Vampires, Hearts & Other Dead Things

by Margie Fuston

  It’s terrifying, but at this point Nicholas could ask me to swim across the Mississippi and I would try it. Of course, knowing him, he’d ask me to do it while wearing a sequined prom dress and a tiara, all while smiling like I was crowned homecoming queen. It’s that last part that kills me. I can run through the actions—even robbery. At least that’s what I’m telling myself. But feeling what he wants me to feel is a different story.

  “Okay, then.” Henry starts walking, and I have to jog to catch up with him.

  “Where are you going?”

  “We can’t just climb over the fence on a busy road.”

  Well, I was going to, but instead, I follow him down a street running along the side of the house. Henry stops at another, smaller black gate, casually leans his arm over the top, and unlatches it from the other side. I guess it pays to have long, gangly arms. I almost feel bad for teasing him about them as a kid. Almost.

  He holds the gate open. “My lady.” His face is grim, like a knight walking me to my beheading, not the hero saving the day.

  I step onto a narrow brick path leading up to the back of the house. The backyard mirrors the front but with dilapidated garden creatures and overgrown weeds. You’d think with a house this size you’d spring for a gardener. I tiptoe past a bunny with no ears, what I’m guessing is a cat with no head, and several of those butterflies on poles missing one or both wings.

  “This is where garden decor comes to die,” I whisper to Henry.

  “Yeah, hopefully it’s not where we come to die.”

  I cringe.

  We stop at the base of the back deck.

  “How do you want to play this?” he asks.

  I shrug. “Try the back door?”

  He shakes his head like this is an outlandish idea, but we creep up the broken stones of the staircase, and Henry reaches for the burgundy back door at the same time I do.

  “Let me go first,” I whisper.

  His hand brushes past mine and closes in on the handle. “I didn’t come so you could take all the risks.”

  I straighten from my crouch and drop my hand to my side. He’s breaking the routine we had as kids. I did take all the risks, and he cleaned up my cuts afterward.

  “But…”

  He holds my stare and slowly shakes his head.

  I nod in return.

  He takes a loud breath, and I know he’s pushing himself to do this for me, whether to make up for past regrets or to try to forge something new between us, I don’t know, but I reach out and place my hand on his back to let him know I’m behind him—I’ll back him up.

  He jumps at my touch, but then he nods to himself, and the handle creaks as it gives way in his grip. His eyes widen, and he holds a finger to his lips as if I’m going to suddenly yelp with joy.

  After pushing through the door, he sticks his hand back out briefly and beckons for me to follow. I didn’t expect what was inside.

  Where the outside was old and ancient and worn, the inside is gleaming and bright and new. The room off the back porch appears to be a grand seating area complete with a white mantel fireplace, white bookshelves, and gleaming oak floors. The furniture is done in light, complementing blues, and everything looks very, very pricey. I follow Henry as he leads the way again, down a short hallway of closed doors and into a kitchen that again is white on white and spotless. But on the countertop sits a cheesy cookie jar—a pig holding a giant cookie with a chipped ear and faded paint. Something bubbles in a stainless-steel slow cooker next to it.

  Someone lives here. I knew that already, in an abstract way, but seeing that ridiculous pig—the only thing in the house with personality—makes it real. I was the bold one when we were younger, but my plans never affected other people.

  Have fun and live adventurously but never at the expense of others. Dad taught me that. He’ll ask me what it cost me to become a vampire. I know he will. I just hope he’s not ashamed of me for all eternity. I’ll leave this part out when I tell the story, but if Henry and I both get arrested out here, that might be difficult.

  We can’t both be the bold ones.

  “This is a bad plan,” I say.

  “No kidding,” Henry murmurs, but he doesn’t turn around and instead moves forward with a stealth he shouldn’t be capable of with those long limbs.

  “What are you doing?” I stand in the doorway, gripping the white trim and probably leaving a dozen fingerprints. I let go and pull up the hem of my shirt to try to wipe them off.

