Beth_Fantaskey-Jessicas guide to dating the dark side.

by Jessica's Guide to Dating the Dark Side (lit)

  A small, dark gemstone appeared to float just where her breastbone met her throat, the chain too fine to be perceived in the image.

  My mother.

  I peered more closely. Her eyes . . . her eyes were definitely mine.

  So was her nose. Her bemused mouth.

  I recognized every plane of Mihaela Dragomir's face, as if I had seen her earlier that day . . . maybe because I had, in the mirror.

  And yet the woman in the photograph was different from me. She had a special quality that was better than traditional beauty. She had ... a presence.

  Lucius's words from weeks ago came back to me. "American women. Why do you all want to be nearly invisible? Why not have a physical presence in the world?"

  Even in an old photograph, my mother had that. Presence. Mihaela Dragomir was captivating. The type of woman who would draw all eyes to her as she entered a room.

  I turned the photo over to see if it was dated, but nothing was written there, so I looked at her again, studying her face for many minutes, hearing the dream voice in my head. Savoring my birth mother's long-silenced lullaby and forcing myself to endure the scream of her loss. Again and again and again. Did she scream to lose her own life? Or for the loss of me? For our eternal separation from each other?

  When I felt the weight of our mutual past beginning to bear down on me too hard, I slipped the photo back into the envelope. It met with resistance, as though there was something else inside, blocking it. I carefully placed the photo on my desk, turned the envelope over, and shook it gently. A small slip of nearly translucent paper fluttered into my palm.

  I recognized the same script I'd seen scrawled across the whiteboard in Mrs. Wilhelm's class back in September: vladescu. The same script that was on the inside cover of my vampire manual.

  Is she not beautiful, Antanasia?

  Is she not powerful?

  Is she not regal?

  Is she not exactly like YOU?

  It was almost like a poem. An ode. To me.

  I read it again, although I had memorized it the very first time, then slid Lucius's note back into the envelope, followed by the picture, and replaced them both in the guide, which I laid on my desk. Then I turned around in my chair, catching my reflection in the full-length mirror that hung on the back of my bedroom door. In the soft light, I could have been Mihaela Dragomir, my flannel nightshirt a silken evening gown. . . .

  On impulse, I piled my hair on my head and straightened my shoulders.

  Is she not beautiful?

  Is she not powerful?

  Is she not regal?

  Is she not YOU?

  Releasing my hair, I snapped off the light and climbed back in bed, not certain whether I wanted to rejoice or sob or both.

  Is she not YOU?

  Chapter 33

  LUCIUS AND FAITH were late to English lit on the day of their big presentation, arriving five minutes after the bell rang— the better to surprise us all by appearing in costume. At least, Faith wore a faded dress that looked to be from the Victorian era—and which pinched her waist and strained across her boobs so tightly that Frank Dormand, in front of me, nearly fell off his chair when she swept into the room. Lucius, for his part as Heathcliff, simply resurrected the velvet coat and black trousers he'd worn on a regular basis just a month or so before.

  "Oh, goodness" was all Mrs. Wilhelm could muster at the sight. I suspect that she was a little worried about Faith's boobs popping out at an inopportune time, which would definitely violate the school's dress code.

  It was Lucius, though, who immediately commanded cen­ter stage, introducing his little play, lecturing with more authority than Mrs. Wilhelm had ever managed.

  "Heathcliff is a wild thing—a damned man," Lucius re­minded us. "Catherine is damned, too. Damned to love Heath­cliff, who must destroy her and her progeny. It is in his nature to take what he wants. And what he desires is vengeance, above all. And Catherine, she is an admirable savage. Theirs is a heart­less, cruel, bitter, evil love."

  "Oh, goodness," Mrs. Wilhelm fluttered again from the seat she'd taken in the back corner. This time, I think she was swooning a bit over Lucius.

  "I do so appreciate this story," Lucius added in an aside. "It resonates."

