Jessica's Guide to Dating on the Dark Side

  And what a ghoul.

  Lying in bed, I couldn’t stop recalling the smell of Lucius’s cologne, as he’d leaned close to me. The power he’d exuded striding around my English lit class. The touch of his fingers against my cheek. His assertion that one day, he would sink his teeth into me.

  God, what a psycho.

  Tossing back the covers, I sat up and pushed aside the curtain, looking out the window toward the garage. A light still burned in the second-floor apartment. Lucius was awake out there. Doing what?

  Swallowing hard, I fell back on my pillow and pulled the covers up tightly around my throat—my tender, vulnerable, as yet un-kissed throat—half wishing for and half dreading the morning.

  Chapter 7

  DEAR UNCLE VASILE,

  I write to you from my “loft” above the Packwoods’ rundown garage, where I am housed, not unlike some sort of unwanted automobile or forgotten piece of luggage, no doubt breathing in stale vehicle exhaust day and night.

  Although here only a few weeks, how I mourn the rugged splendor of the Carpathians, the way the wolves howl in the night, chilling and beautiful. Only when one is in a place that completely lacks danger or mystery can one understand how profoundly the dark places of the world can be missed.

  Here, one worries only about colliding on the narrow lanes with a wagon overloaded with hay (and people say Romania is backward!) or whether there will be a “good show” on the television at night. (The Packwoods have been kind enough to supply me with a TV out here in my backyard exile, to which I can only reply with the Americanism “Whoopee.”)

  But of course I realize that I am here not for the entertainment, the arts, or the architecture. (Can I ever again be happy in our soaring Gothic castle after walking the halls of Woodrow Wilson High School, a literal ode to linoleum?) Nor should I be focused on the cuisine. (Really, Vasile—vegans?) Or the scintillating conversation of my fellow students. (The word like has become completely unlikable.)

  But I digress.

  The girl, Vasile. The girl. Imagine my shock at finding my future wife—my “princess”—knee-deep in animal waste, barking at me from across a barn and then attempting to stab me in the foot with a farm implement, like a demented stable hand. I will not address the fact that the horse excrement seemed permanently encrusted on her man-boots; it is probably bad manners even to bring it up.

  Regardless. She is rude. She is uncooperative. She lacks any appreciation of her culture—and certainly of her duty, her destiny, the rare opportunity being afforded to her by the simple fact of her birth.

  In sum, Jessica Packwood is not a vampire. Living in America seems to have cleansed our future princess of all traces of the royal blood that we know must have coursed through her veins at birth. She has undergone a terrible cultural dialysis, so to speak.

  Blessed with the black, curling hair that makes Romanian women so distinctive, she tugs and greases it into submission in a vain attempt to look like every other American teenager. But why be someone else?

  And her fashion sense . . . How many manifestations of denim can there be? And the T-shirts with the horses and the arithmetic-related “puns”. . . Is it really “Hip2B2”? Would it hurt to wear a dress now and then?

  To smile?

  Vasile, I realize that I am honor bound to form a relationship with this young woman, but really, can she lead our legions? And as for the two of us sharing any sort of physical intimacy . . . Well, any details you can provide regarding my responsibilities toward that end would be greatly appreciated.

  You know I am always willing to “take one for the team”—a new expression I’ve learned here; rather like that one—but honestly, this all seems a bit out of hand. Perhaps we’d be wiser to call the whole thing off and just hope for the best. Are we really certain there would be an all-out war between the clans if the contract is not fulfilled? If we’re talking only a few minor clashes, with minimal losses, I say let’s think about this marriage pact. But, of course, your opinion must prevail.

  In the meantime, I shall continue my thus far fruitless efforts to educate and engage this impossible American female, in that order. But please, Vasile—do consider my concerns.

  Your nephew, duty bound,

  Lucius Vladescu

  P.S. I’ve been recruited for basketball. The coach thinks I might start!

  Chapter 8

  “I CAN’T DO IT,” Mindy complained, scratching out yet another wrong answer.

