by Mari Mancusi
“Charles, go into the cellar and get us a vintage O negative,” requests Elizabeth.
“Ooh, good choice,” chimes in Susan. “Get the one from Marie Antoinette. After all, this is a night of celebration to have our dear brother Jareth back from the United States.”
The servant bows and exits the library.
“Uh, Marie Antoinette?” I question, a little nervously.
“We have some very expensive bloods in our possession,” explains Katie. “Bottled and stored until we decide to indulge.”
“You’re serving us blood of Marie Antoinette? Like, the real person? The queen of France?” Wow, that’s crazy.
“Would you rather we let you eat cake?” quips Susan.
I roll my eyes at her lame joke. “But I thought, like, she was executed during the French Revolution. Is she a vampire, too?”
“No. She’s dead. Duh. You can’t really go back from being beheaded. And besides, how would we have a bottle of her blood lying around if she were undead and well?”
I guess that’s true. “So then how … ?”
“Vampires assisted with that rebellion,” explains Susan. “Did you really think that the peasants could have toppled a monarchy with no assistance? Please. They were too busy picking lice off their unbathed bodies.”
“Royal blood is always extra rich,” adds Elizabeth. “Good diet and all. So when each monarch was beheaded, there was a vampire bottler on hand to collect the blood.”
“Wow, that’s, um, fascinating?” Actually I think it’s really, really disgusting, but I’m still trying to cling to manners here.
Katie smiles smugly. “We here at the Blood Coven of Northern England have a pretty extensive blood cellar. We’ve got a couple of bottles of Henry the Eighth, Shakespeare. Even a half bottle of Jack the Ripper, if you’re in the mood for something adventurous.”
I’m pretty sure I’ll never be that adventurous. I can’t even stomach fresh blood, never mind the bottled bodily fluids of a serial killer from the nineteenth century. And I’m pretty sure I’m not up for any French queen blood tonight either. Hopefully they’ll decide it’s far too expensive to waste on a newbie Yank Goth vamp and I won’t have to make a scene by turning it down.
“In any case,” Jareth says. “Rayne and I are here on official business. We are looking for a Lycan community somewhere in this vicinity. They may have infected some of our local townspeople and we need to find out if there’s an antidote for the disease.”
“Try the town of Appleby,” suggests Susan. “Last I heard there was a Lycan pack living there. Order of the Gray Wolf, I believe they’re called.”
“They live in towns?” I ask, surprised. I don’t know why but I figured they all hung out in dark, dank caves or something. You know, being werewolves and all. “Even though on full-moon nights they go all beastie and stuff?”
“The pack is not immortal like vampires, but as a whole they’ve existed for thousands of years,” says Elizabeth. “They have learned the art of controlling their metamorphoses.”
“Meta—?”
“Their change to wolf form. They don’t rely on the pull of the moon. They can change at will and control their actions in their feral forms.”
“Ah, handy. And much better for the other townspeople.”
“Go to the Tavern of the Moon and inquire there. That’s where the pack spends most of its time,” says Susan. “Ask for a man named Lupine. He’s the alpha wolf, leader of the pack. Tell him we sent you. He should be able to help.”
“What I don’t understand though is how your local townspeople came to be infected,” says Katie. “I mean, Ly-cans are much like vampires. Very selective in adding members to the pack. They don’t just take anyone. In fact, most people are only Lycans through birth. And even if they were turned for some reason, they would never, ever be sent off on their own—unprepared and untrained. It doesn’t make any sense.”
“I agree. Which is why we need to seek out this order and find out what happened,” Jareth says. “Otherwise these lone wolves may have to be put to sleep.” He turns to me. “Tomorrow we will head over to Appleby to see what we can learn from this Order of the Gray Wolf.”
I nod. “Sounds like a plan.”
The servant re-enters the library with what looks like a bottle of wine and five glasses. He sets the glasses down on a side table and uncorks the blood. He pours a small amount of the red liquid into each glass.
