Blessed

by Cynthia Leitich Smith

  I logged a few hours of homework in the school library, and then Clyde and Aimee met me at The Banana. They’d already put the top down.

  Today the Possum’s lip had healed up, and his bruises had almost completely faded. Aimee’s blond hair had been colored a faded royal blue (like she’d changed her mind and tried to wash it out), which looked purplish striped where the pink had been.

  The back of her head was cradled in her laced fingers as she leaned back in the convertible. Her ankles, each tattooed with a tiny skull, were crossed and rested on top of the driver’s seat.

  As I walked up, she said, “I thought sunlight made vampires go poof.”

  “This isn’t a movie,” I replied, lightly knocking her feet down.

  At least with these two and now Nora, I didn’t have to hide who I was. I wondered, not for the first time, if Kieren was happier with the pack, where he could just revel in being a Wolf, or if he missed me as much as I did him.

  As we exited the parking lot, I explained to Aimee and Clyde that I needed their input on Nora’s cooking. “Plus, we finally have a real lead. Her previous boss was a vampire, and she could recognize me as one. Only she used the word eternal and —”

  “Whoa,” Clyde interrupted. “You’re trying to tell us that, after Sanguini’s first chef was murdered by vampires and its second chef was a vampire, its third chef has a history of working for vampires, and that’s supposed to be a good thing?”

  “News flash,” I countered, glancing back at Aimee’s pained expression. “You work for a vampire.” I hit the turn signal. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m being careful. I’ve been fooled enough. But Nora may know something that can help us.”

  In the front passenger seat, the Possum made a show of rolling his beady eyes.

  “Damn it, Clyde!” I exclaimed. “She at least . . .”

  “She at least what?” Aimee prompted.

  Accelerating past a bicyclist, I said, “She knows a hell of a lot more about what I’ve become than I do.”

  The kitchen smelled of marinara and garlic, wasabi and peppers, bacon and chocolate. Tiny bowls of pine nuts, olives, basil, rosemary, parsley, and newt eyes (on ice) littered the counter. Nora bent in front of the open oven, checking the javelina chops.

  After I introduced Clyde and Aimee as our dishwashers and taste testers, the Possum made a beeline for the jars of live crickets and scorpions.

  “Child,” Nora exclaimed, offering her hand to Aimee, “I love your hair!” Then the chef fetched me a refreshed sports bottle of pig’s blood from the fridge and announced that, from now on, we’d be serving a new house Chianti with the predator dishes and a Pinot Grigio with the prey. “Underage diners,” she added with a meaningful look at me, “will be offered Italian sparkling water or cranberry herbal tea.”

  After pouring each of the sophomores sample glasses, Nora shooed them out, declaring that the tasting would begin in ten minutes in the private dining room.

  I lingered in the kitchen, drinking blood from the sports bottle as Nora bustled around — stirring the soup, taking the Italian bread out of the oven.

  Opening my day planner, I tried to think of a graceful way to broach the subject. Then I decided there wasn’t one. “Once a human has consumed vampire blood, is there any way to stop the transformation?”

  Nora glanced up. “I take it this isn’t a hypothetical question.”

  I shrugged. “It may sound strange coming from me.”

  “Not really. Most neophytes struggle with ‘soul sickness,’ as they call it, regrets, even those who ask to be elevated. Who did you bless?”

  “Bless?”

  “Infect,” she clarified, setting down the pan. “Curse with your blood.”

  My pen slipped through my fingers. “No, I wouldn’t. The guy that did this to me, he also did it to others.” Understatement. “I’m trying to help them before it’s too late.”

  Nora washed her hands and began arranging prosciutto in rose formations. “I’m afraid that a dose of eternal blood — be it down the throat or into a vein — is an undeath sentence.” She cocked her head. “Now that you mention it, though . . .”

  I gave her a moment to gather her thoughts.

  “I’m no expert,” she admitted, “but clearly vampirism is outside the natural order. If you could remove the demonic magic that triggers the transformation, I suppose the scales might tip back in favor of the living.”

  “That’s it?” I asked. “All I have to do is find a way to break the spell?”

