Vampires, Hearts & Other Dead Things

by Margie Fuston

  His eyes snap open and stare into mine for a moment.

  “Prove it to me,” he says.

  “How?” How do you prove you love life? Especially when life has gutted you in the worst way.

  He picks up his wineglass again and swirls his last sip around for a moment before downing it. Finally, his lips curve into a small smile, and he turns to me. “I’ll give you a challenge—a game if you will. How long are you in town?”

  “Until Tuesday morning.”

  He nods. “That’ll work. Each day I’ll present you with challenges—little things you can do to show me you enjoy life. Each time you complete a challenge to my satisfaction, I’ll give you a piece of the clue that will give you what you’re looking for.”

  “What kind of challenges?”

  “Oh, I haven’t decided yet.” His smile turns wicked.

  I want to say no. I don’t have time for games, but if I need the prize, do I really have a choice?

  “Deal,” I say. I hold out my hand, and we shake on it. “When do I get the first challenge?”

  “In the morning. Go and get some rest,” he says, as if that will happen.

  I reach for my bag with my phone in it. “Will you call me then?”

  “Gracious, no. I don’t own a phone.”

  I freeze with mine halfway out of my bag. “You’re kidding me.”

  He flashes an unnaturally white smile. “I’m old-fashioned.”

  “How are you going to give me the challenges?”

  He fishes a black leather wallet out of the back of his slacks and passes me another white card with a different address on it. “This will get you to a bookstore in the Quarter. I’ll leave you a note in one of the books—you’ll know which one.”

  “Will I?”

  “Don’t underestimate yourself.”

  “I rarely do,” I retort, and push myself to my feet, even though my stomach is heavy with doubt. “You know, this would be a lot easier if you’d simply give me what I came for.” And faster. Each second is one more second gone from my dad’s life—that’s true for everyone, but you’re more aware of it once someone gives you an actual deadline.

  “Ah, but where would be the fun?”

  “It doesn’t sound like fun.”

  “My dear, that’s exactly the attitude you need to work on.” He gives me a lazy wink as he pours another glass of red for himself. “Enjoy the game.”

  I’m scared that if I let myself be happy for even

  one moment that the world’s just going to come

  crashing down, and I don’t know if I can survive that.

  —The Vampire Diaries

  Eight

  When I wake up in the morning, Henry’s gone. I wonder if he’s blowing off steam or if he went to the airport and found an early flight out. The last thought stings, and I tell myself I don’t care, but when I spot his bag open on his bed, tension I didn’t know I was carrying unwinds inside me. I’m washing off the mess of black under my eyes, which makes me look more like a zombie than a vampire, when the door creaks open.

  He comes in and leans against the doorjamb of the bathroom, holding two paper coffee cups.

  He watches me struggling to remove the black layer of makeup under my right eye.

  “Are you trying out for The Walking Dead?”

  Normally I’d laugh, but I spare him only a quick glance before going back to rubbing the delicate skin under my eye. I’m going to give myself a real black eye trying to get this off.

  He shuffles, awkwardly straightening and then leaning back against the door again.

  “I’m sorry about last night. I had no right to treat you like that.”

  I glance at him in the mirror. “Continue.”

  “I saw you with him and I got, I don’t know… worried, I guess.” He stares up at the light fixture above my head, jaw clenching and unclenching. “But you don’t want me to worry about you, right? It’s not my place.”

  He meets my eyes in the mirror. His question hangs between us. Of course a friend can worry about another friend, but his worry holds something else, something heavier and yet fragile, and what I say next might break it.

  “Right.” My hand tremors ever so slightly as I casually dab at my eye again. “No need to worry about me.” I push down the twinge of regret trying to bloom.

  I try not to look at Henry’s face, but I still catch the brief fall before he smooths out his expression. Perhaps I’m not the only one capable of hiding my emotions.

  “Forgive me?” His question is too light, too cheery.

  I match his tone. “Depends on what you’ve got in those cups.”

  His face relaxes. “Café au lait.”

  “Done.” I turn around and lean against the sink, holding out my hand.

  The creamy coffee cuts through my haze, and I spend the next fifteen minutes updating Henry on the conversation I had with Nicholas and what we have to do now. All the while pretending nothing significant happened between us.

  “I don’t like it,” he says when I finish.

  “I’m not asking you to.”

  “He’s probably just some creep messing with you.”

  I glare. The thought has crossed my mind, but the thick red liquid in their cups? I’m sure I smelled a whiff of blood, and that’s pretty elaborate for “just some creep.”

  Henry holds up his hands. “But I’m here to support you.”

  “Good,” I say, but I’m wary. I don’t need to worry about Henry’s emotions when I’m busy wrangling my own. “Now get out so I can change.”

  * * *

  Before we leave, I call Mom. Scheduled check-ins were part of the deal. I wanted to call Dad, but she convinced me to call her in case he’s asleep.

  She answers on the first ring. “Are you safe?”

  Mom’s not big on chitchat.

  “Yeah. I’m fine. Henry’s here. We’re both fine.” I glance at Henry, watching me from the couch. “Is Dad awake?”

