Bloody Valentine

He saw the male vampire leaning up on his elbow, smiling lasciviously, while the human girl lay unconscious and naked on the bedspread. Oliver did not flinch. He remembered now why he had come to this place.

  The vampire had chosen him. Once she sank her fangs into his skin, he would have everything that he wanted…. He would experience the Sacred Kiss again…. His body needed it…. He wanted it so much….

  He closed his eyes.

  The vampire’s breath was hot and smelled like cigarettes; it was like kissing an ashtray, and the pungent smell took him away from the moment.

  “Whatever you’re about to do. It’s not going to help.”

  He blinked and saw a gentle, kind face looking at him.

  Who was she? Freya, he remembered. She was worried about him. Freya was so beautiful, more beautiful than the vampire in his lap, whose looks were mere glamour, a sad façade hiding a wretched interior. Freya glowed with an incandescent light. She had a spark in her eyes. She had told him not to do this.

  What was he doing?

  Why was he here?

  Then he remembered…the blood house. Wait. What had he done? He could live with the sorrow of losing her. He could live with missing…who was he missing? He couldn’t remember…but then with a jolt all his memories came flooding back. It was as if he were waking up. He felt alive again. He could live with the pain. But he would never forgive himself for doing this. He could not forget. He would not. He would never forget…Schuyler…

  Schuyler.

  Freya.

  Schuyler.

  The vampire bit his neck and fell back, screaming, her face scarred by the acid in his blood. “Poison! Poison! He is still marked!”

  Oliver ran out of the room as fast as he could.

  THREE

  Cleaning Up

  It was close to four in the morning when he returned to the Holiday. Freya was standing behind the bar, hitting the side of a cocktail glass with a knife. “Last call. Last call, everyone.” When she saw Oliver, she smiled. “You’re back.” She studied his face. “You didn’t do it.”

  “No. I…almost did.” He did not wonder anymore how she knew where he had been or what he had been about to do. “I didn’t because I was thinking of you.”

  “Good boy.” She smiled as she pointed toward the utility closet. “Come on, help me clean up. A little elbow grease will make you feel better. Then I’ll let you walk me home.”

  Oliver took a broom and began to sweep the floor and pick up the plastic straws and soggy napkins that had fallen there. He helped wipe down the counter and dry the glasses. He stacked them neatly on the back shelves. Freya was right: the physical labor made him feel better.

  The last of the regulars stumbled out, and the two of them were left alone. He looked around, realizing that over the years he had never seen anyone work here but Freya. How did one tiny girl keep the whole place together?

  When the bar was tidied and clean, Freya shrugged on a green army flak jacket, oversized and gigantic on her small frame. It was the kind of jacket worn by Special Forces teams parachuting into jungles, and it looked incongruous against her delicate features, which made the whole effect even more charming. She pulled up the hood to cover her hair. “Come on, I’m just down the street.”

  On the way to her apartment, Freya stopped by the Korean grocer on the corner. She chose a bouquet of flowers, two tubs of fresh fruit, and a spray of mint. Unlike the usual lackluster offerings found at the corner deli, everything Freya touched seemed to glow: the strawberries red and succulent, the melons shone with orange intensity. The mint smelled like it had just been picked from a field in Provence.

  She led him to a shabby tenement building with a broken front door. “We didn’t get the gentrification memo,” she joked. He followed her up the stairs to the third landing. It had four doors, and she opened the one painted red. “Thank goodness I face out to the street. Those two over there just look at the courtyard.”

  It was a small apartment by anyone’s standards, but in terms of New York real estate, even tinier still. There was an old-fashioned claw-foot tub in the middle of the room and a minuscule galley kitchen with aging appliances. Against the window was a four-poster bed draped with a paisley print tapestry. But once Oliver entered the room, he was startled to find it was not as small as it had looked from the doorway. He had been mistaken. The apartment was large and magnificent, with a library full of books on one side and a proper formal dining room on the other.

  “Sit,” she said, pointing to a grand settee that he was certain had not been there before.

  There were ancestral portraits on the wall, and what looked like museum-quality art. Was that a Van Dyck? That one was surely a Rembrandt. The usual bohemian squalor had vanished, and instead Oliver was sitting on a proper couch in an elegantly furnished living room with a cracking fireplace. The windows to the fire escape still looked out onto Avenue C, but Oliver could swear he heard the ocean.

  Freya disappeared into the back bedroom to change (again, he hadn’t seen it from the doorway—and what happened to the four-poster bed? And the claw-foot tub? Was he losing his mind?). When she returned she was wearing flannel pajamas. She fired up the stove—a sleek industrial design and not the old and ugly white one he had seen from the doorway—and began to crack eggs. “You need breakfast,” she murmured as she chopped the mint.

  A delicious buttery smell began to waft from the kitchen, and after a few minutes, Freya placed two plates on the table in the little breakfast nook. By this time, Oliver had accepted the fact that the apartment was not quite what it was, and he was no longer surprised by the appearance of yet another cozy and beautiful piece of furniture. Was this a dream? If so, he wanted to keep sleeping.

