I consider asking him, but I don’t want him to think I’m unprepared or doubting that I really want to be a vampire. It doesn’t matter what I want now. What Dad needs is the only thing that matters.
I keep my mouth shut and picture myself curled up on a white sofa with him next to me, reading a worn copy of Edgar Allan Poe—probably a first edition, because we’d have the time and money to track one down, and we’d be sipping a glass of red wine.
But, of course, it wouldn’t be red wine, would it?
The thought of drinking blood ruins my fantasy.
I focus on Nicholas’s cold fingers instead.
We arrive at the other side of the room, and Nicholas opens a thick white door with gold trim and ushers me inside.
“Wow.” I passed through classic rich people dining, to a fancy club, to a room straight out of Versailles. The walls are a rich emerald, accented with gold crown molding and gold trim rectangles with scalloped edges, giving it those lush details only the truly rich have time and money to care about.
A long table that must sit at least thirty guests takes up the center of the room. I cross the lush burgundy carpet to stare at the glass cases built into the walls showing off golden scepters and crowns.
“This room is decorated with Mardi Gras memorabilia,” Nicholas says.
I nod. I can’t bring myself to speak yet.
He watches me as I trace every detail with my mind. I want to sketch the way the ceiling and the corners of the room curve. Longing pulses through my fingers. I want to live in a world without sharp edges, but it’s not my world. This is not mine to sketch. Nobody could draw this without feeling joy. I let my fingers drop from the trim I was petting as I strolled in circles.
“What’s wrong?” Nicholas asks.
I try not to wince. I don’t want him to see any trace of the sadness in me. I need to be like this room—beautiful and grand and the kind of thing people want to preserve.
“It’s gorgeous.” I hesitate. “It makes me want to draw again.”
It’s a lie. I don’t want to draw it now, but for a split second it drew me in and made me want again. For me, drawing is always about want. Wanting to capture something, and not necessarily something beautiful, but anything that pulls emotion from me, good or bad.
I try not to want anymore. I only have one want anyway, and how do you draw wanting to cheat death?
“You draw?”
“I used to.”
He’s silent for a moment, and I brace myself, knowing he’ll ask for more details, but the waiter comes in with our menus and saves me.
Nicholas gestures to all the chairs. “Where would you like to sit, mademoiselle?”
“No one else is eating in here?”
He shakes his head, smiling slightly.
I stare around at the empty seats, and it seems like such a waste. Someone else could be in here, enjoying this, but here we are, hoarding it for ourselves. I need to not think about it. I need to just be in the moment for this to work.
I plop down at the head of the table, which is so wide that two seats fit side by side. Nicholas nods, approving my bold choice. I smile up at him as he sits beside me.
The waiter leaves our menus and silently slinks away as if he has instructions to leave us alone as much as possible.
I run a finger across the green and gold rim of the plate in front of me.
“How much did this cost?” I know it’s a tacky question, but I can’t help myself.
Nicholas laughs. “That doesn’t matter.”
“Only a super-rich person would say that.” Tacky again. I should shut up.
His gaze slides in my direction as he pops open his menu.
Being super rich wasn’t on my list of signs, but I add it now and check it off. It makes sense. If you’re alive for a long time, you’d inevitably acquire plenty of money and a taste for extreme beauty.
I let myself feel a tiny thrill of excitement. I can’t wait to tell Henry.
A pinch of guilt punctures my excited bubble.
Nicholas is saying something, frowning a little.
“Huh?”
“I said what do you like to eat?”
“Anything but meat. I eat fish though.”
“You’re a vegetarian?” His mouth parts slightly. He looks caught off guard for the first time since I met him.
“Well, yeah, except for fish.”
“But you want to be a vampire.”
“Well…” Shit. Of course I don’t want to be a vampire. I may love the idea of it in a distant sense, but a rare steak makes me want to gag. Drinking straight-up blood sounds so disgusting my stomach turns at the thought. “I don’t like to kill things.” I need to explain it in a way that makes sense, that doesn’t make me sound like some lost little girl who doesn’t know what she’s getting into. Besides, Dad loves his steak rare. He could handle the blood. “You don’t kill things, do you?”
He opens his menu again. “Do you like crab?”
“Yep.” My pulse throbs in my neck. I take a deep breath. I don’t want to look like an appetizer—or maybe I do. I glance down at my barely there gold dress. I look more like the main course, and we are in a private room…. Just when I’m starting to wonder if the waiter is really going to come back, the door opens, and he walks in.
I count the crystals dangling from the chandelier to calm myself. I need this. But all I can think about is blood.
Nicholas asks if I’d like to order for myself, and I start to shake my head, but then I have an idea, an easy test if I play it right. I tear open my menu again with a little too much force and scan through the ingredients listed below all the dishes I can’t even pronounce, but it doesn’t matter. I’m looking for one word.
Garlic.
I point at something without even reading the other ingredients. “This sounds good.”
Nicholas frowns, arching his brows as he examines me. “Creamed spinach?”
I try not to grimace—nope, it definitely doesn’t sound good. “I love spinach.” I widen my eyes to convey my sincerity.
