“Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.” She takes another step, leaning in on her tiptoes. I don’t move away. I don’t think I could if I wanted to. “May I?” she asks. “I don’t want to assume anything again. Especially with…” She trails off, not wanting to casually mention my PTSD.
Instead of answering, I slide my hand around her back, pulling her the last couple inches until our lips meet. Hers are so soft, so warm. I’d forgotten what this can feel like. I’ve kissed since my wife, but only as part of sex, never as a form of intimacy unto itself. I don’t want it to stop. Her body presses against mine, hands running through my hair. We don’t explore each other; we don’t make any move to make it more than a kiss. We simply enjoy the soft caress of each other’s lips and the feel of each other’s…well, her warmth, I suppose. I don’t have my own to provide.
After a long moment, she pulls away, looking up at me through half-lidded eyes. “I was right.”
“Huh?” I manage.
“They are very kissable lips.”
“You’re one to talk.”
She has an adorable smile. “As I’m assuming we’re not running off to my bedroom, I’m starving. Did you find any recipes? I hope I have the ingredients. We did not plan this out well. I’ve just been so busy with work this week.”
“I did, actually.” Unfortunately, I left my purse in the foyer. “Let me go grab my phone, and I’ll pull it up.”
We pull out the entire contents of her pantry and fridge, looking for the best equivalents to the ingredients in any of the recipes. We have to make a few compromises and combine some traditional dinner and lunch dishes, but she has enough that we can make a decent meal. Her fridge is surprisingly well stocked for as busy a woman as she is. I think she may have bought all this for me.
She seasons a roast while I work on creaming a massive helping of mozzarella and parmesan. She didn’t have enough of either for me to only use one. “What’s the thing you’re making called again?” she asks.
“Erbolata,” I reply. “It’s a sort of herb and cheese pie. It’s delicious.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“It is, trust me.”
She doesn’t quite look like she believes me, but she doesn’t question me any further. She pours a small helping of cooking wine over the roast before considering it and repeating the action. “This look about right?”
“Yeah, that should be great.” The erbolata won’t be ready for almost an hour, and the roast for two after that, but I’m in no hurry. Now that the cheese is finally soft enough, I crack ten eggs into the pot. She only had eleven. I stir in some milk and what must look like an excessive number of herbs, primarily chard, sage, and parsley.
We let the roast sit out to marinate and reach room temperature and pour the mixture into a premade pie crust before placing it in the oven. She pours us each a glass of wine and sits at her kitchen table. “I can’t even think of the last time I put this much work into a meal,” she says.
Sitting down across from her, I sip at my wine. “I love cooking. The ritual of it is quite relaxing.”
“Of course, you love rituals, you’re Catholic.”
“And I’m planning on saying grace too.”
“You didn’t last time.”
“I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable,” I admit. “But it just feels wrong.”
“Do you say grace before you drink someone?”
“I do, actually.”
She rolls her eyes. “Okay, fine, you can say grace.”
“Thank you.”
I can see how badly she wants to ask more about my religion. She can’t wrap her head around how I could possibly have faith, let alone how I could stand by Catholicism. She was willing to drop it before, but if she needs to talk about it, I’m not against it. I don’t want to force the issue. “You really miss church, don’t you?” she finally asks.
I stare for a moment, slightly taken aback. Of all the questions she could have asked, I was anticipating that one the least. I expected her to grill me or at least continue to act like it makes no sense. This is refreshingly sympathetic. I knew there was a heart somewhere in there. With a nostalgic smile, I think back to my life in Cyprus and Venice, when I could freely walk into a church and attend a service. “I do. So indescribably much. It meant everything to me. It still does.”
“Does it make you hate being a vampire?”
I sigh. “It’s complicated. It was forced on me and”—I choke back a lump in my throat, trying not to think about that first night—“it wasn’t a fun experience. Everything about it was awful for a long while. Because of it and many other reasons, I know I’ll never make it into heaven.”