  “Let me check.” Mom goes silent, and I hear a door open on her end. “I’m sorry. He’s asleep.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  “Are you having fun?” she asks.

  I know she wants me to say yes—that I’m suddenly myself again out here, that the physical distance somehow makes everything okay—but I can’t. I can’t even answer.

  “Find anyone cute dressed in leather with too-sharp teeth?” There’s a forced, joking lightness to her tone. I can’t tell if she’s making fun of me or trying to be like Dad. It’s a Dad joke, and I don’t want it. I have Dad for that.

  “Stop,” I say.

  It’s her turn to go quiet. We sit there for a few awkward seconds before she sighs, like she’s giving up on something she didn’t feel like doing anyway.

  “You should call your sister,” she says. “She needs someone to talk to.”

  “I thought she had you.”

  More silence. “You have me too,” she says in her firm, no-nonsense voice. No forced lightness. No jokes. This is my mom talking, and she means what she says.

  My chest tightens with longing, but I don’t know how to take what she’s offering.

  I’ve been quiet for much longer than I meant to be.

  “Please call Jessica,” she says again.

  Back to Jessica.

  “Sure,” I say, and end the call, but I don’t plan on following through. I can’t handle Jessica’s grief when I’m trying to avoid grief altogether. I can’t explain to her why she doesn’t need to mourn Dad. She’d never believe me.

  “You okay?” Henry asks.

  “Yeah.” I pull the door open. “Let’s go.”

  * * *

  We find the faded yellow bookstore with sea-green shutters down a quiet side street where nobody ventures at eight in the morning. The damp from the nightly thunderstorms still clings to everything, including my skin. Maybe Dad and I would get used to it if we lived here, but then again, we wouldn’t be out in the daylight. I get the urge to stop right here an
d paint the staggering, colorful skyline of the city against the perfect blue sky. I’ll miss the blue sky. The sun. But I’d miss Dad more.

  When we push through the weather-worn blue door, an elderly woman glances up from a desk in the center of the room and sets the yellow teacup she was about to sip back on the saucer.

  “Oh my,” she says, standing and straightening her tan pantsuit. “I usually don’t get customers this early. Can I help you find anything in particular?”

  I glance around at the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. This looks more like the library of an incredibly rich individual than a bookstore.

  “We’re just looking.” I smile brightly. Asking the elderly lady running the shop if she’s seen any vampires or, if not, what books they might like seems like a bad idea. From what I’ve read, locals will shut down immediately if they think you’re fishing around for things you’ve got no business looking for. Or worse, they’ll feed you stories that leave you chasing tourist traps like “secret” vampire bars.

  Henry nudges my arm like he wants me to tell her why we’re there.

  I shake my head slightly.

  “Okay then. I’ll be here with my morning tea and a little Dickinson.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Henry says as we move to the back of the shop. When we’re out of earshot, he says, “Do you have any idea what we’re looking for?”

  “Yeah—a book.”

  “You could have asked her if someone fitting his description came in here before us.”

  “I didn’t want to make her suspicious if she’s not in on this. We may be able to get information out of her if we do it the right way.”

  He sighs. “Fair enough.”

  “Start looking for anything vampire related.”

  Twenty minutes later I’ve checked every Anne Rice book in the place and several vampire histories, and of course, good old Bram Stoker.

  Henry’s buried in the graphic novel section because, as he said, you never know what a vamp might like.

  I head for a small room off the side of the main area, where I identify a large amount of poetry, which seems like something a person who lives forever would be into. Some poems might take an eternity to understand, but I’ve always had a soft spot for them. The precision with which poets use words reminds me of drawing.

  I scan Lord Byron and Dickinson mostly because they’re the only ones I recognize, and then spot a small, unassuming volume with a simple brown cover titled Poems for the Dead and the Barely Living. My heart speeds as my fingers close around the cover.

  I flip through the pages and land on one with a small slip of paper tucked between.

  I unfold the note and read Nicholas’s elegant script.

  Nobody writes like this anymore, so I chalk that up to one more piece of proof he’s legit.

  My lovely Victoria,

  I am pleased you’ve accepted my challenge. This book will be our main form of communication and the source of all your clues. Each task I assign you will be designed to bring a little excitement and joy into your life, two things you’ll need in abundance if you truly wish to live forever. Your first task will be:

  Eat beignets at Café Du Monde while dressed in all black.

  This may sound simple, but I take my joy seriously. Take a picture of yourself to prove you’ve completed the task and return it to this book. Each time you’re successful, I’ll leave you with a word or two underlined in one of my favorite poems. Collect all the words, say the correct phrase to me, and I will give you what you desire. Fail, and you’ll never see me again.

  Sincerely,

  Nicholas

  PS. The shopkeeper has a gift for you. Show her this note.

  This sounds easy enough except for one small problem: I don’t own a lot of black clothing. It doesn’t go well with pink, which I look best in. Maybe he assumed anyone looking for vampires already owned a wardrobe worthy of Selene, but I’ve always been more a fan of Buffy’s style. This means one more thing to buy, and while I saved up over the years thanks to my rich grandparents who are always traveling and try to make up for that with money, my funds aren’t unlimited, and the getup I wore last night cost me a nice chunk of what I budgeted.