  Oliver took a bite. The eggs were soft and creamy, and the mint gave them a sharp and interesting taste. He finished the whole thing in three bites.

  “You were hungry,” Freya observed, pulling up her knees to her chin.

  He nodded and wiped his hands with a linen napkin. He watched as she ate her eggs slowly, savoring every bite. “Tell me about her,” Freya said, licking her fork.

  “She was my best friend.” He told her everything about his friendship with Schuyler from the beginning to the bittersweet end. He found that with Freya, he could talk about Schuyler without feeling pain. He laughed and reveled in the memories. Oliver talked into the late morning hours. He dimly remembered helping with the dishes, and then falling asleep in her bed.

  “You are too young to be so lost and so bereaved,” Freya had whispered, before he closed his eyes.

  When he woke up later that afternoon, he had his arms around her.

  FOUR

  Under New Ownership

  Oliver went back to school and to his life. He felt better than he had in weeks, and he was looking forward to seeing Freya again. She had been hard to reach, neither picking up her phone nor returning his calls, but school and Repository work had kept him busy. It wasn’t until a week later that he returned to the Holiday Cocktail Lounge.

  He noticed there was something different about the place as soon as he arrived. For one, there was a bouncer at the door with a flashlight who glared at his fake ID.

  “Hawaii, huh?” the big gorilla asked skeptically.

  “Look, I don’t want a drink. I’m just here to see Freya.”

  “No one here by that name.”

  “C’mon, man.”

  “You can ask Mack, but he won’t tell you different,” the bouncer said, handing him back his ID. “But order a drink and you’re out of here.”

  Oliver nodded his thanks and entered the bar. The bouncer wasn’t the only thing new. There were three bartenders behind the counter now. Two old men wearing bow ties, and a pretty girl who had the steely beauty of an aspiring actress but none of Freya’s charm. Even the crowd was different—polished and sleek in designer duds as they tilted back pastel-colored drinks in martini glasses. There was a leather-bound menu with brand-name spirits.

 
It was a sea of strangers. Where were the arguing tabloid journalists, the old men with long faces, the young kids at the dartboard? Speaking of, where was the dartboard? And the pool table? Sure, the Christmas lights were still up, but now there was a mechanical singing Santa, and instead of being infused with an offbeat, nostalgic charm akin to a well-worn watering hole, the Holiday looked like a plastic replica of what it had been.

  Oliver shook his head and fought his way to a fancy bar stool. He ordered a sparkling water and waited. Even if the Holiday had changed, Freya was always here. She had to be.

  Hours passed. Customers left. The bartenders glared at him. But Oliver sat there until last call.

  FIVE

  Love and Courage

  Oliver did not know how long he waited, standing on the sidewalk with a bouquet of lilies, but around four in the morning, she finally arrived. She was still wearing the puffy flak jacket from the other night, but this time she had kept the hood down, and her curly hair danced in the breeze.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, and Oliver was relieved to notice she did not sound angry, only mildly amused. “Hold this,” she said, handing him her grocery bag as she removed her keys from her purse.

  “I waited for you at the Holiday. You never showed,” he said. “Did I do something wrong? Do you not want to see me?”

  Freya shook her head and unlocked the main door. They walked up the narrow staircase. “How did you find me?” she asked, as she led the way into her apartment.

  Oliver crinkled his brow. It had been difficult. He had been sure she lived on Seventh Street and Avenue C. But he had walked the entire block and not come across the Korean deli or the shabby tenement building with the red awning. He had all but given up when he realized it was right in front of him. How had he not noticed before?

  “I don’t know, really.” Oliver settled into one of the cozy chairs. “What happened to the Holiday? It’s different. You’re not there.”

  “I sold it. I’m moving.”

  “Why?”

  “It was time,” she said. She crossed her arms. “You look better.”

  “Thanks to you,” he said.

  “Tea?” she asked.

  “Sure.” He waited while she boiled water and fixed him a cup. When she placed the teacup in front of him, he took her hand and held it for a long while. He wanted her so much. She looked down at him. For a moment they stood without speaking.

  “I thought I had done everything I needed to do,” she finally said.

  “Why are you keeping me away? I’m not a boy.” He pulled her closer and she sat on his lap.

  She ruffled his hair. “No, you’re not. You’re right.”

  He leaned over and kissed her. He had never kissed a girl other than Schuyler. But this time, he wasn’t thinking at all of Schuyler, only of Freya.

  Freya smelled like milk and honey and the wonderful scent of spring. He felt her move against him, and he pulled her closer so that he could put his hand on her chest. He felt his heart begin to pound—he was so nervous—what was he doing?—he did not know how to do this—had not planned for this—and yet…he heard Freya sigh, but it was not a sigh of exasperation…it was the sound of acceptance and invitation.

  “Come with me,” she said, and led him to the bed.

  She undressed and slipped underneath the covers. She looked as beautiful as a Botticelli painting. Oliver’s hands trembled as he quickly removed his clothing and joined her under the blankets. He was so nervous—what if she laughed? What if he did it wrong somehow? Could one get it wrong? He wasn’t so innocent, but he wasn’t so experienced either. What if she didn’t like what he…. Her body was warm and inviting, and he fell on her like a thirsty man in front of a waterfall. He stopped doubting. Stopped worrying. Stopped feeling nervous.