“As devout as you are, I doubt that.”
“I wish I could believe the same. I hated it for the longest time, and I suppose I still do in a lot of ways, but because I’m a vampire, I’ve had the chance to learn so much and to live for so long. It wasn’t what I wanted, and I’d never ask for it, but I suppose if I’d died a natural death when I should have, I’d have never met you, and that would have been quite a shame.”
She tries to cover her grin by draining her glass of wine. I’m glad to see I had the desired effect. “That would suck,” she says, the glass clinking on the table as she avoids my eyes.
“Most people I meet always want me to turn them. They seem to think it’s some amazing thing. Immortality has its benefits, but I’ve always found the desire for it to be obscene. You don’t want to give up your humanity, do you?”
She shakes her head. “No. Life’s too long as it is. I’m glad that your being a vampire let me meet you, but I don’t think I could take it.”
“You’re wiser than most.”
Meeting my eyes, a bittersweet smile on her lips, she pours herself another glass and says, “But hey, it definitely gives you some interesting stories.”
“I suppose.”
“You ever meet any famous people?”
I think back, looking over all the people I’ve known. Some were famous when I knew them, a few became famous afterward, but most simply went through their lives, never gaining any particular renown. “Less than you’d expect, but I’ve known a few.”
“Any you’re willing to mention?”
I skip the obvious one. I don’t want to go over the whole story with him, not right now. “Oscar Wilde was a lot of fun. He claimed he based The Picture of Dorian Gray on me, which would honestly be quite an insult if it was true, but he’d already started it by the time I met him. It was back when I could still enjoy a good party, and no one partied quite like him. I think we bonded due to my having a beautiful woman on my arm and him having a young man.” I chuckle. I don’t even recall her name at this point. I wonder if he knew his. “It wasn’t something one could be too open about back then, of course, but all the best parties were always scandalous.”
She looks almost wistful while listening to my story, as if she’s remembering it too. “I’m sure that must’ve been amazing. I loved The Importance of Being Earnest.”
“It is a fun play. I actually acted in it.”
Her eyebrows raise, and she almost spills her wine. “Really?”
“Yes. I didn’t act much, and I certainly wasn’t great, but I played Algernon in a tiny little production and the priest in a bigger one. We had to make some vestments that wouldn’t burn me, but it was a lot of fun.”
“I wish I could’ve seen it.”
“I’d like to think you would have enjoyed it, but I’m certainly no Ira Aldridge. He…” I stop, blinking slowly as I consider my words, not wanting to give away too much. “He was an amazing actor. Before Oscar’s time, sadly, but I think he’d have loved him.”
“You make immortality sound so interesting.”
“It’s as interesting as you make it. Same as any life.”
With a soft whistle, she slumps in her chair. “Way to call me out.”
“I didn’t—”
“I know,
but I don’t do much. I mean, I’m sure most normal people would find my life fascinating—I work with fiends on an almost daily basis, I’m dating a vampire, if me using that term is okay…I mean dating, not vampire—and I just all around do lots of things that most people would never dream of. Hell, I’ve performed surgery on an umibōzu! He didn’t even fit on my operating table. We had to find a secluded spot by the sea, and it was nowhere near sterile. His organs were unlike anything I’ve ever seen. But it’s all work. I don’t ever do things for me.”
“I hope you’re doing this for you.”
She giggles. “Okay, I’ll give you that one.”
I finish the rest of my drink and check on the pie. It looks perfect. “Just like Mother used to make,” I say, setting it on the table to cool. “I hope you like it. I’m not sure it’s fit for modern palates.”
“Well, it smells pretty damn good.”
She places the roast in the oven while we wait for the erbolata to cool. It doesn’t take too long, and I cut us each a slice. Hesitating for only a moment, she sinks her teeth into it. She pauses, chewing slowly, and takes another bite. After her fifth bite she says, “I still don’t know if I like it.”
I’ve almost finished my whole slice. “I love it. It’s not quite my mother’s recipe, but I think it’s close. I can almost taste home.”