“I’m not a fan of spinach… or garlic, for that matter.” He gently pulls my menu out of my hands. “But perhaps you guessed that already?” He closes both our menus and hands them to the waiter. “Perhaps I should order.” He raises a brow, and I smile in return, and there’s some realness in it, because that makes five: I’ve only seen him at night, the weather obeys his whims, he drinks blood, his hands are always cold, and he hates garlic. He’s a vampire. There’s no debating anymore—even Mom and Jessica would have to look at my percentages and find reason in them.
We wait in silence until the food comes. Nicholas eyes me with a shrewdness that makes me squirm, and I swear he looks a little pleased, like he would have been disappointed if I hadn’t tried to test him.
When the food comes out hot and steaming, the butter and spice make my mouth water with longing, and I barely stop myself from diving in and forgetting everything else. Instead, I fill my plate slowly, watching Nicholas in my peripheral vision. I need to know if he eats real food—not as a test but because I want to know how much I’m giving up. Nothing’s worth more than Dad’s life, but I still want to be prepared. I really, really like food. And even though I’m certain I’ll be giving up garlic, it’d be nice to hold onto some things I love.
Nicholas catches me and smirks a little as he spears a piece of flaky fish on his fork and places it in his mouth. I stare as he chews and swallows.
He turns toward me and opens his mouth to show me it’s really gone. “Is this what you’re waiting for?”
“Yes.” I smile. Dad and I always debated if vampires would eat real food or not. I voted no, but he said they would even if they didn’t need it to stay alive. I can’t wait to tell him he’s right.
I gorge myself on fried crab doused in butter, perfectly cooked asparagus, and steamed broccoli drizzled in hollandaise.
“Holy smokes that was good.” I lean back in my chair, not quite c
aring anymore if I’m next on the menu because at least I’ve had a last meal worth dying for. I cringe a little. I’ve always joked about death, and Dad laughed with me plenty of times, but now it strikes me as flippant, and I’m caught between continuing to joke or stopping altogether and acknowledging something’s wrong. There doesn’t seem to be a middle ground.
“Dessert?” Nicholas asks.
“I am stuffed.” I run my hand over my distended belly. This dress hides nothing.
He grins at me with all his too-white teeth. “I could go for a little more.” But he’s not looking at the menu, only me.
“No way, my friend.” Maybe if I play hard to get, he’ll get tired of his game and bite me right now.
“No what?” His eyes slide to my neck. “I can’t enjoy a chocolate mousse?”
“You know what.” I keep my voice light, teasing, but his stare on me increases my pulse until it throbs through my skin like a road map with all the best places to eat highlighted.
He may eat real food, but that doesn’t make it satisfying.
His smile widens, and he leans toward me.
I fight the dueling urges: most of me, the pure, animalistic survival part of me, says back the hell up and get out of here. Then my rational side tells me this is why I’m here. Let it happen. But another part of me, the part of me that loves a classic vampire/human love story even if they don’t usually end well for the human, says lean on in; this could be fun.
“I want to hear you say it,” he says.
I lean in the slightest bit, not enough for him to close the gap, deciding to stick with teasing, make him want something from me instead of the other way around. I say the words slowly. “I am not dessert.”
His smile breaks, and he tilts his head back and roars with laughter.
“What a shame,” he says, and my pulse spikes even more but definitely not from fear. I dust my hands off and toss my butter-stained napkin onto the table to give myself something to do besides look at him.
It was worth a shot. I switch tactics.
“Well.” I clasp my hands in my lap like a proper Southern lady to try to get myself under control. “Are we done here? Are you going to give me what I want?”
“I’m not sure yet.” He leans back in his chair. “Smile for me.”
“What?”
“Smile.”
“I can’t smile on demand.”
“Sure you can. People do it in pictures all the time.”
“You’re not holding a camera.”
He holds out his hand, and I sigh, reaching for my oversize black bag and fishing out the camera. “You better give it back. That was a gift from a guy I used to like.”
He smirks and pulls it away from me, making sure his fingers touch mine as he does.
“Okay.” He holds it up to his face. “Say cheese.”
“Really? ‘Say cheese’ is what you’re going with?”
He lowers the camera and peers at me with his dark-brown eyes. “I tried a simple request, which you denied.”
“Maybe because you said ‘smile for me’ like I owed it to you or something.”
“Are you always so difficult?”
“Probably.”
He sighs and lifts the camera to eye level again, and now all I can see are his lips curving slightly as he watches me through the lens.
“Smile for the camera.”
“Well, that’s an improvement.”
“And yet you’re still not smiling.”
I bare my teeth at him.
The camera flashes, and he pulls out the picture, laying it gently on the table.
“How about another?” He pushes his chair back and stands, eyeing the room like he’s an expert photographer on a shoot. “Here.” He points at one of the glass display cases built into the wall. The main feature inside is a floor-length strapless gold gown, covered with what must be fifty pounds of beads in an intricate floral pattern. Above it rest two ridiculously ornate golden crowns, and to the side, a collection of three scepters. The top of one fans into a golden sun. I can’t imagine the sheer confidence it would require to carry one of those things or wear that gown. You’d have to imagine yourself as a goddess or at least a queen.