  I twisted my pen in my fingers, nearly snapping it, con­fused and sick at heart. Heartless, cruel, evil love. Is that what he wants? Is that what he always expected with me? Did Lucius ever expect any kind of "love" with me?

  I glanced back at Jake, who shrugged and rolled his blue eyes, like he thought the whole production was a bit over the top. I smiled at him but weakly. Why, why can't I feel more for Jake? He's handsome, popular, without a cruel or dangerous bone in his muscle-bound body. Why am I so drawn to turn back around and watch Lucius? A guy who is totally wrong for me? An arrogant, enigmatic, potentially dangerous VAMPIRE?

  Jake—Jake was the sensible, sweet, predictable choice.

  Yet I spun back around, eager to watch Lucius.

  When I rejoined the drama, he was facing Faith, and their play began. Somehow, they had condensed the first half of the book, grabbing quotes here and there, making some up, I sup­pose, and stitching them together into an intense twenty-five-minute scene that took Heathcliff and Catherine from their gleefully negligent childhood on the moors to Catherines care­less discard of Heathcliff for the milder, blander Mr. Linton.

  At least, I think that's what they acted out. All I could focus on were the rough and tender movements of their bodies. The way Lucius snatched Faith's wrist, yanking her to his chest. The way Faith's eyes snapped as she tore herself away. The passion almost looked . . . real.

  My plastic pen really did crack under the pressure of my fingers, ink staining my hand and spattering my cheek. No, Lu­cius. No.

  No one even noticed. The whole class was spellbound as Faith, blue eyes locked with Lucius's black ones, whispered, voice hot with what I desperately feared was not feigned ardor, "Whatever our souls are made of, yours and mine are the same."

  They stood there, frozen, face to face, until someone real­ized it was time to applaud. And applaud they did. Mindy knelt on her seat, jammed her fingers in her mouth and whistled, which I hadn't even known she could do.

  As if awakened by that shrill alarm, Lucius and Faith broke character, smiled, clasped hands, and bowed deeply toward their audience. Somehow, Faith's boobs stayed in place, al­though the way Frank Dormand was craning his neck, I think he at least got a nice view down her dress.

  I had to admit, it was the best book report I'd ever seen. Probably the best book report ever delivered at Woodrow Wil­son High School.

  I despised every moment of it.

  Lucius was my betrothed. It should have been me up there. Something had been stolen from me. And not just a few sec­onds of glory in front of a classroom. I knew, at that moment, that I'd squandered my chance at a lifetime of glory at the side of the most compelling, infuriating, charismatic, terrifying man I'd ever met. A part of me knew that I should feel relieved. Shaking free of Lucius Vladescu was all I'd longed for, for months. And yet, all I felt was empty and defeated and des­perate to figure out how to bring him back to me. Then I re­membered the pact. Lucius would never dishonor the pact. Would he?

  As the applause died, Faith bounced down the aisle to take her seat behind me, followed by Lucius, who didn't even ac­knowledge me as he walked past.

  It struck me, then. Did I even want him if he was only bound to me by obligation? What sort of victory would that be?

  I glanced around at Lucius, but he was leaning forward, whispering with Faith.

  A heartless, cruel, bitter, evil love. . . Did Lucius really want that? Did he honestly want Faith? If so, had I ever really had a chance? Should I even consider wanting a chance?

  Chapter 34

  "I'VE GOT YOUR laundry," I called, kicking at the door to Lucius's apartment.

  He swung open the door. "Why, thank you, Jessica." He ac­cepted the heaping basket of jumbled clothes from my
arms with a frown. "What is this?"

  "Mom said you can start folding your own clothes."

  "But—"

  "The free ride is over, Lucius," I advised him, following him into the apartment. I hadn't been inside since I'd tried to cook the disastrous Romanian dinner a week ago. The apart­ment still smelled a little bit like spleen.

  Lucius dumped his clothes onto the bed and stepped back, surveying the tangled mess. "I suppose it's too late to hire a washerwoman ..."