  “These problems are not that hard,” I said, glad that this was the last year I’d have to tutor Mindy in math. Calculus was totally stumping her, and we were getting on each other’s nerves. It probably didn’t help that my bedroom was insanely hot. No matter how much I begged, Dad refused to install air-conditioning, saying it wasted energy. I picked up the textbook and began reading. “‘Two men are traveling by trains, which leave the station—’”

  “Nobody uses trains anymore,” Mindy nitpicked. “Why do we always have to talk about trains? Why not planes?”

  I glanced up from the book. “You are impossible to teach.”

  Mindy snapped her notebook shut. “Speaking of teaching, how about Lucius in class today? Mrs. Wilhelm about had an orgasm when he stood up and gave that big talk on Hamlet.” She paused. “He did make it almost interesting, for a play about Denmark.”

  “Getting back to the problem . . .”

  “Where is Lukey, anyway?” Mindy abandoned calculus entirely, hopping on my bed to look out the open window. She pulled the curtains aside. “Looo-cious,” she cooed. “Come out and play . . . Mindy wants to see you . . .”

  “Please don’t summon him,” I requested, meaning it.

  “Just a little peek at those sexy black eyes . . .” Mindy leaned way out the window. “Hey, somebody’s coming. There’s a truck on your road.”

  “Who is it?” I asked, not really caring. It was probably one of Dad’s yoga students, early for class. I heard the sound of tires on gravel, then an engine cutting off.

  My best friend spun around, dropping the curtain. “Jake. It’s Jake’s blue truck. He pulled in next to the horse barn.”

  Jake?

  I tried to act nonchalant. “Oh, that’s just our hay delivery. We buy from Jake’s farm. He’ll unload it and be gone in a few minutes.”

  “Oh.” Mindy processed this, then whirled back around, stuck her head out the window, and hollered, “Hey, Jake! We’re coming down!”

  No, she did not just do that. “Mindy! I’m wearing a T-shirt with a hole in it. I don’t have any makeup on!”

  “You look gorgeous.” She overrode my protests, tugging me by the arm. “Besides, I told him we were coming.”

  Reluctantly I let her drag me downstairs and outside. “I am so going to kill you.”

  Mindy ignored me. “He’s shirtless,” she whispered, hauling me across the yard toward Jake’s truck. He was standing in the back, tossing bales to the ground. “Look at those muscles!”

  I wrung her arm. “Mindy, shut up!”

  “Ow!” She wrested free, frowning at me.

  “What are you guys up to?” Jake smiled, pausing in his work. He pulled a red bandanna from the pocket of his worn jeans and wiped the sweat from his forehead. His bicep bowed and a complete six-pack of abs flexed, glistening slickly in the setting sun.

  “We’re just studying calculus,” I said, shifting my arm to hide the hole in my T-shirt. The hole that was positioned right over my stomach, which still bulged from my summer of diner pie.

  “You want to come in for a drink when you’re done?” Mindy offered like it was her house.

  “Yeah, sure,” Jake agreed with a grin. “Just let me finish unloading before the sun sets.”

  Mindy yanked on my wrist, signaling that we should go inside to wait. “We’ll change your shirt,” she muttered in my ear.

  “See you in a few minutes,” I told Jake, sneaking one final look at his pecs. Not bad.

  But as I turned to head for the house, I caught a
glimpse of a Romanian foreign exchange student leaning against the side of the garage, arms crossed over his chest.

  Maybe it was a trick of the slanting, fading light, which cast harsh shadows on his angular face, but he did not look pleased.

  Chapter 9

  “TOMORROW YOU ARE on your own, no matter what Mom says about helping you adjust,” I warned Lucius, who was trailing me through the lunch line, dismissing every offering. “You know the system by now.”

  “Oh, yes,” he said, pushing his tray along with one finger like it was toxic. “Line people up like cattle in a chute, present them with food fit for livestock, and force them to consume it hunched over, shoulder to shoulder, at troughlike tables.”

  “Just get something,” I groaned, taking a sandwich for myself. “These sloppy joes aren’t bad.”

  Lucius stayed my hand, and his fingers on my wrist were strong. And so cool. “Jessica . . . is that meat? But your parents’ prohibition . . .”

