, and it clattered hollowly against the side, empty.

"I hope he kicks Frank's ass someday," Mindy whispered to me, dumping her tray. "It would be, like, no contest. Lucius looked like he was ready to
kill
for you."

The way Mindy said it, the words almost sounded romantic. But I'd seen the look in Lucius's eyes, too, and felt his anger, barely contained in the tensed muscles beneath my hand.

No, the prospect of Lucius Vladescu fulfilling any vendetta on my behalf didn't seem romantic at all. On the contrary, it just filled me with an unease that bordered on dread. Indeed, the more I thought about it, Ethan, Frank, Faith, Lucius— and I—seemed like a combination that could lead only to disaster.

Chapter
10

DEAR UNCLE VASILE,

The lentil is perhaps the world's most versatile, indestructible food.

One can eat the lentil unadorned; marry it off to its first cousin, the oafish "bulgur"; or attempt to drown it in harsh vinegar for a "vegan salad." But the lentil, alas, will always survive. Indeed, at the Packwood house, the tenacious little legume will forcibly resurrect, as free of anything resembling taste as ever, and insinuate its indefatigable, pelletlike self onto yet another dinner plate, expecting to be eaten. Again, and again, and again.

And do not even speak to me of "Jell-O" and "sloppy joes."

FOR GOD'S SAKE, VASILE.

How much must I endure in the interest of peace between the clans? Am I to sacrifice myself as the first prisoner in a war that has not even started yet?

Honestly, Vasile, it's not just the food, either. (Or what the Packwoods and the Pennsylvania Department of Education
insist
is food.)

American high schools should be outlawed under the rules of the Geneva Convention. The unspeakable cruelties I endure would astonish even you, an expert at cruelty!

As you know, I have always been curious about our immortality
. . .
how it will feel to live on and on through time (assuming one avoids the stake, as I intend). I need speculate no longer. I have sampled eternity in Miss Campbell's fifth period "social studies" class. Three days on the concept of "manifest destiny," Vasile. THREE DAYS. I yearned to stand up, rip her lecture notes from her pallid hands, and scream, "Yes, America expanded westward! Is that not logical, given that Europeans settled on the
eastern
shore? What eke were they to do? Advance vainly into the sea?"

But I must not rant. It would be bad form to lose my composure. I must endure, fighting the temptation simply to become slack-jawed, like most of my school "peers" (they wish!), who will themselves into a collective, vacant, trancelike state for the duration of each class. (Although I sometimes secretly envy their ability to empty their minds completely for a full fifty minutes, reanimating only at the sound of a bell, like Pavlov's dogs. At which point they bark and yip about the hallways until classes start again. . . .)

However, you are no doubt more intrigued by news of the courtship than my so-called education. And so I will turn to my progress with Antanasia.

I am happy to report that my future princess sometimes shows hints of tremendous spirit. Unfortunately, all of Antanasia's considerable force of will, her "spunk," (to use the American word, which sounds like something one should scrape off the bottom of one's shoe, as opposed to an admirable quality), is completely concentrated upon rejecting me.

Truly, she shows single-minded devotion to this endeavor.

Meanwhile, I get the sense that Antanasia harbors an ill-advised attraction to a hay-baling farm lad (A peasant! And a short one at that!) who is so unremarkable in appearance and demeanor that, although he occupies a desk near mine in English lit (I have largely taken over the instruction in that class
—
perhaps I'll earn "tenure"!), I can never manage to recall his name. Justin? Jason? (Sadly, those are both good guesses. We seem to have a glut of each, here at Woodrow Wilson.)

The point is, I seem to have "competition," Vasile. Competition from a peasant, whose crude courting strategies include showing up at the Packwood farm, unnecessarily shirtless, to "flex" in front of her! Preening like a puffed-up pheasant! And if you could see her batting her eyes at the lout. . .

Does this reflect poorly upon Antanasia
—or
upon me, whom she shuns?

And if the Dragomirs have developed a penchant for breeding with peasants, could we not just allow their bloodline to diminish naturally, as opposed to uniting with them?

I jest.

Of course I shall prevail. (A Vladescu against a rustic laborer
... I
could win Antanasia with one hand tied behind my back and perhaps wearing a blindfold.) But the whole situation is disheartening, to say the least. To think that Antanasia even considers a bumpkin, when a prince shows an interest. . . When a
Vladescu
shows an interest! I blame the lentils. Can a
nobleman accustomed to meat be expected to function at full capacity on soggy grains?

Meanwhile, I was recently further disheartened to witness Antanasia disparaged by one of Woodrow Wilson High School's most tedious characters, a boy with the unfortunate name Frank Dormand. (No wonder he's bitter!) But imagine: a common simpleton insulting a vampire princess. I sat there, dumbfounded, like an oaf myself, unable to believe my eyes and ears. That shall not happen again. I am cognizant that I must follow the local rules of conduct (sadly, there are strict sanctions against heads rolling in streets here), but another insult from a "Dormand'' will not be endured.
My
future bride
—
however temporarily peasant-inclined
—
will
not
suffer insubordination.

More than the insult itself disturbs me, Vasile. I ask you: How can
Antanasia
understand her true worth, raised under such circumstances? Do we wonder that she considers consorting with a peasant? Had she been raised in Romania, brought up as a ruler, Antanasia would
never
have accepted an insult from a commoner. She would have ordered the offender put down like the sick mongrel he is. Here, all she could do was strike back with her own (crude but encouragingly cutting) wit
—a
weapon, yes, but a princess should have real
power
at her fingertips.

I am concerned by this, Vasile. Rulers are not just bom, as you know. They are forged. Antanasia knows nothing of wielding power. What will that mean for her, for the clans she will lead, when she takes the throne?

Getting to the main point of my missive, though. Could you please release, say, an additional 23,000 lei
—
equivalent to about 10,000 American dollars
—
from my trust? I am interested in making a small purchase, related, of course, to my courtship of Antanasia. Although I may use a minor portion to buy a small store of red meat.

Thank you in advance for your generosity.

Your nephew,

Lucius

P.S. Basketball practice will soon begin. Perhaps you would like to fly over and attend a game?

Perhaps not.

Chapter
11

"WHY DOESN'T LUCIUS have to help with the dishes?" I complained, handing Mom a dripping plate. "He eats with us. He could help clean up. And I'm tired of doing his laundry, too. He always whines about the starch. Who even uses starch?"

"I understand your frustration, Jessica." Mom swiped the plate with a towel. "But your father and I have discussed this, and we both think Lucius is having enough difficulty adjusting to life in the United States without giving him chores, too."

"He's adjusted just fine. Too fine, if you ask me."

"Don't mistake Lucius's swagger for happiness," Mom said. "His life is altered dramatically enough without forcing him to do extra work that would be done by servants in his home."

"Or so he claims."

Mom laughed. "Regardless of what you think about Lucius's . . . er, vampireness—"

"I think it's a bunch of bull—" I caught myself. "I mean, garbage."

"Regardless, Lucius does come from a very wealthy, privileged background."

I swished around in the soapy water, feeling for sunken silverware. "How privileged? Honestly? Because sometimes I wonder about the polo ponies and the trips to Vienna."

"Oh, I wouldn't be surprised, Jessica," Mom said. "The Vladescu family lives on quite an impressive estate. It's a castle, really. High in the Carpathian Mountains."