The Care and Feeding of Stray Vampires (7 page)

“You do that.”

Eager to get off the phone unscathed, I promised to drop the doll off at her office on Monday. I hung up and lay back on the bed. I’d chosen Cal. Why? I knew Ophelia far better than I knew Cal. I owed her some personal loyalty. She’d helped me get my business off the ground. She’d never tried to bite me. But I’d backed the guy who sort of threatened me and made me use animal-control techniques to keep him in line.

I’d given Cal my word. He seemed pretty keen to stay
away from the Council. And despite the regular flow of contract payments coming in, none of them would pay me $10,000 in one swift swoop. That had to purchase some sort of loyalty, too.

I sprang from bed and paced all over the house, a heavy, sour weight settling low in my belly as I straightened up the debris that resulted from teenage occupancy. I made a list of errands and tasks that needed to be completed over the next few days. Shopping for a week’s supply of blood, meetings with two vampire brides, baking six dozen cupcakes for the high school’s bake sale. I ran through all of the various ways this “vampire refugee” situation could end, and an alarming majority of those scenarios ended up with me broke or broken.

Finally, just before dawn, I sank into my bed, exhausted, and passed out.

I slept like the dead for hours, dark and deep. I dreamed of cool lips brushing over mine, down the line of my jaw, over my throat. My fingertips skimmed skin that smelled of sandalwood and leather. Rough hands slipped over my thighs, leaving burning trails of sensation. His tongue slipped against mine, pulling it into his mouth.

I was aching, hollow inside, desperately needing to be filled. I shifted my weight, rubbing against him and whimpering softly. He chuckled, sitting back and stroking his fingers down my face. In the dream, I sighed and gazed up at him with adoration. He bent his head to nuzzle my throat as he plunged between my thighs. Hot, crushing pain radiated from my pulse point as my skin tore like wet tissue—

I gasped as I bolted up, hands clawing at my throat. “No!”

The room was shadowed and cool. I was alone. My cool spring-green sheets lay crumpled across the floor, a sure sign that I’d kicked and flailed during my nightmare. The heady scent of sandalwood was replaced by that of the homemade chamomile and lavender sachet I kept under my pillow. I drew in a shaky breath. It felt so real. The soft, cool kisses. His hands on my skin. I could still feel hot, smooth pressure where … well, I hadn’t felt much of anything lately. I was actually surprised when I pulled my hand away from my neck and found that it wasn’t covered in blood. Part of me wanted to check under the bed to make sure my vampire client wasn’t lurking among the dust bunnies.

I glanced at the clock. It was after five
P.M
. on Saturday. I’d slept almost twelve hours.

I immediately got up, pulled my laptop into my bed, and Googled “vampire dream hypnosis,” but beyond the average crackpot Web sites, there was no evidence that vampires could diddle with my brain while I slept.

I checked my e-mails, put out a few bridal fires, and made arrangements to pick up some signed contracts from a new Council referral. If I found him passed out on the floor in a puddle of faux blood, I was taking Gigi, changing our name to Smooter, and moving to Tallahassee. Seriously, there’s only so much vampire hijinks a girl can take.

I could hear light clanking noises from the kitchen
downstairs. I looked outside. The sun was still visible over the horizon. My vampiric guest shouldn’t have been up and stirring yet. And Gigi’s Beetle wasn’t in the driveway.

I crept downstairs on silent feet. On the way to the kitchen, I snagged an ugly soapstone carving of a rabbit that we only kept around because Mom had been proud of it. Peering around the corner of the fridge, I couldn’t see who was rifling through my kitchen drawers. I debated running out the back door and letting Cal deal with them. But instead, I jumped into the open, the statue held aloft over my head.

My little sister arched a dark, sleek brow at me while snacking on microwave popcorn. “I know you don’t like it when I take the last bag of Butter Lovers, but I think this is an overreaction. It’s not like I broke into your precious ‘Do Not Eat Under Penalty of Death’ chocolate stash in the freezer.”

All of my breath left my lungs in a whoosh. I set the sculpture on the counter and threw my arms around her. “Gigi! What the hell are you doing home?”

“I … live here?” she said, her tone confused.

Gigi and I shared the same dimpled cheeks, stubborn chins, and eyes that our mother called cornflower blue. We had the same small, compact frame. But that’s where the similarities ended. At seventeen, Gigi’s looks were more refined than mine, like the difference between something that hung at the Louvre and something you hung on your fridge. I was simple lines and straight features, while she was all elfin curves and pert angles.

