Jessica's Guide to Dating on the Dark Side

  Lucius pulled himself more upright, supporting himself on one elbow, still drinking lustily, like he couldn’t get enough. Finally, though, there was nothing left. The bag was empty. Lucius sort of fell back with a moan that managed, somehow, to convey both raw agony and pure satisfaction, and Dad grabbed his bare shoulders just in time, easing him onto his back again.

  “Rest, Lucius,” Dad urged. Mom stepped in with a cloth to wipe his chest, where the blood had spilled on him. . . .

  Blood. He was drinking blood.

  I squeezed my eyes shut again, more tightly this time. Something strange happened then, because I was obviously crouched on a solid, wooden floor, which could not move, and yet it started pitching and whirling under my feet. The whole house was heaving around me, and even when I opened my eyes, trying to get my bearings, it was only to feel my eyes spin of their own accord toward the ceiling, which faded away like a movie screen at the end of the film.

  I awoke later that same night in my own bed, dressed in my flannel pajamas, but confused and disoriented, as if I’d suddenly found myself in a foreign country, as opposed to my own bedroom. It was still dark. I lay as still as possible, eyes open, just in case the room started lurching and the ceiling started to fade again.

  The house didn’t shift, though, even as I replayed, in vivid detail, everything I’d seen. Everything I’d felt.

  I’d seen Lucius drink blood. Or had I? I had been woozy. Confused. And that smell . . . Maybe Dr. Zsoldos had dosed Lucius with some sort of heady Romanian liquor or potion or something. Maybe I’d misunderstood, in my panic and my fear.

  But the one thing I couldn’t explain away was what I’d felt when I’d actually believed Lucius was dead.

  Grief. The deepest grief I could imagine. Like a jagged hole ripped in my soul.

  That . . . that was the part that really had me freaked. So freaked, in fact, that I slipped downstairs again in the middle of the night, creeping into the dining room. The fire had been stoked back up, and Lucius was still on his back on the table, but there was a pillow under his head now. A warmer blanket had been placed over the sheet, too, covering him from shoulders to toes. My dad was still in the room, dozing in the rocking chair, snoring lightly, but Mom was gone, and Dr. Zsoldos was gone, and his bag, and the pouch I’d probably dreamed. . . .

  I stole up close to Lucius’s face. There were no traces of red on his lips, no stain down his chin, no hint of a change in his mouth. Just a pale, injured, now-familiar face. As I watched him, he must have sensed a presence, or maybe he dreamed, because he shifted slightly, and his hand dropped off the table. The position looked uncomfortable, so after waiting a moment to see if he would move again, I gently grasped his wrist and replaced it on the table. In spite of the blanket and the fire crackling just a few feet away, his skin was so cool to the touch . . . cold, actually. He was always so cold. My fingers slipped down, lacing with Lucius’s for just a moment, to offer him some comfort or warmth.

  He was alive.

  I started weeping then, as soundlessly as possible, desperate not to wake Dad. I just let the tears run down my face, dripping onto our clasped hands. Lucius drove me insane. He was insane. But no matter. I didn’t want to feel that sense of profound loss again. Never.

  I hiccuped a sob, unable to hold it back. At the sound, Dad grunted, the huge snort of someone trying to sleep in a hard chair, and I was afraid he might wake up, so I released Lucius’s hand, wiped my face with my sleeve, and returned to my room again. It was almost dawn by then, anyway.

  Chapter 24

  DEAR UNCLE VASILE,

  It is with profound regret—and no small measure of apprehension regarding your reaction—that I write to inform you that I have encountered a small accident with a horse I purchased online.

  Oh, how you would have appreciated Hell’s Belle. Such a terrible, awesome, feral creature. Black from her forelock to her hooves and, needless to say, the very core of her being. Would I have desired anything less?

  Returning to the narrative, though. My deliciously vicious mare dealt me an admirable thrashing—for which I absolve her completely. The result was a broken leg, a few cracked ribs, bit of a gaping hole in one lung. Nothing I haven’t survived before at the hands of family. But of course, I’m afraid I shall be on my back for at least a week or so.

