“Holy hell!” I yelped, turning and flinging the heavy round paperweight from my hall table toward the voice.
“What the— Why did you just throw that at my head?”
I flicked the lights on and found Dick Cheney sitting on my couch, holding the glass paperweight centimeters from his face.
“How did you get inside my house?” I demanded, determined not to notice the languid, casual grace with which he was draped across my sofa. I stared at the window behind him with great determination. Great. Determination.
Dick lifted the glass orb to eye level, and I had to switch my determination to not noticing how much he resembled a redneck David Bowie in a backwoods version of Labyrinth.
Maybe it was time for me to get back in touch with my therapist.
“Why did you throw this at my face?” he asked again.
“How did you get into my house?” I asked again, dropping my purse on the table.
“Do you really want to know?” he asked.
I shook my head. “No. I honestly don’t want to know what you’re capable of. Please, just don’t do it again. And if you do, don’t sit on my couch in the dark, waiting for me to come home. It’s creepy.”
Dick wiped his hands on his jeans and stood. He was wearing a T-shirt that said, “Gettin’ Lucky in Kentucky,” which—compared with the rest of his collection—was very sedate and dignified. “I wanted to apologize for last night.”
“Whatever do you mean?” I asked, smiling blithely, though my hands shook as I took a glass down from the cabinet.
“The kissin’ thing,” he said. I could hear every measured footstep as he approached me from behind. I busied myself with pouring a tall glass of filtered water. “I was pissed at myself, and it splashed out on you. And I’m sorry about that.”
“I thought we’d agreed not to talk about this.”
“I never agreed to any such thing,” he protested.
“OK, maybe that was just me.” I turned, and he was standing right in front of me, not quite pinning me against the counter but not giving me a lot of maneuvering room, either. And despite the inches between us, I could still feel him like a crackle of energy brushing over my skin, raising goose bumps.
Dick gave me a lopsided smile. “I’m not sayin’ I regret kissin’ you, but I—I wanted the first time I kissed you to be different. I just wanted to explain why I was in such a weird place last night.”
“Everybody’s upset over Mr. Wainwright dying, Dick.” The smile fell from his face, which only added to my confusion. But I continued, “You seem to be taking it awfully personally, though.”
Dick took a step back, and I immediately felt his absence. “Dick?”
He ran his hand through his hair and let his palm rest against the back of his neck. “Uh, yeah. You see, Mr. Wainwright—Gilbert—he was my family, my great-great-great-great-grandson. He was the last of my family—the last in the Cheney line—with the exception of Emery, who I’m considerin’ testing for Cheney DNA.”
I stared at him, speechless. “What do you mean?”
“Well, I know it’s not nice to make fun of your own grandkids, but honestly, the boy’s got all the personality of a dish sponge. I figure it’s possible his mama slept aroun—”
“No, no. I mean how is it possible—biologically—that you have grandchildren?” I asked him. “I thought vampires didn’t have working—”
I glanced down toward his crotch. I couldn’t help it. You try thinking about the functionality of vampire reproductive organs without glancing downward. Honestly.
“My eyes are up here, Byrne,” Dick muttered.
“Sorry,” I said, though I couldn’t help but giggle a little bit. I clamped my bottom lip between my teeth to prevent undignified grinning.
Dick sighed. “Back before I was turned, I had a, let’s say, ‘fondness’ for the family laundress. Eugenia was a sweet girl and very pretty. My father would have called her ‘comely.’ We enjoyed each other in a tender but vigorous—”
“Please don’t go into details.”
“Well, I guess you’ve figured that part out. She got in the family way. But she told my father, instead of telling me, and he sent her away before I found out. She had my son, and then, well, she fell on hard times—single mother with a ruined reputation raising a baby. Back in those days, that meant more and made life more difficult, and she got desperate. She jumped in the river, and the baby was sent to an orphanage.”
“Wh-what?” I sputtered. “What are you telling me?”