  “What Mom and Dad don’t know about school won’t hurt them,” I warned, shaking off his hand and shoving my tray along. I rubbed my wrist, warming it. “So don’t say anything.”

  “How insubordinate and seditious of you.” Lucius smiled, appreciation in his voice. “I wholly approve.”

  “Really, I don’t care about your approval.”

  “Of course not.” Lucius skipped the sloppy joes but picked up some French fries. “Cartofipai. At least we have these in Romania.”

  “By the way, where’d you get the drink?” I asked, pointing to his tray, which held a huge plastic cup emblazoned with the logo ORANGE JULIUS. “You’re not allowed to go off campus, you know.”

  “Ahh, the terrors of detention.” Lucius sighed, lifting the cup to sip through the fat straw. Red, clotted liquid advanced upward. He swallowed with satisfaction. “Not enough to deter me from the pleasures of a ‘Strawberry Julius.’ I fear I’m addicted.”

  “You should toss that out,” I said, reaching for the cup. “Seriously, if you get caught . . .”

  Lucius swiped the drink away before I could touch it. “I think not. And I strongly urge you not to spill this.”

  I glanced up at his face, not sure what he meant. His black eyes were mischievous.

  “Come on,” I said, taking some lime Jell-O. “We’re holding up the line. Let’s go pay if you don’t want anything else.”

  We carried our trays to the cash register, and as I dug into my pockets, Lucius whipped out his wallet and flipped it open. “My—dubious—treat.”

  “No way.” I located a few dollars wadded in my pocket, but Lucius was faster. He handed the cafeteria lady a twenty-dollar bill.

  “Keep the change.” He smiled at her, folding his wallet and lifting both our trays.

  “But—,” she started to protest.

  “He’s not used to our money yet,” I explained, turning to Lucius. “Our lunch only cost, like, six dollars.”

  Lucius frowned. “Jessica, do you not think I’m familiar with the valuations of numerous world currencies—especially the American dollar, which is the universal standard? I live in Romania, not a sealed box.”

  The cafeteria lady was still holding out the change, looking uncertain. “I’ll give it to him later,” I said, accepting the cash.

  “Look, there’s Melinda,” Lucius noted, carrying both our trays, “waving at us somewhat hysterically. She is rather . . . effervescent, isn’t she?”

  “I suppose you’re eating with us.” I sighed, following as he glided through the maze of tables, headed toward Mindy. Some of the other students glanced up, or edged away even, as the tall teenager in the crisp white shirt, black pants, and polished boots passed by. Lucius didn’t seem the least bothered by the attention. On the contrary, I got the sense that he felt he deserved nothing less.

  “Hey, Jess.” Mindy grinned when we reached the table. She blushed. “Hi, Lucius.”

  “Melinda, so nice to see you,” Lucius said, sliding our trays onto the table. “You look stunning today.”

  My best friend flushed with pleasure. “Why, thank you. Must be my new shirt. It’s Abercrombie, from an outlet.” She pointed to Lucius’s fitted black trousers. “And speaking of clothes, those pants rock. Does everybody in Rome dress like you? Or just the other royal kids?”

  “Romania,” I corrected. “Not Rome.”

  “Oh, it’s all European.” Mindy waved me off, still staring at Lucius in a way that could only be described as raptly. “Either way, the pants are supercool.”

  Lucius smiled. “I’ll tell my tailor his work is ‘rockin’ and ‘supercool.’ I’m sure he’ll be gratified to learn that he can compete with the Gap.”

  He moved to pull out a chair for me, but it was my turn to grab his hand. “I’ll get it.”

  “As you wish,” he said, stepping back.

  “Oh, I wish I lived in Romania.” Mindy sighed, propping her chin in her chubby hands. “Your manners are so . . .”

  “Impeccable.” Lucius supplied the word for her.

  “Oh, great,” I muttered, searching my tray. “I forgot a spoon.”

  “I will be right back,” Lucius offered, rising.

  “No, I’ll get it,” I insisted, standing up, too.

  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, y
ou 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 Sighişoara. 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 . . .”