  I write less in hopes of gaining your sympathy . . . (Oh, that’s a rich thought, isn’t it? You, Vasile, getting weepy over someone’s well-being. I really would laugh out loud at that, if doing so wouldn’t make me cough up more blood.) No, I put pen to paper more in the interest of giving the Packwoods their just due, as I have certainly never been spare with them in terms of criticism. (Recall my missive following that first lentil casserole? I cringe a bit, to recall. There’s never really a need to resort to expletives.)

  In this crisis, however, much to their credit, Ned and Dara rose to the occasion, immediately grasping the fact that taking an undead individual to the hospital would have been a decidedly unfortunate move. (How many of our modern brethren have been inconveniently lodged in basement morgues for days—and even stone mausoleums for years—due to a lack of what humans call “vital signs”?)

  But as usual, my musings wander. Returning to my point, perhaps we have been unjustly harsh regarding the Packwoods. They showed great insight, and, more importantly, risked themselves for me. I almost wish that I could replace their hideous folk dolls, as a gesture of my gratitude. Could you, perhaps, have one of the local women fashion some crude poppet out of, say, a wooden spool and some scraps of wool? Nothing fancy. Aesthetic standards for this particular collection were not high, believe me. “Ugly” and “ill-crafted” seem to have been the key criteria.

  As for Antanasia . . . Vasile, what can I say ? She responded to my accident with the valor, will, and fearlessness of a true vampire princess. And yet, a princess possessed of a kind heart. What, we must ask ourselves, would this mean for her in our world?

  Vasile, few are the times when I would claim to have greater experience than you, regarding any subject. You know that I am humbled before your authority. But I will risk addressing you with some authority here, myself, as one who has spent considerable time now in intimate contact with humans.

  (No doubt you already grow angry at my impertinence—believe me, I can feel the sting of your hand across my face, even several thousand miles away—but I must continue.)

  Living as you have in our castle, isolated high in the Carpathians, you have had little contact with those outside our race. You know only the vampire way—the Vladescu way. The way of blood and violence and the harsh scrabble for survival. The endless fight for dominance.

  You have never seen Ned Packwood crouched above a box full of squirming kittens, nourishing them with an eyedropper, for god’s sake—when our people would have thrown the shivering strays out into the cold, watched them carried off by the circling birds of prey, with no regret. Nay, with a sense of satisfaction for the hawk that would not go hungry that night.

  You have never felt Dara Packwoods trembling hand searching for your pulse as you lay prostrate—vulnerable!—half naked, injured, on a plank table.

  What would one of our kind have done, Vasile? If Dara had been a Dragomir, not a Packwood, would she not have been tempted, at least, to take down the rival prince in that opportune moment? Yet she feared for my life.

  This—this is how Antanasia was raised. She is not just an American, but a Packwood. Not a Dragomir. She has been coddled with kittens and kindness and soft touches. Nourished with pale, limp “tofu” in lieu of the blood-soaked spoils of a slaughter.

  And you didn’t hear her cry, Vasile. You didn’t feel her grief, as I did, when she thought I was destroyed. . . . It was palpable to me, Vasile. It tore through her.

  Antanasia—no, Jessica—is soft, Vasile. Soft. Her heart is so tender that she could not help but mourn even me—a man whom she can barely abide.

  Her enemies—and we know, as a princess, she would ha
ve them, even in peacetime—would smell that weakness, just as I sensed her grief. At some point, another female would rise up, thirsty for power, hungry to take Jessica’s place. Is that not the way of our world? And when confronted, at the moment of truth, Jessica would falter, just for a split second, not sure if she could bear to waste a life—and she would be lost. Even I could not protect her at all times.

  In the past, I fear that I have considered Jessica superficially. I (we?) have been guilty of believing that a change of clothes, lessons on etiquette, a deep and satisfying thrust of fangs to the throat could make her vampire royalty.

  But you didn’t hear her cry, Vasile. You didn’t feel her tears fall on your face, your hand.

  Perhaps vampiredom could survive Antanasia—but could Antanasia survive vampiredom? She shows promise, Vasile, but that promise is years from maturation. In the meantime, she would be doomed.