“I cannot stand next to this mannequin. She doesn’t have a head or arms and she still looks better in that dress than I look in mine.”
He raises a brow. “Do you want to swap dresses?”
“Is that an option?”
“Could be.”
I don’t think I want to find out how he would manage that switch. There’s a small keyhole in the golden-framed edge of the glass, but something tells me he doesn’t possess the key.
“I’m good.”
“Suit yourself.” He motions for me to stand in front of the glass. I lean against the two rows of black-and-white portraits beside it and fold my arms behind my back. This time he takes the picture without asking me to smile for him or anything else.
After several shots of me posing about the room, he comes back and puts the original photo on the table, frowning down at the picture of my face in a way that mostly makes me want to slap him.
“What?” I ask after several uncomfortable moments of silence. “Do I have asparagus in my teeth?”
Wouldn’t surprise me.
He glances up at me and then back down. “No, it just looks like you’re snarling at me more than smiling.” He cocks his head. “Almost like you want to bite me.”
“Maybe I do.”
“Oh—I know you do. That’s why we’re here, isn’t it?”
The reminder sinks into me and turns my stomach like bad seafood. This isn’t a game to me, and I shouldn’t be forgetting that, not even for a moment. I force a smile to cover my mood.
“Don’t do that.”
“What?”
“Smile to try to hide what you’re feeling.”
“Isn’t that what you asked me to do?”
“No. I wanted a real smile.”
“This is real. Who made you the judge of all smiles?”
“I’m not a fool, Victoria.”
I don’t answer. How can I win in this scenario? Giving him a real smile would be a betrayal of my dad lying in his bed dying of cancer. I don’t own real smiles anymore, only cheap knockoffs.
“Can’t you just give me immortality?” I ask. “Do we really need to do this?”
“I’m still not convinced you actually want it.”
“Why do you get to be the judge of everything?” I can’t convince him I want it for myself. The more I think about it, I don’t. I can’t imagine what that would be like—the boredom of it. Would I even want to draw, knowing I had forever to see anything I wanted again and again? Nothing would be special.
But I’d have Dad. This is my default thought I use to push away all my other fears. I know we’ll find a way to be happy.
His chin tilts up, and he stares at the dangling crystals of the chandelier. “I’m trying to help you.”
“You’re playing with me like this is some game.”
His eyes are hard when he looks back down at me. “Life is a game. That’s the only way to look at it. Otherwise, each play you make has the potential to eat you alive with guilt and regret. Show me you can play.”
The unused steak knife glints dully in the dim lighting. I want to lunge for it and plant it in his hand and take his blood by force, but what are the odds I’d be fast enough? Just because I haven’t seen him use superspeed doesn’t mean he doesn’t have it. I’m still trying to navigate which myths are true and which are only modern exaggerations.
“Fine.” I throw him another cheap smile. “Let’s play.”
* * *
Out on the street, I let him take my warm hand in his cold one. He doesn’t link our fingers, and it makes the gesture old-fashioned in a pleasant way. We end up back in front of the cathedral, where a single portrait artist sits. Only a few people still walk by this late into the evening. All the warm bodies are tucked away in the
clubs, heating themselves with dance partners and alcohol.
Nicholas and I are not warm—each in our own way. The empty darkness suits us.
I search the dark to see if Elizabeth is still out here, but Nicholas tugs me in the other direction, toward the artist, and leads me to the wooden stool.
“Oh, I don’t think so,” I say.
Either he ignores me or he doesn’t hear me. He pulls out a wad of bills from his pocket and passes it to the man. “Thank you for waiting,” Nicholas says. The skinny artist nods, tucking the bills into his pocket.
My skin tingles. He planned this, too. Every detail of the night has been carefully curated for me. But for what? To make me happier? Why does he care? And why me? I can’t be the first person with a troubled life to come looking for vampires—not after the reveal. The only thing that might make me different is the way grief locked away my beautiful watercolors and I became a black-and-white photograph of who I was.
The painter must see it too, because he reaches past his bright chalks for a stick of charcoal as Nicholas moves to stand behind me.
I miss the softness of charcoal against my skin.
Nicholas’s fingertips brush the back of my neck as he shifts my hair to one side of my shoulder. I tense, and he leans down to my ear. “Is that okay?”
I nod, fighting a shiver. His fingers drift down either side of my neck until his hands settle on my shoulders and his fingertips fill the hollow above my collarbone. I swallow, and one index finger trails up my neck in answer.
The movement draws all my focus until the artist begins and soft scratching fills the air. Every so often Nicholas’s finger moves in time with the chalk, tracing a line up the front of my neck with the sound.
I fight to keep my pulse under control, but I know he must feel it beating like a scared rabbit, or a horny rabbit, or maybe both.
And then there’s the art. The artist puts his charcoal to the side and runs a finger along the paper, and I almost feel it with him—the dusty charcoal, smooth as velvet, catching on the rough paper. I want to get up and take over for him, and then Nicholas’s thumb traces a circle on the back of my neck, and I forget all about the paper on my skin and think only about the skin on my skin.
Vampires, Hearts & Other Dead Things Page 16