  "Oh, for crying out loud. Don't be such a baby. I do this twice a week. And I don't think there are any 'washerwomen' around."

  "That is your regional misfortune, not mine." He picked up a sock, holding it out like it he'd never seen one before. "Where does one even begin?"

  I snatched the sock from his fingers. "You say you can lead a vampire nation, but you can't match socks?"

  "We are all skilled differently," Lucius pointed out, unable to suppress a grin. "Fortunately, my skills fall under the head­ing of leadership, not 'base chores.'"

  I reluctantly smiled, too. How can arrogance grow on a person? "I'll help you—once."

  "Thank you, Jessica." Lucius plopped into his deep leather chair.

  "I said 'help,' not 'do it for you.'"

  He made no effort to move. On the contrary, Lucius smirked, slid lower in the chair and laced his fingers behind his head. "I believe I would be best served by a demonstration."

  "You jerk," I cried, tossing the sock back on the pile and grabbing his arm, tugging him upright. Of course, Lucius was far too strong for me, and when he pulled back, I ended up tumbling onto his chest, both of us laughing.

  Gradually the laughter faded, and our eyes really connected for the first time since that awful night I'd tried to stew a hare. Suddenly, we weren't joking at all.

  "Jessica," he said softly, circling my wrist with his fingers.

  "Yes, Lucius?" I leaned more heavily against his chest, my heart starting to beat harder.

  Maybe I hadn't been bested by Faith . . . His eyes had that same look I'd seen on Halloween, but without the anger and frustration. Instead, there was a gentler kind of desire there. A less fearsome, but almost as frightening, desire. Yet I didn't move from him. I knew, this time, that I didn't want to move. I could handle what happened. I would handle it.

  Releasing my wrist, Lucius tugged gently on one of my shiny curls, letting it spring back into place. "You've changed your hair. Embraced your beautiful curls."

  "Do you like it?"

  "You know I do . . ." He twined another lock around his finger. "This . . . this is true to you."

  I shifted slightly, and my hand rested on the hard curve of his bicep. He was wearing a T-shirt, and I could feel the jagged scar that ripped across his arm. My confidence wavered for a moment. Honor. Discipline. Force. He was raised differently from you, Jessica. . . . The Vladescus are ruthless. . . . "How . . . how did you get this?" I asked, tracing the scar with my fingertips.

  Something changed in his eyes. The glimmer in the black­ness dimmed slightly. "An accident. Not a story worth telling."

  He was lying.

  I kept tracing the scar. It was wide, and I couldn't imagine what could tear flesh like that. . . until I thought of the weapons on his wall. But who would do that to him? To anyone?

  "You can tell me what happened," I urged. / understand you. . . . Or I can try to. . . . Why are you drawing out this side of him, Jess? Why can't you leave well enough alone? Because I want to know about him. That's why. I wanted to know the truth about Lucius. His stories. His past. What he wanted.

  "Jessica." He groaned, encircling my waist. "If we could only not talk, right at this moment. If we could just be."

  No. Whatever happened. . . it had to be on my terms, too. I'd seen him with Faith. I wouldn't be a fool. I wouldn't fall for his charm, his experience. . . not if what he really wanted was some­one different or something I couldn't provide. . . .

  I traced the other scar, on his jaw, and he caught my hand, pulling away slightly. "Jessica ..."

  "Do you really want that?" I whispered.

  He kept hold of my hand, moving it to his mouth, brush­ing his rough lips across my palm. "Want what, Jessica?"

  "What you said in class?"

  He seemed uncertain. "In class . . . ?"

  "A 'bitter, cruel, evil love'? Is that what you really want?"

  When I said that, it was like I'd cut a cord that bound us, and Lucius, still holding my hand, sat upright, pulling me to my feet, gently but very firmly pushing me away. He stood, too.

  "Lucius?"