I couldn’t have loved her more if she was my own child. But sometimes I considered shaving her eyebrows off while she slept.

For the sake of developing her character.

Moving on.

“I asked you to call before you came home,” I said, hugging her as I set the sculpture on the counter. “Where’s your car?”

Her mouth perked up at the corners. “I did call, several times. But you didn’t pick up. And my car is in the garage. Did you know that you left the Dorkmobile parked out in the middle of the driveway? That’s not like you.” She took in my ragged hair and the circles under my eyes. She groaned and tossed a piece of popcorn at my head. “Aw, is Booty Call Paul here?”

Used to these theatrics, I ducked my head to the side and let the kernel sail by and bounce against the maple cabinet. My brow furrowed at Gigi’s mention of my off-and-on, mostly off, somewhat boyfriend. “Why would you ask that?”

“You’ve got sex hair … or crazy cat lady hair. They’re remarkably similar.”

“If that’s the case, I’ve always got crazy sex hair. That came out wrong,” I conceded, gesturing to my bedhead.

Gigi shuddered delicately. “My point is that oversleeping and frizz usually mean that Napoleon has invaded once again. And then I find him in your bathrobe making frozen waffles in our kitchen.”

I frowned. We’d talked about her none-too-subtle nickname for Paul, who tended to be sensitive about his
below-average height. Well, I’d talked about it. Gigi had promised to “try” not to use it.

I’d started dating Paul Simms a few months after we moved to the Hollow. The assistant coach of the Half-Moon Hollow High football team, Paul was one of those good old-fashioned guys who believed in holding hands and having an actual conversation before engaging in sexual activity. We were exclusive for almost a year. We did all of the things couples on the “happily ever after” track did. I met his parents. I stopped wearing rose oil because it made his nose itch. He stopped cutting his own hair. We exchanged house keys and dresser-drawer space. I knew how he ordered his pancakes at the Coffee Spot. He knew not to touch the freezer chocolate stash, ever. He was a good guy, a keeper, one of those genuinely sweet men a girl dreams of building a life with.

But in the end, we wanted different things. He couldn’t imagine living anywhere but the Hollow, whereas I could see keeping my geographical options open. Paul wanted someone who was going to cheer at his beer-league softball games and really care about the outcome of the UK basketball season. I bought tickets to see a touring production of
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
, and he looked like I’d suggested an evening of chain-saw juggling. He wanted a house full of kids, while I was tepid-to-undecided on the issue. And despite the fact that he worked around teenagers all day, he never quite warmed to Gigi. When he talked about our life together, discussion of cohabitation, marriage, and kids was always framed as “after Gigi leaves for college.” There was something wrong about that.

So we parted ways, or at least, that was the plan. We had a cordial, friendly breakup, and we were proud of ourselves for handling it in such a mature fashion. Until a few weeks later, when Paul’s grandmother died, and he came to me for solace. And a month later, on the anniversary of my parents’ accident, he returned the favor for me. We developed a bad habit of turning to each other for comfort when we were sad, lonely, or just plain horny. The next morning, we’d realize what a huge mistake we’d made (again) and not speak for weeks, or we’d give dating another shot, only to break it off (again) a few days later and start the cycle all over again. It was a weird, naked trap that I couldn’t seem to climb out of.

Three months earlier, I’d realized what a bad example I was setting for Gigi and slowly but surely whittled Paul out of my life. No phone calls. No texts. Blocked on Twitter. Defriended on Facebook. It was the social-media equivalent of an Amish shunning, although technically, he hadn’t “wronged” me in any way. And he hadn’t noticed for nearly three months, which in itself was a pretty good reason to stop sleeping with him.

“I just don’t want to see you hurt, Iris.”

“Geeg, there’s no chance of me being hurt. Those sorts of feelings aren’t involved anymore. Really.”

“So you’re having sex with him because he happens to be there,” she said dryly.

“First of all, that hasn’t happened in months. And second, consider some context, please. The way you’re saying it sounds slutty and wrong. It’s not like I’m jumping some poor unsuspecting UPS guy.”

She snorted. “Yes, UPS occasionally delivers.” When I shot her a bewildered look, she rolled her eyes and added, “If the orgasms were real, you wouldn’t be so tense all the time.”