Dick threw up his hands. “I never even knew about the baby until after I was turned. I was too late to help Eugenia, but I could help Albert. I was able to watch my son grow up from far away. By then, I’d made more than a few, well, I don’t like to use the term ‘enemies’—”
“People you screwed over in business dealings?” I supplied.
He nodded. “I left money for Albert when I could, tried to make his life easier. I watched him make all of the same mistakes I did—marry, have a son, not stick around to raise him. So I became a sort of benevolent long-lost uncle to the bloodline, dropping in when they needed something and finding a way to get it to them.
“When Gilbert was born, I could already tell there was something different about him. He was kinder, smarter, and just better than any of us ever tried to be. When he needed schoolbooks, he got them. When he needed glasses, he got them. When he needed college tuition, well—I don’t want to tell you what I had to do to get that for him.”
I stared at him, a bit dizzy over the rapid shift in how I viewed Dick Cheney. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Dick Cheney was a father? A grandfather? Suddenly, his comment about burying his child made so much sense. But looking back, remembering how sweet he’d been with Mr. Wainwright, I could see it. He was always so deferential toward him, so kind. And now I was sort of ashamed that I had assumed Dick was buttering him up for some sort of multilevel marketing scheme.
“I put off telling Gilbert about us being family. That’s why I was so pissed at myself at the shop. I always thought I had more time, you know? Maybe that’s the danger of living forever; it makes you take time for granted,” Dick said, wiping at the reddish moisture gathering at the corners of his eyes. “Gilbert went off to war, traveled the world, made a life here in the Hollow. And I was able to see it all. I tried to approach him so many times. Over and over, I would get as far as his door and then run back to my car like a coward. I told myself, Not yet. Give it a few more years. I thought I would have more time to get to know him better and, eventually, tell him who I am. And when Jane’s gettin’ hired on at the shop meant spending time with him, I thought, This is it. This is my chance. But I kept putting it off because I was afraid he’d be embarrassed or ashamed to be related to me. Plus, I didn’t want to complicate Jane’s job. She was so happy there, and Gilbert honestly needed her help. And now I’ve lost my chance.”
“But I thought that he was still hanging around the shop in his ghostly form?”
“He is.”
“So you still have time to talk to him!”
“I did. I told him before you showed up about Albert and his mama and about how I’d watched out for him over the years. He was happy, grateful even, and that made me feel like an even bigger ass. I could have had a relationship with him. We could have gone fishing or traveled together or something. And I missed out on it because I’m a coward.”
“But you can still spend time with him.”
Dick stepped back to lean against my kitchen table, looking glum. “It’s not the same.”
“Well, cry me a freaking river, Dick!” I exclaimed.
He stared at me, eyes wide. “The hell, Red?”
I clapped my hand over my mouth. What was wrong with me? Why did grief bring about such horrifyingly inappropriate responses from me? Maybe I’d taken some sort of psychotro
pic, truth-serum-type drugs instead of my iron supplement?
Still looking slightly shell-shocked, Dick moved closer and pried my fingers away from my lips. “No, I think I want to hear this. You were saying?”
“I have parents who refuse to talk to me. I’ve been permanently removed from the family tree—with a blowtorch—because my parents are elitist, deadist snobs who are hyperaware of appearances. But you—you still have the opportunity to build that bond with Mr. Wainwright, to love him and let him love you, and you’re too much of a wuss to do it.”
“Hey!”
“You are! Man up, Cheney.”
He pulled a pouty face.
“Tell me I’m wrong,” I challenged him.
He grumbled, “You’re not.”
I preened, but only a little bit. “It’s great that you told Mr. Wainwright. Now he knows what you did for him, that he wasn’t as alone as he thought he was. You said he was happy and grateful to hear that you were related. That’s not going to stop because of timing issues. Now, be the vampire I know you can be, get some perspective, and build a loving relationship with your grandson. Or do I need to keep insulting you for a while to get my point across?”
“No, nope, I got it.” Dick nodded and wiped at his cheeks with vampire speed so I wouldn’t notice the traces of moisture on his skin. “Now, what’s with all the iron pills, Red?” he asked. “You feeling all right?”