“Maybe we could go sometime.” Neither of us even question it when we realize what her words imply. I suppose this date must be going pretty well.
“I don’t know,” I say, wiping away a nonexistent tear. “I’m not sure if I could handle it.” Most of the bad memories are in Cyprus, but it would still be too much. “A lot happened there, and I’m sure it’s changed so much in the past five hundred years that it wouldn’t even feel like home anymore. I think I’d rather leave it a memory.”
“Oh.” She sounds disappointed.
“Maybe we could go to England.” Right, because I don’t have bad memories there at all. “Once I’m further along in my therapy. I don’t think I could handle it yet. It’s only been a little over a hundred years since I was last there. I doubt it’s changed as much. I may even recognize a few sights.”
“I’d love that.” She finishes her slice and considers the remaining pieces. Is she really still not sure if she likes it? “I take it you’re seeing Ms. Rosseau-Lester? I’ve worked with a few of her clients.”
“I am.”
“From what I’ve heard, she’s quite good. Does she seem to be helping?”
“I’m here, aren’t I? I’m not sure I could’ve handled any of this without her help.”
The corner of her mouth ticks up in a miniature smirk. “I’m not quite sure how to take that, but I’m glad. I just wish I could help you too.”
“You are.” I’m surprised to hear myself say it, but I know it’s true. I’m finally starting to trust someone again. More than that, I’m letting myself be around someone, and I’m even enjoying it. It’s been a long time since I had a friend and an even longer time since I had whatever this is. “Thank you.”
“I don’t think I did anything, but I suppose you’re welcome.”
We finish off the rest of the erbolata and some bread while we wait for the roast. By the time it’s ready, she’s full and barely touches it. So many people can’t handle Italian meals.
“I had an amazing time tonight,” she says, walking me to the door. “You don’t have to leave if you don’t want to.”
“I don’t want to,” I admit, “but I don’t want to rush into things I may not be ready for. I like you, and I’m not used to mixing affection with sex.”
“Join the club.”
Pulling her to me, I plant a soft kiss on her lips. “I’ll see you soon,” I say when we finally pull apart. I can still feel her warmth on me.
“I’ll hold you to it.”
She walks me the rest of the way to my car, and I drive off, far more distracted by the woman in my rearview mirror than I’d prefer. I really like that girl.
Home and feeling more relaxed and elated than I’ve felt in longer than I can recall, I toss my keys and bag on the table by the door and flip on the lights. It’s only one, so Harvey should still be awake. His lights don’t turn off until six. I check on him, eager to tell him about my day. He’ll be so happy for me.
He turns when I walk in, sitting in his cage. I don’t recall closing the door. I always let him have free roam. “More,” he says.
“More what?” I ask.
“More.”
I take another step, sinking to my knee to peer into his cage. I know I left it open.
“Othello.”
I stop dead, my hand mere inches from his cage. “What?” Every drop of excitement is gone. I’m no longer looking forward, only backward. I try to focus and search through every inch of my apartment. Was it him? Did he come here? Or was it Bianca? She’s been following me. She must know where I live. I knew it was a trap. I knew I was right not to trust her. There’s no sign of either of them. There’s no note, no footprints, and barely even a smell. I can’t place it. It’s familiar, and it might be him, but I can’t be sure. There’s no way I’d have forgotten it, even after all these years. What’s going on? I pick up Harvey’s cage, causing a confused squawk and some annoyed flapping, snatch my purse and keys, and head back to my car.
I’m not even sure where I’m going until I find myself back at Mia’s house. I knock on her door, desperately, harder than I probably should. I don’t think I damage it.
She opens it up, peering out at me with a look of confusion. “Did you forget something?”
I shake my head. I can’t find my words.
“Reconsider my offer?” Her expression grows concerned as she looks past me to the cage at my side, and grows all the more so when she sees the panic that must be clear on my face. “Why do you have Harvey? Is everything okay?”