  “What are you doing?” Henry asks.

  I let go of my shirt and smooth it back out over my belly. “Getting rid of evidence.”

  I flush at the way his eyes linger at my navel. After a moment, he shakes himself and holds up a clove of garlic. “Next,” he whispers. “We probably need a jewelry box or something for the cross.” He glances around the cold, plain interior. “Doesn’t look like they’re the type of people to keep one hanging on the wall.”

  “This doesn’t feel right.”

  Henry straightens, slipping out of stealth mode. “I think we’re fine. Listen.” He pauses and lets the silence in the house close around us. “They probably stepped out and left their dinner cooking.”

  That wasn’t what I meant, but I nod. “Let’s go, then. They could be back any moment.”

  We climb a gleaming staircase and search several sterile guestrooms until we step into one with deep-green walls and an unmade bed. There’s not much in here worth noting either, but the mahogany dresser shows signs of life: a photo of a woman holding a baby, an unburned cinnamon candle, a carved wooden box, and next to it a small golden cross with a tiny ruby in the center on a chain.

  The woman in the photo watches us, her black hair blowing in an endless breeze. The baby, dressed in yellow overalls, stares up at their mom’s face instead of the camera. I pick it up, the silver frame cold in my hand. A cross gleams against her chest.

  My stomach turns at the thought of stealing something so personal. I won’t be able to lie to Dad about this. We don’t lie to each other. I’m foolish if I think for one moment he’d be okay with this. I tell myself anything is worth it, but I can’t shake the image of Dad telling me to do the right thing, hanging onto my shoulder like one of those creepy angel/conscience things in cartoons.

  “I can’t do it,” I say way too loudly. I place the photo back on the dresser, making a sharp crack in the silence. “I’ll go back to Nicholas. I’ll tell him to give me another task.”

  If I can find him again. Something tells me I won’t if he doesn’t want me to.

  I eye the necklace—why’d it have to be a cross? Dad wears a cross around his neck, tucked under his shirts—passed down from his dad and his grandfather before that. I wonder if Nicholas has me picking up these two things as a joke or if vampires really can’t stand crosses and garlic. Dad could live without garlic, but he’d never give up that necklace.

  I bite my lip and glance at Henry, who’s watching me. His eyes squint. He runs his hand through his hair and then snatches the necklace, sliding it into his pocket without pause.

  “Henry…”

  “No. We’re taking it.”

  Something creaks down the hall in one of the many rooms we’d yet to peek into.

  Henry’s eyes widen, and then he moves, grabbing my hand and yanking me back toward the bedroom door.

  “Hey,” a man’s voice calls from the other side of the shut door.

  I jump. My gut instinct yells for me to scramble backward, but Henry grips my arms. Spinning me to face him, he holds a finger to his lips.

  “I thought you weren’t going to be home for dinner,” the man continues. “I’ve got khashlama in the slow cooker if you want any.”

  I widen my eyes, and Henry shakes his head.

  After endless deafening heartbeats, the footsteps move away.

  Henry squeezes my hand and turns, slowly cracking open the door. We creep out, still holding hands, even though it makes it harder to navigate the stairs.


  We are so, so quiet, but when a door slams upstairs, I bolt, yanking free of Henry’s hand even though he tries to stop me. I jump the last three steps and skid through the kitchen and out the back door, which slams behind us as we run. I trip over the headless cat, which crashes onto the sidewalk, shattering its tail.

  “Wait.” Henry grabs my arm and stops me so fast the only thing that keeps me from falling backward is his firm grip. He fishes our stolen goods out of his pocket, shoves them into my hands, and reaches into my satchel, fishing out the camera. Tugging me against his side, he holds it out, and it flashes. Then he grabs my wrist and pulls me out of the yard. The gate shuts behind us with a condemning clank, but we don’t let the guilt stop us as we run, leaping over the roots of trees making their own escape from the sidewalk they were buried under.