  “In theory. And before the victims die. But that’s going to be pricklier than it sounds. Remember, we’re talking about a vicious and malignant enchantment — nothing on the magnitude of what created Dracula Prime, but still, fierce.”

  Kieren’s notes had referenced the count under MYTHS, nothing to worry about. But Nora had spoken with such conviction that I felt stupid asking. “Dracula who?”

  “Prime. Drac One. The eternal villain in Stoker’s novel.” At my blank expression, she added, “The book is loosely based on truth. You really didn’t know?”

  Taking my planner and sports bottle, I joined Aimee and Clyde in Sanguini’s private dining room. With its wall sconces, crystal chandelier, painted “castle” rock walls, and midnight-blue carpeting, the room’s décor matched the rest of the restaurant. From hidden speakers, Sinatra sang, “That’s Life.”

  Nora followed, carrying an appetizer tray. She set the roasted garlic on the far side of the table from where I was seated, the gorgonzola and Italian olives close by.

  I popped an olive in my mouth, very firmly telling myself that I wasn’t nauseated. Meanwhile, Aimee spread her duck-liver pâté onto sliced blood sausage as Clyde scooped a tiny quail egg into his mouth.

  A moment later, as Aimee began cooing over the food, the Opossum’s eyes bugged and he spat the egg back out. Then he grabbed his sparkling water and chugged.

  “Mind the wasabi,” Nora warned too late.

  “Smell this, Quincie,” Aimee exclaimed, mopping olive oil with a hunk of fresh-baked bread. “It’s carb heaven.”

  I grinned and told the chef, “I’m digging the Sinatra. We could start with Frankie and later in the evening switch to —”

  “Pavarotti,” she finished for me.

  Kismet. And cheesy, totally obvious, but I didn’t care. It was Italian, fun, and most important, not what Brad would have done. Nora brought a new energy to Sanguini’s. I only hoped she was what she seemed.

  While I lingered over the woody mushroom soup, Aimee grazed across menus and courses from the eggplant on the prey to the sherbet on the predator. It occurred to me that maybe she was eating well while she still could eat at all.

  Clyde avoided most of the meat until the Renfield special, at which point he asked if he could polish off the jar of live crickets.

  Nora excused herself to fetch it for him.

  I said, “Please tell me that’s a Possum thing.”

  Moments later, Nora returned with both the insects and Sergio, who spread his arms wide and asked, “Ready to meet Sanguini’s new vampire chef?”

  I reminded myself that he hadn’t been talking about Bradley. So far, the vampire had kept his word, left me alone. All week, I’d been on the lookout for any sign of him or his precious beige SUV, and nada. Despite the horrendous ongoing fallout from his time here, maybe I’d seen the last of Brad himself. In any case, it was time to give a new Chef Sanguini a chance. I forced a smile and nodded.

  An elegant fortyish man — he had to be Freddy — parted the crimson velvet curtains and strolled in, holding a glass of what I hoped was Chianti. He had short, bleached hair and modeled a black single-breasted silk suit, white silk shirt, and black patent loafers. Plus, red contacts and fake fangs, both high dollar and almost too convincing. “Good evening,” he said in a voice equal parts irony and menace. “I bid you welcome, my children of the night.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I said. “But maybe dial it down a notch or three. You’re sup
posed to be a vampire chef, not vampire royalty.”

  Freddy broke form, laughing. “Can’t enthrall ’em all.” Setting his wineglass on the table, he raised my hand to kiss it. “You must be the legendary Quincie P. Morris.”

  “Oh, please,” Clyde said, crunching another bug.

  But Aimee grinned when Freddy bent to kiss her hand, too.

  “Poseur.” Who said that? No one else seemed to have heard it. Had my imagination kicked into overdrive? Or had it been something more insidious, a symptom of the insanity that Miz Morales had said came with vampirism?

  As I got ahold of myself, Freddy presented me with a doctor’s note confirming a physical he’d taken that morning. “In case you have any unanswered questions.”

  Then, as fearless as Nora, he offered his wrist so I could confirm his only slightly elevated pulse.

  “Sanguini’s,” I said into the manager’s office phone. “This is Quincie.”