I swallow hard and my hands start shaking. I shove them under my thighs. The smell, even from where I am, is almost overwhelming. Rich, spicy, even better than the fresh blood I smelled on Cait. And I’m starving, too, having not drunk a synthetic in almost twenty-four hours. But if I don’t drink now they’re really going to think I’m a poseur.
What to do? What to do?
The girls all raise their glasses. “To Jareth,” says Katie with a seductive smile. “And the hope that in the future his visits will be longer and more frequent.”
They all drink. I stare down at my goblet.
Just take a sip, Rayne. It won’t hurt you.
Ugh. I can’t do it. I just can’t bring myself to slurp up the blood of an eighteenth-century monarch. I swallow hard and make the decision to come clean. Who knows, maybe they’ll miraculously understand and feel a sense of empathy for me and my blood phobia. Not likely, but I’m desperate for a drink.
“Uh, you guys don’t have any, uh, synthetic around here, do you?”
“A what?” queries Elizabeth. “A synthetic?”
My face burns. “You know, like fake blood. It delivers the proper nutrients, but is made in a lab.”
The three vampires look at me and then each other, bursting into laughter.
“Why on earth would you want that?”
“Especially when you’ve got one of the top bloods in the world sitting in front of you!”
I grit my teeth, my stomach churning with embarrassment. I never should have said anything. Should have told them I wasn’t hungry or something. Anything but admit I don’t exactly drink real blood on a regular basis.
“I just do, okay?” I say.
But the girls aren’t listening to me anymore. They’ve found another reason to put me down and they’re relishing it. First my clothes, then my American accent, now my aversion to blood. They’re having a field day at my expense.
“A vampire who doesn’t drink blood.”
“Jareth, wherever did you pick up this girl? She’s precious!”
“They’re definitely scraping at the bottom of the barrel for new recruits these days!”
“And she’s your blood mate, Jareth? Bad luck, luv. Bad luck indeed.”
“What kind of vampire are you, anyway?” giggles Elizabeth. “A vegetarian? Do you suck tomatoes dry?”
I squeeze my hands into fists. Why do I have to take this abuse? So we’re in their coven. Whatever. That doesn’t mean I deserve this rude behavior. I’ve been nothing but polite to them since I walked in the place. I answered them respectfully, I put up with their abuse. I even kept my mouth shut when they openly poked fun at me.
But now I, Rayne McDonald, have had enough.
“What kind of vampire am I?” I ask, rising from my seat. I reach in my back pocket and rip out my stake. The one I carved last semester when training to be a slayer. It catches the candlelight and flashes a white glow, illuminating the suddenly freaked out, pale white faces of my new friends.
“I,” I say, holding the stake out in front of me, leaping to battle stance, “am a vampire vampire slayer.”
17
Well, that was a bloody genius move, that was,” Jareth proclaims a few minutes later as we walk down the driveway, escorted by a big, burly, human guard. It’s started to rain (damn English weather!) and my hair is already plastered to my head.
“Sorry,” I mutter. It’s dark. I can’t see where I’m going and I’ve just stepped into a puddle with my definitely not waterproof ballet flats. I’m not a happy camper. “But th
ey were totally asking for it. I’ve never met such a catty group of women in all my life. Sue me for losing my temper.”
“Losing your temper is one thing. Brandishing a wooden stake while standing in the center of one of the most prestigious vampire covens in the western hemisphere is quite another,” Jareth says. “You’re lucky I was able to talk them out of executing you on the spot. I can assure you, they’ve snuffed out vampires for far more minor indiscretions than yours.”
“Oh, whatever. It’s not like I was going to stake them. I just wanted to scare them a bit. Make them see I wasn’t some tool to be trifled with.”
“Well, they certainly are not trifling with you now, are they? And I’d wager a thousand pounds they won’t trifle with you ever again. A little advice, my dear: When you’re planning on living for the rest of eternity, it’s not such a great idea to alienate your fellow vamps your first year out.”
I sigh. “I know, I know. I’m sorry. But you gotta admit, they were totally rude and nasty to me. And by the way, what’s with you just standing by and letting them make fun of me, huh? Some blood mate you are.”