“Oh, I’m fine. Sophie set up an appointment for me later tonight with a new vampire who’s nervous about feeding. I’m heading out in a bit.”
“I could come with you, you know. Make sure you’re safe during the meet-and-bite and then take you out to get rehydrated,” he said, leaning against the counter and crossing his arms over his chest. “I could be your entourage. Your water-bottle-carrying, over-protective entourage.”
“Yes, because nothing sets the tone for what is already an uncomfortable experience like bringing along a bodyguard. I like my clients to know that I don’t trust them as soon as I walk in the door.”
“I’m just not comfortable with you going out on these appointments for money,” he told me.
“Could you please rephrase that so I don’t sound like the title character in that ‘Roxanne’ song?”
Dick muttered, “I worry about you. “
“I appreciate that, but I’m a grown woman. I don’t need you to keep tabs on me.”
“I don’t think of it as keeping tabs. It’s more like observing closely in a manner that you might not always be aware of but is mostly harmless.”
“Dick.”
“I said mostly!” He scowled. “What more do you want from me, woman?”
“I wish you were less charming while stalking me. And I’m sorry about the yelling and the ‘cry me a river’ thing,” I said, patting his arm. “My reaction to death is bizarre and socially unacceptable.”
“That’s OK. You’re kind of adorable when you’re yelling at me . . . in a supportive fashion. Other types of yelling from you are still pretty scary,” he said. “Also, I wouldn’t mind kissing you again, under better circumstances.”
“Now you’re pushing it.”
“And I was hoping that you might go with me to Zeb and Jolene’s wedding,” he added. “As sort of a trial date? In fact, maybe we could go to the rehearsal together and you could decide whether to go to the wedding with me. Like a pretrial date or a hearing . . . wait, no . . . that’s not right.”
I laughed. Jane had known Zeb since they were small children. He was a sweetheart—a goofy, unflappable guy Jane just sort of pulled into the supernatural world along with her. He wasn’t the alpha-male type. He was a kindergarten teacher, for goodness’ sake. And somehow he’d attracted the attention of one of the most ridiculously beautiful women I’d ever met—who also happened to be a werewolf. Jolene adored him, and he was comfortable with letting her be the alpha in the relationship. Their wedding promised to be the supernatural social event of the season—if everybody survived.
“You’re throwing around a lot of quasi-legal terms right now, Cheney, which makes me doubt the wisdom of agreeing to any sort of date with you.”
“But I do have you intrigued,” he noted. “Admit it.”
“I admit nothing.”
“Have I mentioned that it’s a Titanic-themed wedding?” he asked, grinning broadly.
“Of course it is. Why don’t you just go find some other girl to harass?” I asked him.
“I don’t want to harass other girls. I want to harass you.”
“You don’t know when to quit, do you?”
That familiar grin parted his lips, and somehow everything seemed right with the world for a brief second. “Never.”
4
Find ways to fill your time and meet new people. Join a club. Attend local support group meetings. Avoid rom-coms and ice cream.
—Surviving the Undead Breakup: A Human’s Guide to Healing
I didn’t really trust Dick not to follow me to my appointment, so I followed him back to his trailer—the new trailer to replace the one recently blown up by his crazy supervillain-with-benefits, Missy, the murderous Realtor—and made sure he had intentions to stay there. Because that was normal behavior, right?
I drove to the Lucky Clover Motel, where Sophie and her friend were waiting for me in room 140. Consisting of one squat story of battered, white cinder block, the Lucky Clover wasn’t quite a rent-by-the-hour flophouse . . . because city ordinances banned innkeepers from renting their accommodations by the hour. The neon sign sputtered to spell “L__ky _lover.” The parking lot was dark and occupied by a handful of beat-up cars. And I would not touch the worn-thin Kelly-green comforters on a dare.