“That’s not tr—” I stopped when she leveled me with that wry blue gaze. I threw my hands up. “Two out of three, OK? Two out of three of them are real. That’s not that bad. Meat Loaf even sang a song about it.”

She leveled me with the patented, infuriating “I am Gigi, I see all” look.

I groaned. “Look, I don’t have time to devote to dating. I have to work. I have to take care of the house and do my penance at the concession stand to fulfill my obligation to a certain someone’s volleyball booster club. And I have to do my best parenting imitation so social services doesn’t reassign you to some nice missionary family. Case in point, you seem to be eating microwave popcorn for dinner.”

“Corn’s a vegetable,” she protested. “And butter’s dairy, so that’s half of a balanced meal.”

“Well, that explains your C in health and nutrition,” I muttered. “Anyway, the bottom line is that sometimes, I miss Paul. He was good to me, if nothing else. With him, I don’t have to …”

“Make an effort? Expect to be treated like a girlfriend and not a convenient warm body?”

“That’s not fair. I relinquished the title of girlfriend voluntarily. Why am I talking to you about this?” I spluttered. “I actually have something important to talk to you about. Something more important than my sad—”

“Pathetic,” she interjected.

“Love life,” I finished wryly. “You know, searing insight at your age just comes across as snotty, Gladiola Grace.”

“Hey, hey, no using the birth name. That’s a clear violation of the sisterly trust.” She cringed, poking me in the ribs.

“Paul is not here, but someone is in the house, and until I’m sure that it’s safe, I think you need to stay at a friend’s.”

“Well, that was a sudden shift in conversation,” she deadpanned. “What do you mean, you don’t know whether it’s safe? Iris, what’s going on? This cloak-and-dagger drama isn’t you. You are Iris, patron saint of rational behavior.”

“I know, I know. And I’m not trying to be dramatic. All I can say is that it’s necessary.”

“For how long?” Gigi demanded.

“I don’t know.”

She scowled. “You think I have friends whose parents will let me move into their houses indefinitely?”

“Not indefinitely,” I assured her. “Just a week or so.”

I heard a shuffling noise behind me. Cal was ambling through the living room, looking like he was recovering from a three-day bender. “Hangover” was still a pretty good look for him, all rumpled and rough. His hair was mussed, and his fangs were down. Snapping out of my ogling of the undead, I dashed to the window to pull the shades and pulled a packet of donor Type A from the fridge.

I shoved it into his hands while ushering Gigi toward the door. There was no way to get Gigi out without opening the back door and exposing Cal to direct sunlight. But if he lunged for us, I was willing to yank it open.

Cal barely paid any attention to her, instead slumping against the blue-tile breakfast bar and reluctantly slugging back the cold donor blood. Keeping Gigi behind me, I put another bottle into the microwave to warm it.

“What the—what’s going on, Iris? Th-that is
not
Paul.” Gigi spluttered.

“He followed me home,” I said, deadpan. “Can we keep him?”

Gigi eyed the tousled dark hair and the broad shoulders. She smirked and opened her mouth to speak.

“Don’t finish that thought, whatever it is,” I told her, my finger in her face.

“Who is this person?” Cal asked, his voice sleep-roughened and gruff.

“This is my sister. Gigi, this is my client, Cal. Just Cal, like Cher, with fewer plastic parts. He ran into a little trouble last night and had to stay here. It’s just a temporary situation.”

“That you can’t tell anyone about,” Cal added hoarsely, his voice hovering on the edge of intimidation but not quite making it.

“That you can’t tell anyone about,” I echoed, nodding.

Gigi’s eyes shifted between the two of us. “OK. Cal, can I ask what you’ve done to my sister?”

Now it was Cal’s turn to splutter. “I haven’t done anything to her!”

An impish light flickered in Gigi’s eyes. “Well, then, I’m sort of sad for her.” She ignored the indignant hiss from my side of the counter.

“How much to make her go to her room and stop talking to me?” Cal asked.

While I gaped at his rudeness, Gigi coughed a rather obvious “douchebag!” into her fist. I caught her eye and shook my head emphatically. Douche-coughing someone with superhearing was not a responsible choice.

Gigi rolled her eyes and cleared her throat. “I meant, how did you persuade my sensible, hyperrational sister to let you move in, even temporarily, without a plan or an end date or a chore chart?”