  Maybe it is the medication speaking. Honestly, Vasile, the Packwoods have the most wonderful Hungarian healer, very loose with dispensation, if you get my meaning. Yes, perhaps it is the plethora of potions coursing through my veins and saturating my brain, but I ponder these things as I lie here—missing, I might add, the first basketball “scrimmage” of the season, against the rival “Palmyra Cougars.” (As if I haven’t slain those before, and would have done so again on the court.)

  Getting back to Jessica, though. We vampires are soulless, yes. But we do not betray our own, do we? We do not destroy wantonly, correct? And I fear that vampiredom would, indeed, destroy Jessica.

  Should we not consider setting her free to be a normal, human teenager? And leave the problems of our world where they belong: in our world, as opposed to on the shoulders of an innocent American girl who longs only to ride her horse, giggle with her best friend (I’ve developed a somewhat twisted liking for the deliriously sex-crazed Melinda), and share “nice” kisses with a simple farmer?

  I look forward to your thoughts, even as I already anticipate your phenomenally negative response. But you raised me to be not just ruthless but honorable, Vasile, and I felt honor bound to bring these issues to light.

  Yours, recovering,

  Lucius

  P.S. Regarding the doll: Request button eyes if possible. That seemed to be a “theme.”

  Chapter 25

  “MOM, I WANT you to tell me what happened that night.”

  My mother was in her home office, glasses perched on her nose, poring over her latest delivery of academic journals by the pale glow of her desk lamp. At the sound of my voice, she glanced up. “I was hoping you’d come to talk soon, Jess.”

  She motioned to the lumpy, cast-off La-Z-Boy that served as a guest chair next to her desk. I sank in, pulling the musty Peruvian wool blanket over my legs.

  Mom spun her chair toward me, sliding her glasses up into her hair, giving me her full attention. “Where should we start? With what happened between you and Lucius on the porch?”

  I flushed, looking away. “No. I don’t want to talk about that. I want to talk about two nights ago. When you brought Lucius here. Why? Why not to a hospital?”

  “I told you, Jessica. Lucius is special. He’s different.”

  “Different how?”

  “Lucius is a vampire, Jessica. A doctor trained in an American medical school would not understand how to treat him.”

  “He’s just a guy, Mom,” I insisted.

  “Is he? Is that what you still believe? Even after what you saw, crouched by the door?”

  Staring down at my hands, I twisted a loose thread around my finger and tore it out of the blanket. “It’s so confusing, Mom.”

  “Jessica?”

  “Hmm?” I glanced up.

  “You’ve touched Lucius, too.”

  “Mom, please . . .” We weren’t going there again, were we?

  Mom gave me a level stare. “Your father and I aren’t blind. Your father caught the tail end of your . . . moment . . . with Lucius on Halloween night.”

  I was glad the desk lamp barely cast a puddle of light on the desk, because my cheeks were blazing. “It was just a kiss. Not even that, really.”

  “And when you touch Lucius, you don’t notice anything . . . unusual?”

  His coolness. I knew immediately what she meant, but for some reason, I hedged. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  Mom realized I wasn’t being completely honest, and she had little patience with people who got intellectually lazy when faced with a difficult concept. She pulled her glasses back onto her nose. I knew I was being dismissed. “I want you think about what you saw back in the dining room. What you’ve felt. What you believe.”

  “I want to believe what is real,” I whined. “I want to understand the truth. Remember the Enlightenment? Geometric order replacing superstition? Sir Isaac Newton? Who unlocked the ‘mystery’ of gravity? And who once said, ‘My greatest friend is truth. How can a vampire be ‘true’?”

  My mom stared at me for a long moment. I could hear the clock on her desk ticking as she marshaled her considerable store of knowledge.

  “Isaac Newton,” Mom finally said, “retained a lifelong faith in astrology. Did you know that about your so-called rational scientist?”

  “Um, no,” I admitted. “I did not know that.”

  “And remember Albert Einstein?” Mom noted, smugly. “Who unlocked the atom? Something we could barely conceive of just a century or so ago? Einstein once said, ‘The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious.’” She paused. “If atoms can exist, hidden and yet everywhere, for millennia . . . why not a vampire?”