  Eventually we slow to a walk and then stop. Bending, Henry puts his palms on his knees and stays there, panting. I sit on a particularly large tree root.

  When he lifts his head, his grin takes me by surprise. “Did you see me in there? I totally saved you.”

  I can’t help but laugh even though I grip the cross so tightly it digs into my palm. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

  “We make a good team,” he says.

  “We always did.” It’s the truth. Normally, I’d be the bold one—calm under pressure, keeping Henry at my side—but all it took was for me to be rattled and Henry stepped up and filled the gap I couldn’t in that moment. Perhaps we’re an even better team than I realized. We’re not just two opposite people who even each other out. We’re two people who can read what the other person needs and fulfill that need, handling it without question.

  That seems rare. Something to hold onto.

  I push Henry out of my mind.

  The adrenaline rushes through my system, threatening to ruin my composure, and I promised myself I’d remain in control. Thinking about any feeling I might have for Henry would only make me break down again—something I can’t afford right now.

  I turn my focus to the tiny gold cross in my hand. A birthday gift? A memento from a loved one who’s passed on? It doesn’t matter. Someone will come home tonight and miss this.

  “Hey,” Henry says. “We’ll make sure he gives it back.”

  “Yeah,” I say, but it doesn’t make me feel any better about taking it in the first place. I try to push the feeling away and store it with the others, but guilt is slippery, more like oil than paint.

  Henry’s still grinning, obviously still pumped up.

  I cling to his excitement. Borrowing it like a jacket, I put on a grin to match. I hope I look light, adrenaline filling me to bursting, but inside I let myself deflate.

  There’s no going back.

  —Underworld

  Ten

  After leaving our picture safely tucked in the book and our stolen items safely with Ruth under strict instructions that they get back to where they came from, Henry and I grab a bite of seafood gumbo at a place recommended by Ruth. By the time we return to the bookstore, Ruth’s about to close for the night.

  “I was worried you wouldn’t make it.”

  I give her a smile, but it’s weighted with too many pent-up feelings that have no place in smiles.

  “You okay, dear?” she asks.

  “Just tired.” I honestly hoped there would be no more challenges today. Nicholas was right about one thing—they force me to feel things when I don’t want to feel anything at all. Even the last one, which felt safe from happiness, still gave me a moment of joy when Henry grinned at me after escaping. Maybe this would be easier without Henry.

  I slip back to the poetry section, pull out my book, and read my poem first because I need a moment to settle before I face whatever task he’s come up with.

  The Dead

  I see them,—crowd on crowd they walk the earth,

  Dry leafless trees no Autumn wind laid bare;

  And in their nakedness find cause for mirth,

  And all unclad would winter’s rudeness dare;

  No sap doth through their clattering branches flow,

  Whence springing leaves and blossoms bright appear;

  Their hearts the living God have ceased to know

  Who gives the spring-time to th’expectant year;

  They mimic life, as if from Him to steal

  His glow of health to paint the livid cheek;

  They borrow words for thoughts they cannot feel,

  That with a seeming heart their tongue may speak;

  And in their show of life more dead they live

  Than those that to the earth with many tears they give.

  —Jones Very

  I sketch a picture in my mind as I read—rough, charcoal strokes on cream paper, a hillside covered in dead trees, branches grasping at the winter sky above, immune to the cold and still standing, pretending to live despite no longer feeling the sap in their veins. Like vampires—dead but still standing. It’s ironic that the words he’s underlined are living life when the trees are clearly not. Is he warning me? Is this a plea for me to give up my hunt and go on living the life I have? But that’s impossible. My life will never be the same after this, one way or the other.

  I unfold the note:

  Now that you’ve delivered your stolen booty, catch a pirate.

  I didn’t know there were pirates in New Orleans. Vampires, definitely. But pirates? That’s a new one.

  “Are there any pirates around here?” I ask Ruth.

