Jessica's Guide to Dating on the Dark Side

“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 else 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 Antanasias 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 born, 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 plat
e 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.”

  “A castle?” Nobody lives in castles except in Disney movies. “And you’ve seen this ‘castle’?”

  “Only the exterior, which was imposing enough,” Mom said. “We weren’t allowed inside. The Vladescus were not the most accessible of vampires . . .” It seemed as if she was going to expand on that but changed her mind. “The Dragomirs were more welcoming.”

  We were veering too close to a discussion of my birth parents. “What did it look like? The castle?”

  Mom smiled. “This is the first time I’ve sensed that you’re intrigued by anything related to Lucius.”

  I rinsed some knives. “Just by his house.”

  Mom tossed the towel over her shoulder and leaned against the counter. “Not by Lucius? Even a little bit?”

  I recognized the subtle suggestion in her voice. “Mom! No.”

  “Jessica . . . you must admit, Lucius is a physically attractive young man, and he’s clearly interested in you. It would only be natural if you evinced some interest in return. It wouldn’t be anything to be ashamed of.”

  Dunking a casserole dish, I scrubbed at some lentils that had fused to the sides during baking. “He thinks he’s a vampire, Mom.”

  “That doesn’t change the fact that Lucius Vladescu is a charming, powerful, wealthy, good-looking boy.”

  I recalled the feel of Lucius’s strong hand brushing against my cheek the night we’d met. That fluttery feeling in the pit of my stomach. And the fact that he had actually voiced his intention to bite my neck. “Have you ever seen me look at Lucius with anything but disgust? Seriously?”

  Mom smiled. “You’d be surprised how often disgust turns to lust.” There was a knowing look in her eyes. As if she had just read my mind as I’d recalled Lucius touching my face.

  I blushed. “That sounds like alchemy. Which is about as real as vampires.”

  “Oh, Jessica.” Mom sighed. “What is love if not a form of alchemy? There are forces in this universe that we just can’t explain.”

  Yes. Forces like the time-twisting gravity of a black hole. And the endless string of pi zooming out across the universe. Those were true forces and realities. Mysterious, sure. But also measurable and perhaps understandable if we applied math and science and physics. Why couldn’t my parents ever get that? Why did they have to look at the world and see magic and the supernatural where I saw numbers and elements?

  “I don’t like Lucius, Mom, so you can just forget about alchemy, disgust, and especially lust,” I promised, rinsing the casserole dish.

  Mom didn’t seem convinced as she dried the last of our dishes. “Well, if your feelings should change, you can talk to me. I get the sense that Lucius is a very experienced young man. I wouldn’t want you to get in over your head . . .”

  “Is Jessica ‘in over her head,’ somehow? Can I be of assistance?”

  Mom and I both turned to see Lucius standing in the doorway to the kitchen. How long had he been there? How much had he heard? “Disgust turns to lust”?

  If Mom was embarrassed to be caught talking about Lucius behind his back, it didn’t show on her face. “Jess will be fine, Lucius. But thank you for asking. What brings you in from the garage?”

  “A craving for that delicious carob ‘tofu ice cream’ you keep in the freezer,” Lucius said. He moved to the fridge and swung open the top door. “Would either of you care to join me?”

  “Actually, I’m headed to the barn to see some kittens your father found,” Mom said to me. “I suppose there’s room for one more litter, but I like to put up token resistance. If I encourage him too much, we’ll be overrun.” She patted our exchange student’s shoulder on her way out of the kitchen. “Good night, Lucius.”

  “Have a pleasant evening, Dr. Packwood.” Lucius set the mock ice cream on the counter and took two bowls from the cupboard, holding them up. “Jessica? Can I tempt you?”

  “Thanks, but I’m sort of avoiding dessert.”

  “Why?” Lucius seemed genuinely puzzled. “I know carob isn’t the most enticing flavor, but dessert is one of life’s greatest pleasures, don’t you think? I rarely forgo it—aside from the time your father attempted that eggless, creamless pumpkin pie. It hardly seemed worth the effort of lifting the fork to one’s mouth.”

  I pulled the plug on the sink, releasing the now-cold dishwater. “Yeah, well, you’re not fat. You can eat dessert.”

  When I looked up from the swirling suds, Lucius was frowning at me. Staring me up and down.