  Damn. She was good.

  “Mom . . .”

  “Yes, Jessica?”

  “I saw Lucius drink blood. And I saw his teeth. Again.”

  Mom took my hand and squeezed it. “Welcome to the world of the mysterious, Jessica.” A shadow crossed her face. “Please be careful there. It’s very, very tricky territory. Completely untamed. The mysterious can be beautiful—and dangerous.”

  I knew what she meant. Lucius. “I’ll be careful, Mom.”

  “The Vladescu family has a certain reputation for ruthlessness,” she added, more directly. “You know your father and I like Lucius very much, and he is charming, but we must also keep in mind that his upbringing was no doubt very different from yours. And not just in terms of material possessions.”

  “I know, Mom. He’s told me a little bit. Besides, I keep telling you—I don’t feel like that about him.”

  Liar.

  “Well, just so you know, I’m always here to talk. So is your father.”

  “Thanks, Mom.” I tossed aside the blanket and stood to go, kissing her cheek. “For now, I just need to think.”

  “Of course.” Mom spun back around to her journals. “I love you, Jessica,” she added over her shoulder as I pulled her door shut. In spite of her warnings, in spite of her obvious concerns for me, I swore I heard the faintest hint of a smile in her voice.

  Chapter 26

  DEAR VASILE,

  I continue to await your response to my concerns regarding Jessica’s near-certain fate, should she take the throne. Have you nothing to say?

  What am I to read from your silence?

  Honestly, Vasile, I tire of navigating this situation with little guidance, thousands of miles from home. I am fatigued by competing, unsuccessfully, with a peasant. I am drained by bodily injury. I grow impatient for . . . for what? Something I cannot even name. I grow weary of my own nature, my own thoughts, my past, and my future, lying here.

  In the absence of constructive comment, I will proceed as my instinct currently dictates regarding Antanasia. I doubt that you will agree with my course of action, but I feel, of late, frustrated and restive and recklessly willful. I chafe at the bit you’ve kept in my mouth for so long.

  Yours,

  Lucius

  Chapter 27

  “WELL, YOU’RE FINALLY out of the garage like you wanted,” I teased.

  “I can’t believe
you live like this,” Lucius smirked, propped against my pink satin pillows. In my bedroom. Mom had insisted Lucius move inside until his leg healed. His cast was propped up on the oversized stuffed hot dog. “It’s like living in a frothy cocoon of cotton candy.” He made a face. “So much pink.”

  “I like pink.”

  Lucius sniffed. “It’s just red’s sorry, weak cousin.”

  “Well, it’s not forever. You’ll be back in your gloomy dungeon with your rusty weapons before long.” I glanced around my room. “Have you seen my iPod?”

  “This?” Lucius located my MP3 player in a jumble of sheets and held it up.

  “Yes.” I held out my hand. “Give.”

  “Oh, can’t I keep it? It’s so boring being confined here, and I’m enjoying exploring your musical preferences.”

  Here we go. “Why don’t you buy your own?”

  “But yours is already loaded with the Black Eyed Peas.” He was mocking me.

  “Don’t be a jerk.”

  “I like them. Honestly.” A devilish grin crossed his face. “My humps, my humps! What’s not to like?”

  I swiped the iPod from his hands and he laughed. I grinned, too. “If you weren’t already broken all to pieces . . .”

  “What?” He grabbed my wrist with lightning speed for someone with broken ribs. “You’d beat me into submission? Right. In your dreams.”

  Yes. Sometimes, lately. In my dreams. I mean, I wasn’t dreaming about beating him up. But lately, Lucius had been making more guest appearances in my sleep. At weddings. In dark caves. By flickering candlelight.

  He released me, growing serious. “Jessica, I’ve consumed so many pain medications. I really can’t thank your local physician, Dr. Zsoldos, enough. Why suffer?”

  “You’re rambling.”

  “Oh, yes. Well, I’ve never properly thanked you.” He pushed himself up a little straighter, wincing as his ribs shifted. “Catching Hell’s Belle, staying with me. You were very brave.”