  “Can’t say for sure,” she says, adjusting her turquoise-framed glasses. “You two have a good night now.”

  She ushers us out.

  She knows what we’re looking for and won’t help; it’s all over her sweet elderly lady face—the little hint of wickedness. She loves this. I can’t blame her.

  Henry and I wander the streets for a while like a pirate might suddenly appear and we can nab them and be done. Simple. Easy. I need a break.

  Each task gets me closer to what I want, but each one also sets free something inside me: the warm yellow glow of happiness from laughing with Henry, the pulsing purple fear of almost getting caught that so easily shifted to excitement when we weren’t. Watercolors leave stains. You can never totally erase the color once it’s on the page, and emotions are equally hard to scrub out.

  They linger even now, in the bounce in my step, the way my chest is a little lighter when I glance at Henry. If I’m not careful, they’ll take over, and I’ll lose my grip on the only thing I have control over.

  We head closer to the river, since pirate ships are surely rolling down it all the time, but find only the empty, murky water.

  “Got any bright ideas?” I lean against the railing, staring down at the steady flow of water—the way it constantly moves but never really changes. Vampires must feel a kinship with it. It might seem boring to some, but I crave consistency now in a way I never used to. Surprises are rarely good.

  He shrugs. I can tell from the droop of his shoulders that he needs to rest. “I did the last one—this one’s on you.”

  “Hey, I was there too.”

  He grins. He’s never going to let me forget how I froze. Fair is fair, I guess. I’d be reminding him every ten minutes if the situation were reversed.

  With few options, we move on, stopping on a wide platform built between the river and the square. From here, the church rises in the distance as if it’s the center of the city. Glowing white in the almost dark, it resembles a castle from a fairytale. A year ago I would have been drawn to it. I’d have sat outside with my watercolors and tried to capture the hope of the worshippers within in the beauty of the exterior. But dreams don’t come true in churches. Maybe for some people, but not for me.

  An elderly man sits near the old cannon displayed in the center of the platform, playing the saxophone. Pausing to rest on a painted green bench, we listen until the rest of the sun drops from the sky. I try to enjoy the music without being impatient. Time passes quicker for me now, and I am
wasting it. But Henry bobs his head and taps his feet to the music, and I want to give him some piece of joy to thank him for earlier.

  Perhaps this challenge won’t start until night, when the vampires can play too.

  So I sit until the song ends.

  “Well,” Henry says.

  “Okay, let’s make a move.” I walk up to the man as he prepares for another song.

  “Excuse me.” I drop five dollars into his open case and hesitate, feeling ridiculous, but I am here to hunt vampires, so I go for it. “Where could we catch a pirate?”

  He stares at me. “That’s a new one. Lookin’ for Johnny Depp or something?” His eyes twinkle a little.

  I crack a small smile. Johnny Depp’s a garbage fire, but if he offered Orlando Bloom… I’m tempted to joke with him. Old Victoria would have. New Victoria doesn’t have time for jokes.

  “Umm… I think I’m looking for a real one.”

  He chuckles. “Well, you could try Pirate’s Alley.”

  Henry and I share a look.

  “Pirate’s Alley?” I ask.

  He jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “Left side of the church if you’re facing it.”

  “Thank you,” I yell, because I’m already running down the concrete ramp. Henry grabs my arm before I can run into the street in front of a car.

  “Geez. Slow down, will you?” He makes me wait until another car goes by before I can dart across. I slide between two horse-drawn carriages waiting for riders. One horse snorts, and her breath blows against my hair. Henry mumbles apologies behind me, but I don’t care. I finally know where I’m going, and my muscles urge me to make up for lost time.

  People still walk along the open square in front of the cathedral. A couple makes out on one of the benches directly in front of the looming church, hands wandering boldly. Definitely not the place I’d choose for a late-night rendezvous, but to each their own. Slowing my steps, I approach the alley.