  “Detective Zaleski here. Listen, a young couple — a man and a woman, good-looking, twenty-something, dressed in business suits — have been asking around about Brad. They come off like feds. They’re working the antique shops, the Fourth Street and Sixth Street bars. They went on a historical society tour of Hyde Park. I’ve already talked to your bouncers, but can you alert the staff to keep an eye out for them, too?”

  “Sure,” I said, taking notes. “Have there been any new victims?” When he hesitated, I added, “Really, I need to know.”

  Zaleski cleared his throat. “No, but I have flagged a couple of new missing-persons cases. Do us both a favor and stay sharp.”

  Then he informed me that the number of the mystery caller — the one I’d fielded on my cell phone in the high-school girls’ bathroom — had been a dead end.

  Nora slid a mug of porcine blood into the microwave to warm for a few seconds. (We’d decided that porcine sounded more appetizing than pig.) She’d spread out the Capital City News on the counter and had been circling various classified ads for rental homes. “A friend of yours came by this morning. Mitch.”

  Oh, God. “Are you . . . ?”

  “Fine, fine,” she said. “He just stared at me a moment and then asked to see you. I explained that you weren’t here and offered him a full bottle of porcine blood.” Nora handed me the mug. “I didn’t think you’d mind.”

  I didn’t, but something else was bothering me. “You could tell what he was, like you could tell what I was.” I took a sip. It tasted better heated. “How exactly?”

  “Well, when I said you weren’t available, his incisors came down — big tip-off.”

  Okay. “But when we first met —”

  The interrupting knock was sharp, forceful. Nora and I exchanged a glance. We’d had a security camera installed out back, but I hadn’t thought to boot the laptop. Sloppy.

  “We might look into a com system,” she said.

  “Not a bad idea . . .” Motioning for her to stand behind me, I opened the door.

  A UPS driver, holding a clipboard, stood there with a huge box.

  “Careful, miss,” he said when I reached for it. “That’s . . .”

  I heaved the box onto my shoulder, and a few quick steps later, deposited it on a stainless-steel counter.

  “. . . mighty heavy.”

  Nora offered the delivery guy an apologetic smile and shut the door in his face. “What’s all that?”

  I ripped open the box and began unpacking the supplies I’d ordered — garlic, holy water and wafers, crosses, wooden stakes, knives . . .

  The three of us — me and the sophomores — met at a quarter past nine by the lighted tennis court at the neighborhood park. According to everything I’d just read at the public library, midnight would’ve been a more powerful time. But unless we were working, both Aimee and I were supposed to be home by 10 P.M. on school nights.

  I’d spent much of the evening — online and off — researching how to break a spell, curse, jinx, or hex. “You brought the stuff?”

  Clyde lifted his cloth tote bag so I could see the herb store logo on it.

  “I still think we should hire a wizard,” he said.

  “You got a copy of the Hogwarts alumni directory?” Aimee joked. She was trying too hard to hide her anxiety, at least while Clyde was around.

  “We have no idea how to find a legitimate wizard or sorcerer,” I said. “Assuming, in either case, that there is such a thing.”

  I’d briefly considered trying a cleansing spell, using oils, incense, candles, crystals, or an over-the-counter air purifier, for that matter. But it wasn’t Sanguini’s . . . it wasn’t the place that had been infected, afflicted; it was people, like Aimee, who’d dined there. A reversal spell — sending the malevolent magic back to Brad — probably wouldn’t work, since he was already undead. Plus, every article, book, and online how-to warned that those babies — reversal spells — could come back to bite you in the karmic butt. So a hex-removal spell it was. Maybe there were other options, better options, but hell, I’d only been studying witchcraft since about 5:30 P.M.

  As we strolled through the picnic area, Clyde handed the tote to Aimee and announced that he’d forgotten something in the car.

  While we waited for him to return, she settled across from me, cross-legged on the ground cover of wood chips in the play area. “Quincie, look!”

  I tensed, ready to face the threat. But it was only a raccoon — make that three young raccoons — barreling into the trees. Adorable. “I think we crashed their play date.”

  Clyde jogged back with his iPod, a couple of small speakers, and a flat stone.