Jareth sighs. “We weren’t there on a social call, Rayne. We needed information from them. Being polite and excusing some bad behavior was the only way to go about getting it. You’ve got to toughen up. Get a thicker skin. You’re far too
sensitive.”
I open my mouth to respond, but am interrupted by the security guard. We’ve reached the gate and he’s requesting we step through. Leave the premises, don’t come back, all that jazz. He presses a button and the wrought-iron monstrosity creaks open. We have no choice; we walk outside the perimeter. A moment later the gate clangs shut behind us.
I look around, squinting through the fog and rain. The dirt road leading up to the mansion stretches endlessly in each direction with no other houses in sight. We’re in the middle of nowhere.
“Where do we go now?” I ask, my teeth chattering. I didn’t dress for the cold, rainy weather, that’s for sure. And all my baggage is still in chez vampire.
“I haven’t the slightest idea.” Jareth turns around, scanning the landscape. “I told the limo driver not to come back until tomorrow and we’re miles from any sort of civilization.”
“I can call a cab …” I rummage into my coffin purse to pull out my cell phone. But as I flip it open, I suddenly remember we’re in another country. And sad to say, Mom hadn’t seen a reason to sign up her teenage daughter to an international calling plan. Go figure. “Or not.” I sigh.
I’m beginning to realize that perhaps I was a bit hasty whipping out my stake in front of the English coven. After all, I’d rather be called every name in the book than spend a night out in the wilds of the northern English moors.
But as they say, hindsight is 20/20 and I’m SOL.
The rain starts coming down harder. Pelting me from all directions, the wind whipping through my hair and battering my face. I hug my arms against my chest in a desperate attempt to get warm, looking over at Jareth, praying he has a plan.
Without saying anything, Jareth starts walking down the dirt road, taking long strides, as if he’s trying to get some distance between himself and me. Not that I blame him. I’d be mad at me, too. Still, we’re stuck in this together and holding a grudge is not going to help matters. I scramble to keep up, all the while keeping my head down to avoid being blinded by the rain.
A few minutes later we come to a small, withered barn sitting a few yards back from the road. It’s run-down and weather-beaten, but to me at this moment it looks like a five-star hotel. Jareth motions to me to follow him as he pushes open the door and heads inside.
I blink a few times, my eyes adjusting to the darkness as Jareth closes and bolts the barn door behind us. There’re a few empty stalls, a loft filled with musty-smelling hay. Some unidentifiable farm instruments lined up against one wall. I hope there aren’t any mice or rats that hang out here.
“Well, it’s not the Ritz, but it’s dry,” Jareth says with a shrug. “Should tide us over ‘til morning when the limo comes back to retrieve us.”
He breaks apart a bale of hay and fashions a small straw bed out of it. Then he shrugs out of his jacket and hangs it on one of the lower rafters. Next he takes off his shirt. God, he looks good with no shirt on. Such washboard abs. I wish he wasn’t pissed at me. I’d so go over and run my fingers up and down them if I thought I could get away with it.
“Here,” he says stiffly, holding out the shirt. “It’s a lot dryer than what you’ve got on.”
He’s right. I hadn’t the foresight to wear a coat and my sweater is dripping wet. “But what about you? Won’t you freeze?”
He shrugs. “Once you’re a vampire for over a thousand years you get used to different climates. Better you take it.”
I almost believe him. That is until I catch him suppressing a shiver when he thinks I’m not watching. How sweet is that? He literally gave me the shirt off his back. Even though he’s mad at me.
He turns his back and I slip off my sweater and out of my bra, then pull on the Batman shirt. It’s amazing how easy it is to become a fashion victim when you’re freezing to death.
Jareth collapses on the hay bed and curls into a fetal position. Seeing my opening, I scamper over to join him and lie down, trying to cuddle against him. Unfortunately a stiff plank would be more giving than my boyfriend at the moment. And a moment later he rolls over, giving me the cold shoulder.
I scowl at his back. So it’s like that, is it? Shirt charity aside, he’s still mad.