  He smiled at me then, grimly, like we hadn't just shared what we'd shared. "We loiter, wasting time, and the laundry waits on the bed," he said, the old, distancing mockery in his voice. He leaned over the mattress and grabbed a pair of his boxers. "At this rate, every wrinkle will be set. And a Vladescu may fold, under duress, but we do not iron."

  "Lucius?" I touched his arm. I didn't want to know, but I had to know. "What, exactly is going on with you and Faith?"

  Lucius shook out the underwear, studiously avoiding my eyes. "Faith?"

  I sat down on the edge of the bed. "Yes. Faith."

  "She intrigues me," he admitted, managing somehow to fold his own undergarments.

  "Why? Why do you like her?"

  As if I didn't know. Lucius Vladescu could talk all he wanted about the beauty of curves and curls and the impor­tance of having a presence, but in the end, he was just like every other man—every boy—who fell for the blond, size 0 cheer­leader with the flat abs, the perky little breasts, and the skinny butt that played peekaboo from under that stupid short skirt.

  "Oh, Jessica," Lucius said, sounding somewhat exasperated. "I've asked you for months how you can favor a peasant, and you've never provided me a satisfactory response. Perhaps these things just can't be easily explained away."

  "So you do like Faith?"

  He looked at me then. "I appreciate her."

  The flat-out admission made me queasy, even though I'd al­ready known the answer. "Is there a difference?"

  Lucius sighed and sat down next to me on the bed, staring at the wall. "Perhaps, Jessica. Does it really matter at this point?"

  "What does that mean? Why do you keep saying things like 'at this point'? Like the pact is over? And what about the war?

  "You don't even believe in the pact or the war."

  "I do now," I insisted.

  Lucius ignored this revelation, even though I'd thought it was all he'd ever wanted to hear from me. A small smile crossed his face. "This upcoming Christmas dance. It's a much antici­pated social event, is it not?" he mused. "Girls want to go, cor­rect? Squatty will don his best 'overalls' and take you, yes?"

  "About Jake ..." What am I going to do about Jake? Ever since that day in the gym when I'd confided my doubts about our relationship to Mindy, I'd been distancing myself from him. And when I'd turned too eagerly away from Jake to watch Lucius perform his drama in English lit, I'd known I was turn­ing my back on a great guy ... a guy who genuinely liked me. Someone sweet who didn't drink blood or bear dangerous scars. And yet I'd done it. "I don't know if Jake and I are going to the formal," I said. "We're sort of. .. drifting apart."

  Shrugging, Lucius stood and resumed folding laundry. "You two must do what makes you both happy, Jessica. Do what is right for you."

  "And you'll do what's 'right for you,' I guess," I said glumly.

  "This is America, as I am constantly reminded in social studies," Lucius pointed out. "We all have a choice in every­thing here." He mimicked a scale with his hands. "Pepsi or Coke? Big Mac or Whopper? The old boyfriend or the new?"

  "Yeah, what about Ethan?" I asked. "He and Faith have been together forever."

  "I just told you, Jessica. We all have a choice. Faith has a choice. Ethan has no claim on her. I've seen no ring on her finger."

  Of course Faith had a choice. And she'd already chosen Lu­cius. I'd seen it back in the gym and in English lit clas
s. Hell, I'd seen it back at the 4-H competition, when she'd absently gripped my arm, watching Lucius tear up the course on his doomed mare. I just hadn't wanted to admit it to myself. The whole thing had unfolded before my face, and I'd forced my­self to be blind.

  Lucius smiled at me then, although there was something like sadness in his eyes. "You are fortunate, Jessica," he said. "You are not bound so tightly by tradition, by the weight of the past. You are free here. Not only to choose a soft drink but your destiny. Rather exhilarating feeling, isn't it?"

  I guess I'd lived so long with my possibilities that I didn't find them quite as "exhilarating" as Lucius did. In fact, I really wished, at that moment, to be bound a bit more tightly by the past. Yet, at the same time, a sudden anger lurched through me. Anger at Lucius.