  The general idea was that we would light a candle and imagine its flame or maybe the wax or both as the contaminating power of Brad’s blood. Then we’d visualize that power disappearing as it burned down. And finally, we could toss whatever was left into the lake or bury it or something. I had two or three chants written down for good measure. One was even in English.

  Reaching into the bag, Aimee withdrew a bloodred tea light. About the size of a half-dollar, maybe a quarter-inch thick. Black-cherry-scented. And set it on the stone.

  Aimee struck a match and lit the wick.

  Clyde hit PLAY on his iPod, and ambient New Age music filled the air — a mix of wood flute, chirping crickets, and hooting owls.

  Aimee smirked. “Kumbaya.”

  The Possum opened his mouth to retort, but then his eyes widened and he pointed over my shoulder. “Fire!”

  It took me a half second to realize he hadn’t been talking about the tea-light flame. I glanced back at a blazing arch, maybe four feet long, splitting the darkness by the picnic area. I caught a glimpse of a tall, fair-haired male figure. Brad?

  I knew we hadn’t seen the last of him.

  “The car,” I ordered the sophomores. “Go, run!”

  If Brad thought I’d spend eternity playing squeaky mouse to his kitty, then so help me, this time one of us wouldn’t walk away. Remembering countless football games I’d watched with Kieren, I decided to just tackle the opposition. I poured on the speed, planting one foot on a bench seat to leap over two tables.

  In midair, I spotted a red-eyed bloodsucker that I didn’t recognize, totally ablaze, crawling in agony from behind a recycling bin. Looming over him, a stranger who — hang on — wasn’t Brad wielded a flaming weapon, torch, something!

  Oh, God, my target had been battling the vampire.

  But I couldn’t stop. I’d never before run or leaped at top preternatural speed, and, trying to slow down, I tripped in my new Nikes. “Look out!”

  The vampire hunter (or whatever he was) sidestepped, dodging the full force of my blow, but I still knocked him off his feet, backward into the air. The flame died, and I glimpsed metal flying from his hand. He crashed into the chain-link fence surrounding the tennis court and fell to the ground, bleeding and unconscious.

  Meanwhile, I landed hard, hitting my forehead on a stray tennis ball. Brushing myself off, I climbed to my feet and jogged to the
fence.

  The sophomores, who had ignored my order to vamoose, were weaving between the picnic tables toward me and the possibly heroic guy I’d just slammed into.

  The Possum reached my side first. “Who . . . ?”

  “Wow,” Aimee breathed a few seconds later. “He’s . . .”

  “It was an accident,” I whispered. “I didn’t mean to kill him.”

  “Don’t be hysterical,” Clyde said, checking for a pulse. “Nobody’s dead.” He gestured toward the smoldering ash where the vampire had been. “At least nobody who wasn’t dead in the first place.”

  Aimee asked, “Quincie, did you hit your head?”

  That’s when I saw the flashing lights of the police cars. Detectives Wertheimer and Zaleski burst out of an unmarked sedan, leading the charge in our direction.

  “We’re okay!” I shouted, stepping between the cops and my friends. “Don’t shoot!” Not that I thought they would, but just in case.

  Zaleski shouted for his officers to take five and stormed over. He looked even bigger and furrier outside at night than he had in my house. “What’re you kids doing out here?” He pointed to my victim. “Who’s that?”

  “We think he might be a good guy,” I said.

  “He’s breathing,” Clyde added, standing. “Out cold, though.”

  Somebody radioed in for an ambulance while Zaleski explained that they’d gotten a call from a woman in Travis Heights who’d seen the fire from her rooftop deck. Then he questioned us about what had happened.

  I didn’t offer much in the way of details.

  We’d noticed the fire and decided to investigate.

  I’d seen a burning figure. Yes, it had fangs. Yes, I was sure.

  Yes, I thought that the unidentified injured man had been fighting him. (I left out our collision.)

  Yeah, the three of us “young people” had been fooling around with magic — “A protection spell,” Aimee had blurted out.

  Yes, we knew magic should be left to professionals and those for whom it was an integral part of their religious faith.