But Sophie had wanted to meet on neutral ground, away from the Council offices, because the Council didn’t want bite-for-hire transactions to occur on the premises. Not because they were trying to protect me from other vampires who might be provoked by the scent of my blood but because no liability insurance carrier would touch them otherwise.
That made me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.
The vampires were waiting for me when I arrived. Sophie was standing precisely in the middle of the dingy room’s even dingier once-beige carpet, where she was least likely to touch any furnishings. Tall, platinum blond, and the owner of an inordinate number of black pantsuits, Sophie exuded a sort of European elegance that set her apart from the vast majority of Half-Moon Hollow’s population.
“Sophie,” I said, nodding in deference.
I didn’t know much about her. Nobody did. Even those who’d worked with her for years didn’t know her last name. She was beautiful in that overtly perfect, plastic manner that made her ethereal and timeless and sort of creepy. In other words, she immediately made me feel inadequate, frumpy, and shabby when I walked into the motel room.
A tiny, mousy blonde in an embroidered pink cardigan sat on the corner of the bed, which was enough to make me question her judgment. She refused to look at me as I crossed the room and set my handbag on the table. And she was wearing thick-framed pink glasses, a weird affectation when you considered that when she had been turned, her vision had automatically become twenty-twenty. Given her strange, hunched posture, I thought maybe the eyeglasses were like a security blanket—perhaps the pane of fake prescription glass made her feel protected from the world.
“Andrea, how lovely. Thank you for joining us,” Sophie purred.
“Sorry I’m late. It was unavoidable.” Opening my purse, I tucked a small leatherette toiletry bag under my arm. I took a deep breath, trying to center myself for “surrogate mode.”
“I’m sure it must’ve been very important for you to have delayed your arrival,” Sophie said, shaking her head. I chose the better part of valor, which was keeping my mouth shut. “Andrea, this is Darla. Darla, this is Andrea, a fully qualified blood surrogate on retainer with t
he Council to assist in special situations like yours.”
Darla glanced up and gave me a barely audible greeting, then immediately returned her gaze to the hands twisting in her lap.
“Hello, Darla. It’s nice to meet you.”
From what I’d read in the file Sophie sent me, Darla was a brand-new vampire, barely a month turned. As a human, she’d worked at the local Property Valuation Administrator’s office, attended services at the Half-Moon Hollow Baptist Church, and volunteered at the local animal shelter. She’d been turned by her boyfriend, who had apparently wanted more of a three-week thing rather than eternity. He’d dumped her, leaving her high and dry and in the care of Sophie, her Council-assigned foster sire. The trauma of her abandonment had left her with a severe drinking disorder. She shied away from live feeding because she couldn’t stand the sensation of her fangs sinking through skin. A few failed experiments left her unable to drink donor blood. She could drink bottled blood but only certain brands, and only tolerated those brands for a few days at a time before her body rejected that, too. So, basically, Darla was a colicky newborn vampire.
I wasn’t sure what Sophie had done to deserve such a delightful foster assignment, but I would milk every single contact I had at the local Council office to find out.
“I don’t want to do this. I’m fine with bottled blood, really. Surely there have to be people who survive on bottled blood only.”
“Yes, there are, and we make fun of them at the meetings. Now, stretch your fangs,” Sophie told her sternly.
“So, Darla.” I gave her a reassuring smile and sat next to her on the bed. I would burn my slacks later, I promised myself. “I understand that you’re having some trouble with feeding?”
“I just can’t,” Darla whispered in her high, tinny voice with its thick bluegrass accent. “I hate it. I don’t like the biting. I don’t like the way the blood fills my mouth. Everything tastes like pennies. I just can’t do it.”
It was rare for a vampire to completely reject their feeding instincts, but it did happen, especially in cases where the vampire had an extremely passive personality as a human. That type of vampire attempted to rise above their thirst, ignoring their natures, which was the worst way to handle it, because eventually those vampires got pushed beyond their control and went on blood-soaked rampages that ended up on the evening news. Sophie was trying to avoid a PR nightmare by offering Darla the training-wheels version of feeding.