“Someone broke into my house,” I manage.
“Come in,” she says, rushing the two of us inside and closing the door behind us. “What happened? I know it can’t just be a simple burglar. You’d have eaten them or something.”
“It wasn’t.”
“Then what?”
I can’t even process the words yet. I don’t know how to say it, or perhaps I just don’t want to. This is going to be a long story.
Chapter Ten
The Break-In
Having had a few moments to collect my thoughts and several glasses of wine, I begin my tale. We’re in her living room, seated next to each other on the couch, but she’s a couple feet away, likely scared to crowd me in my current state. I appreciate it. “I told you I took my brother’s name when I was in the army. I didn’t tell you what that name was. I suppose I’m a bit famous. I was Othello.”
“Like the board game?”
I shake my head. There’s a board game? “Like the play. I actually helped William write it. Cinthio did it first, but I’m not sure how he heard about it.”
“Oh. Oh, right, I don’t know why I went to the board game.”
“I certainly couldn’t tell you.”
“Sorry.” She pours us each another glass of wine. We must be on our third bottle, and yet neither of us seem at all intoxicated. “I wasn’t thinking. So you were him?”
“Yes.”
“Wow. Wait, you call Shakespeare William?”
“I knew him for years. It would be strange to call him by his last name.”
“I guess. Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt. Keep going.”
I try to force myself to continue. It’s hard. Almost impossible. But I find the strength somewhere, perhaps at the bottom of my glass. “Most of the play is accurate. Iago was a racist asshole who couldn’t resist manipulating everyone, but he was in love with me, with Othello. He couldn’t take being ordered around by a black man, let alone a black woman, and when he found out, his schemes turned far worse. I don’t know when he became a vampire—”
“He’s a vampire too? Is everyone in the play one?�
��
“No, just the three of us. I believe he turned Bianca and then me.”
“Who was Bianca again?”
“Cassio’s lover. It’s not the point. He’d been trying to convince me that Desdemona, my wife, had been unfaithful. With Cassio. I didn’t believe him at first, but he was very convincing, and I was very foolish. As time went on, his lies started to get to me. I swore I could smell him on her. The handkerchief was William’s invention. It wasn’t real, but it would have certainly done the trick. Instead, when I couldn’t bring myself to kill her, he made me what I am. He left me in my parlor to awaken hungry for blood. I couldn’t resist. I tried so hard, but I couldn’t. I ate her. I killed the woman I loved.”
“I’m so sorry.” She reaches toward me but stops, setting her hand a few inches away.
“It wasn’t enough for him. He wanted to own me. He was sick and tired of letting me boss him around, and for years, he’d wanted more from me. I wasn’t the man he’d desired, but it didn’t make his desire go away. It only made it all the worse. He wanted to destroy me, to use me, to torture me. He stopped me from killing myself over her death, he chained me up, starved me, and kept me prisoner for months. Eventually, I gave in and joined him. I did whatever he asked of me.
“It only lasted for ten years. I managed to escape. I earned his trust, convinced him that I was his loyal dog, and when he sent me out to kill someone, I never came back. I ran until I ended up in England, where I helped write my story. Will and I agreed to leave out the vampirism—it was too unrealistic—but we showed how much he’d corrupted me, how much I deserved that fate.”
“You didn’t—”
“I did. I killed her, no matter how much I want to believe it was him. It was still my fangs on her neck. I was still the one holding her lifeless body.” Tears fall freely. I don’t even bother wiping my eyes. I just accept the blurred room as it is. “I thought I’d escaped him. I thought maybe he’d died in the Hunt. Then a few days ago, Bianca showed up. I’d seen her a few times, but I thought it was a flashback. My PTSD has been bad of late, even while it was also getting better. She wanted my help. She claimed she’d escaped from him, but I knew that it had to be a trap, which seems to be the case, or I certainly hope it is. Otherwise, I left her to him. I gave her some money for the hostel and went on my way.
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