  “What?” I glanced down at my tank top and shorts. “Is there something on me?”

  “Surely you don’t think you’re overweight, Jessica?” he said, disbelief in his eyes. “You don’t believe that imbecile who taunted you in the cafeteria . . . I knew I should have silenced him—”

  “This has nothing to do with Dormand—who is my problem, not yours,” I said. “I just need to lose a pound or two, that’s all. So calm down.”

  Lucius pried open the container, shaking his head. “American women. Why do you all want to be nearly invisible? Why not have a physical presence in the world? Women should have curves, not angles. Not points.” With the mock shudder he usually reserved for Dad’s cooking, he added, “American women are too pointy. All jutting hip bones and shoulder blades.”

  “It’s fashionable to be thin,” I advised him. “It looks good.”

  “One should never confuse fashionable with beautiful,” Lucius corrected. “Trust me, men don’t care what fashion magazines say. They don’t think skeletal women look ‘good.’ The great majority of men prefer curves.” He dug a spoon into the frozen tofu and advanced toward me, holding it out, in my face. “Eat. Be happy to have curves. A presence.”

  I smiled slightly, but still pushed his hand away. I fully intended to lose five pounds. “No, thanks.”

  Lucius gave an exasperated sigh and jabbed the spoon back into the container. “Antanasia, embrace who you are. A woman who wields the power you will enjoy doesn’t need to follow fashion—or be swayed by the malicious ridicule of inferiors.”

  “Don’t start with that royalty crap again,” I begged, slapping the dishrag into the sink. Any small warmth I’d felt toward Lucius vanished. I felt angry, suddenly. “And don’t call me by that name!”

  “Oh, Jessica. I didn’t mean to upset you,” he said, setting the container on the counter. His voice softened. “I was only trying to—”

  “I know what you’re trying to do,” I said. “You try every day.”

  We had squared off, facing each other. Lucius started to reach out to me, then apparently thought the better of it. His hand fell to his side.

  “Look, we need to have a serious talk,” I said. “About this whole ‘pact’ thing. This whole ‘courtship.’”

  Lucius paused, considering this. And then, to my surprise, he agreed. “Yes. I suppose we should.”

  “Now.”

  “No,” he said, re
aching for the fake ice cream again. “Tomorrow night. In my apartment. I have something to show you.”

  “What?”

  “I prefer surprises. Another of life’s greatest pleasures. Most of the time. Well, some of the time.”

  I didn’t like the sound of a surprise. I’d had enough surprises lately. But I agreed anyhow. I didn’t care if Lucius presented me with the deed to his castle, a herd of sheep—or whatever they used for dowries in Romania—and a diamond ring. I was going to persuade him once and for all that our “engagement” was off.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow night,” I said, wiping down the countertop. “And wash out your dish when you’re done.”

  “Good night, Jessica.”

  I knew I’d find that bowl in the sink at breakfast.

  Later that night I drifted off to sleep thinking about my mom’s assertion that disgust could turn to lust. Surely that didn’t happen, did it? Nobody believed in alchemy anymore. You couldn’t create gold from rocks or lead.

  But as I slept, I had a dream about Lucius. We were standing in my parents’ kitchen, and he held that spoon up to my face. Only it wasn’t full of frozen tofu anymore. It was smothered with the richest, most decadent chocolate sauce imaginable.

  “Eat it,” Lucius urged, lightly pressing the spoon against my lips. “Chocolate is one of life’s greatest pleasures.” His black eyes gleamed. “One of them, at least.”

  I wanted to protest. I’m too fat . . . too fat. . . . But he kept holding out that spoon, and the chocolate, starting to drip, was too tempting for any mortal to resist, and in the end, I ate it all. It was like silk on my tongue. I swore I could taste it in my sleep. I clasped and clung to Lucius’s hand, steadying it and closing my eyes as I finished the last of the imagined sweet elixir. When I was done, and I opened my eyes again, the spoon had disappeared, as things do in dreams, and it was just me and Lucius, my fingers entwined in his, my soft chest—my curves—pressed against his hard frame.

  He smiled at me, revealing those amazing, surreally white teeth. “You didn’t regret that, did you?” he asked, and started to nuzzle my neck. My throat. “It was perfect, wasn’t it?” he whispered in my ear. Then Lucius wrapped his powerful arms completely around me, embracing me, engulfing me . . .