  I’m about to close the book and place it back on the shelf when a poem catches my eye. A scribble of writing above the poem says To get you started. The poem itself has three words underlined.

  Alone

  From childhood’s hour I have not been

  As others were—I have not seen

  As others saw—I could not bring

  My passions from a common spring—

  From the same source I have not taken

  My sorrow—I could not awaken

  My heart to joy at the same tone—

  And all I lov’d—I lov’d alone—

  Then—in my childhood—in the dawn

  Of a most stormy life—was drawn

  From ev’ry depth of good and ill

  The mystery which binds me still—

  From the torrent, or the fountain—

  From the red cliff of the mountain—

  From the sun that ’round me roll’d

  In its autumn tint of gold—

  From the lightning in the sky

  As it pass’d me flying by—

  From the thunder, and the storm—

  And the cloud that took the form

  (When the rest of Heaven was blue)

  Of a demon in my view—

  —Edgar Allan Poe

  The poem sends a small shiver across my skin. I’m not sure who the poem’s supposed to be about—me or Nicholas—but the line that says he can’t awaken his heart to joy sticks out to me. Is this a warning? Nicholas wants me to prove I am not the empty, soulless creature in the poem.

  But I wasn’t always like this. Once upon a time, I laughed easily, felt pain easily—knowing it was only temporary and joy waited for me around every corner. I can pretend to be that person again.

  I grab my phone out of my pocket and take a picture of the poem.

  Then I’m on the move, heading to the front of the store, calling a little too loudly for Henry to follow, but who cares? According to my note, the shopkeeper is in on this.

  She smiles slyly when I approach with the note.

  “I thought you might be her,” she says with a wink. Setting her teacup down with a clink, she reaches below her desk and brings out two boxes wrapped in shiny white paper with black satin bows. One’s a perfect square and the other’s a rectangular garment box.

  “A little much,” Henry says.

  “He does like to go overboard,” the woman says.

  “You know Nicholas well?” I ask.

  She smiles. “I’m Ruth.”

  “Victoria,” I answer.

  “I know.”

  “Is Nicholas who he says he is?” No point in being subtle. She knows something, even if she doesn’t know he’s a vampire.

  She pushes the gifts toward me. “Open them. I do so love presents.”

  Could she be compelled to not answer? It’s not high on my list of potential vampire traits, but it’s still possible. I give her a hard look, and she winks. Definitely not compelled—she enjoys this.

  The smooth satin ribbon slips through my fingers like a dream as I unwrap it. I open the square box and remove a baby-blue Polaroid camera. I hadn’t even thought about how I would deliver the pictures, but apparently Nicholas did. I can’t help but wonder how he planned all this in one night, but I push the thought aside as I unwrap the second box and find a pair of black shorts and a black tank.

  “Wow,” Henry says, handing me back the note I’d given him to read. “At least he’s thorough.”

  “Indeed,” Ruth chimes in. She points one knobby finger toward the back of the bookstore. “You’ll find a bathroom there to change in.” She claps her hands together. “This is so exciting.”

  * * *

  Dressed in my black denim shorts and my new black tank top that’s a tiny bit sag
gy in the armpits, I arrive at the famous Café Du Monde with Henry, who has more bounce to his step than usual.

  I eye him cynically.

  “What? We’ve been in New Orleans for forty-eight hours, and we’re finally going to experience some of it. We might even have some fun with this.”

  “We’re not here to have fun,” I say, more for myself than for him. I had something last night—maybe not fun exactly, but I lost control and forgot why I came here. I almost slide back into my guilt for allowing myself one blissful moment, but I don’t. After all, I’m one step closer to getting what I want.

  “But.” Henry holds up a finger. “Fun’s been ordered.” His face darkens. “Although I don’t like that he’s ordering us around.”

  “He’s just ordering me, really. How would he know about you?”

  Henry shrugs, scratching the back of his neck. “I don’t know. I guess I’m not important.”

  “You’re important to me.” The words sound cheap even though I mean them.

  “Right.” He stares up at the green-and-white-striped canopy of the café. Tables full of happy, smiling people sit underneath, and a line winds around the front.

  “Let’s do this.” I head toward the back of the line.

  “That’s the spirit.”

  I ignore his sarcasm. I can pretend to be happy for a moment if it means eternal happiness with Dad. I’ll smile until my cheeks pop if it gets me what I want.

  A thirty-minute wait later, we’re sitting on the outdoor patio with fifty other people. Sugar lingers in the air. Every breath tastes sweet. People laugh and chatter, and there’s no room here for anything but pure joy.

  My chest tightens, but I focus on Henry’s untroubled face and the way his eyes dart around, taking everything in. He sucks in a deep breath, and his smile widens. I mimic his expression as the waiter appears and sets three square pastries in front of me, each one covered in a mound—no, a mountain—of powdered sugar.

  Henry rubs his hands together. I remember him doing the exact same move when we were kids and someone brought doughnuts to Bible class.