“Wow, I never thought I’d spend my first night in England in a barn,” I say, giving it one more attempt. Maybe I can talk him out of being mad at me. It’s worked before. “Pretty crazy.”
“Especially when you consider we could have lain on a four-thousand-dollar bed with Egyptian cotton sheets tonight,” Jareth remarks with more than a bitter note in his voice. Not exactly the reaction I’d hoped for.
“Geez, give it a rest,” I grumble, annoyed he can’t just move on. This could be a romantic adventure and all he can do is complain. “So I made a mistake. Do I have to be reminded every five seconds?”
Jareth shifts, pulling away from my hold. He stands up, paces the barn a few times, then turns to me. “You know, it’s awfully funny,” he says, and I can tell by his tone that I’m not going to find what he says next the least bit amusing. “Here you were so worried about me embarrassing you.”
I groan and give up. He’s obviously not going to do the whole sun setting on your anger thing, so why should I bother?
“Whatever,” I say, rolling my eyes and turning my back to him. “I still think your shirt is stupid.”
+++
When I wake up the next morning at first I’m not quite sure where I am. Then I smell the hay and see the pitchforks and it all comes back to me. By the light of day the whole thing seems so dumb. Why had I opened my big mouth and told the vampires I was a slayer? I mean, sure, they were rude, but I was used to rudeness, right? Pretty much everyone I know has been rude to me at one time or another.
Including Jareth.
I sit up and scan the barn, finally locating my boyfriend on the polar opposite end of the barn. As far away from me as humanly (vampirely?) possible. Sigh. I wonder if he’ll forgive me anytime soon or spend the day holding a grudge. I can’t believe we’re in yet another fight. Lately that seems all we ever do. And I can’t break up with him. He’s my blood mate for eternity. Not that I want to. I love him. I just don’t know why we can’t seem to get along anymore. It sucks.
The rain has ended and I can hear birds chirping outside. I walk over to the barn door and push it open, squinting in the early morning sunshine. The air is crisp, cool. I wrap my arms around my chest, hugging myself for warmth, wishing I had my luggage and access to my wool coat.
I couldn’t see much last night but today I realize the barn is sitting on miles and miles of wild English countryside. Rolling green, grassy hills, stone fences, bl
ossoming wild-flowers, and wandering sheep. It looks like something out of a postcard. Down the road I see a beautiful lake, the sun catching the water and making it sparkle.
“I always thought England was the most beautiful country in the world,” Jareth says, coming up behind me.
“I’m glad I’m getting to see it,” I say, turning around, ready to kiss and make up. But Jareth doesn’t look very interested. He sidesteps me and walks out into the open air. I sigh. This is going to be a long day.
I realize at the very least I should apologize. Grovel and hope he’ll forgive me. “Look, I’m sorry about last night, Jareth. That was a really dumb move. Even for me.”
“Yes. It was indeed,” he says coldly. “And one that will likely cost us for centuries to come.”
I frown. Here I thought he was going to say, “Don’t worry, no big deal, I can’t help but love your free-spirited ways, Raynie baby.” He must be really pissed. Either that or I really screwed up big-time. Just great.
“So now what?*’ I ask, resigning myself to his attitude. After all, what choice do I have?
“The limo should be waiting for us. We’ll walk back to the coven and flag the driver down. The vampires will be fast asleep and won’t notice we’re back.”
“And what about our luggage?”
“We’ll see if the driver can convince the guard to retrieve it for us. Otherwise we’ll have to stop at a shop and buy a few more things.”
The limo driver is easy to spot and he doesn’t ask questions as to why we’re outside the gate and not walking down from the coven. Or why we’re all rumpled and smelly and have hay sticking out of our clothing and hair. He goes to the gatehouse and returns with our bags a few minutes later. I unzip my duffel and check to make sure it’s all there. I so did not want to lose that one-of-a-kind, genuine seventies sequined tube top I found thrifting last spring. Luckily, these vampires don’t have enough alternative fashion sense to understand what a valuable article of clothing they could have confiscated.
My stake, on the other hand, does not seem to be among my possessions anymore. Great. Now I’ll have to carve a new one from scratch.