  It was his first time. With Schuyler, they had been waiting for the right time, or perhaps they had waited because they knew the right time would never arrive. It didn’t matter. Only Freya mattered now.

  Her hands felt warm and light on his body, and he shivered against her. Her soft mouth on his neck kissed him sweetly. She pulled him ever closer, and then they were joined together. Her body rippled underneath him, and he looked into her eyes and heard her cry out for him.

  There was so much to feel, so much to see. He was in and outside of his body, in and outside of his blood. He was flying above the ceiling, looking at the two of them from below, marveling at how sleek and slippery their limbs were as they rolled together, the beautiful shape they made, their bodies intertwined. It felt as if she were turning him inside out, and all he could do was keep doing what he was doing, and he felt her all around and inside his body and inside his soul.

  When it was over, he was covered in sweat and shaking. He opened his eyes and saw he was still in the same room, looking at the same cracked ceiling. “I love you,” he said, over and over again. “I love you, Freya.”

  Freya looked at him tenderly. “No, you don’t, my darling. But you are no longer in pain.”

  SIX

  A Last Good-bye

  The next morning they had breakfast at Veselka, a Ukrainian diner that was famous for its borscht. Oliver felt ravenous and energized. He did not know if it was the loss of sleep or the love they had made, but he felt like a new man. He felt sufficiently brave enough to ask Freya the question he had been dreading the moment he noticed the Holiday had been irrevocably changed.

  “Where are you going?” he asked, spearing a pierogi and covering it with sour cream.

  “My family is moving back home. To North Hampton.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s complicated,” she said ruefully. “A story for another day.”

  Oliver settled against the booth, feeling the cracked leather dig into his skin. Did he feel better? Different? Worse? Better. Definitely better. He touched the side of his neck. He did not feel the same throb there.

  Schuyler. He could say her name. He could remember her without the pain. Remember and honor their love, their friendship, but no longer be tortured by her absence. It was as if Schuyler was behind glass. Part of his past but no longer the torment of his future. He missed his friend. But he would survive her loss. Her loss.

  He put down his fork. “Who are you? What are you?” he asked Freya.

  “I’m a witch.” She smiled. “But then I think you already knew that, scribe.”

  “You know about the Blue Bloods?”

  “Yes. Of course. We have to. But we keep away from their business. My family does not like to…intervene. But you were a special case.”

  “Will I ever see you again?”

  “Maybe,” Freya said thoughtfully. “But I don’t think you’ll need to.”

  She was right. He did not love her. He had loved her last night, as it was love that they had shared together. And now she was going away, but it was all right.

  Oliver was himself again. He had the memories of his time as Schuyler’s human familiar, but he no longer felt the ache of need, the suffering in his very soul. Whatever he had felt for Schuyler had not been removed forcibly. Instead, his love had been absorbed and dispersed into his spirit. It would always be a part of him, but it did not have the power to hurt him anymore. Freya had done this. She had healed him. Freya, the witch.

  “Thank you.” He rose to kiss her on the forehead. “Thank you so much.”

  “Oh, sweetheart, it was my pleasure.”

  One last hug, and then they parted.

  Oliver walked down the street in the opposite direction. His cell phone began to vibrate, and when he saw the number, he answered it immediately. He listened for a moment, and his face broke into a smile. “Really? Wow. Congratulations. When? Of course I’ll be there. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  Freya Beauchamp’s Scrambled Eggs for the Brokenhearted*

  (For those who like their breakfasts fortified by a little magic )

  eggs

  salt

  heavy cream

&nbs
p; black pepper

  chopped fresh mint

  butter

  As you chop the mint, repeat these lines:

  Broken hearts take a toll.

  Mint shall heal the shattered soul.

  The Goddess breathes new life in you.

  Go forth and find a love that’s true.

  Whisk the eggs with the cream in a bowl. Add the chopped mint, salt, and pepper. Melt the butter on a pan over medium heat. Add the egg mixture; cook two minutes without stirring. Using a large spoon, gently turn over until it is cooked through but still soft.

  Garnish with mint sprigs.

  Serves one broken heart and one friendly one.

  —Adapted from The Book of White Magic by Ingrid Beauchamp

  *For more about Freya and her spellcipes, watch out for Witches of East End, due Summer 2011 from Hyperion.

  A L W A Y S S O M E T H I N G T H E R E

  T O R E M I N D M E

  Endicott Academy

  Endicott, Massachusetts, 1985

  ONE

  Patient Zero

  When Allegra Van Alen woke up, her head hurt and it took her a moment to recognize her surroundings. She was wearing a hospital gown, but she knew she was still at Endicott, since the view outside her room showed the white clapboard chapel in the distance. She must be in the student clinic then, which was confirmed by the appearance of the school nurse holding a tray of cookies.

  Mrs. Anderson was a universally beloved caregiver who watched over the students with a motherly eye and always made sure there was fresh fruit in the refectory. She walked in with a concerned smile. “How are you feeling, dear?”