by Marta Acosta
“Laws of mortal man do not govern the dead.”
“That goes without saying. Now, about the writing fee …” I lobbied for twice the amount he had initially offered. Fifteen minutes later I agreed to a sum that would pay for my loft repairs and keep me gainfully underemployed for another year.
Don Pedro agreed to transfer a third of the funds into my bank account, pay another third upon delivery of the manuscript, and pay the balance when it was accepted by the publisher.
I felt somewhat regretful as I signed the release that gave Don Pedro all rights to the sequel. But he was the reason for the first book’s success: people wanted to read about his life and they adored his loony interviews and seminars.
“One more thing,” Don Pedro said.
“What?”
“It would please me to have the story written by hand,” he said, and brought out five standard composition books. He unfolded a sheet of paper from one. “Here is a sample of my writing and you have such a discerning eye, I know you can copy it.”
No electronic evidence, I thought. “You’re in luck, Don Pedro. I happen to be an accomplished forger.”
“Oh, no, this is not forgery,” he said, shocked. “It is transcribing from my spiritual transmission.”
“You say potato, I say fauxtato. Whatever.”
As Don Pedro left, he said, “You will know how to use the magic of the cloth.”
“I don’t believe in magic.”
“You are magic.” He put his fine-boned hand on my wrist. “You are Milagro de Los Santos, the Miracle of the Saints. You must trust in yourself, in the role that destiny has written for you. Even though others would put you in a cage, the one who watches you recognizes your true self and loves you still.”
I was surprised at the shiver that went through me. “I know you’re full of it, but damn if I don’t want to believe you.”
“Then do,” he said, and winked one of his big bug eyes.
After Don Pedro left I decided to call Wilcox Spiggott.
Mercedes had been able to find only a few public records on Wilcox and, most interesting, that he participated in surfing competitions. I called the number listed for Crimson Leasing Agents & Real Estate. A receptionist answered with a crisp voice, and I said, “May I please speak to Wilcox Spiggott.”
“Might I say who is calling?”
I didn’t know if my reputation had traveled here, but I didn’t want to scare Wilcox off. “My name is Milly. I’m a journalist writing a story on surfing in the UK.”
In a moment he was on. “Wil Spiggott here.”
“Aloha, dude,” I said in surferese. “I’m doing some research on the best of Brit surfing and I’m looking for someone who’s hip to things oceanic and—”
“Who gave you my name?”
“Ahhh, well, I was at Hermosa Beach and this dude, awesome surfer, what was his name? Bitchin’ technique, really knew how to drop in late.”
“Bodhi?”
“Yeah, I think that was it,” I said, wondering where I’d heard that name before.
“Long streaked hair, killer smile, liked to skydive? That Bodhi?”
Wow, that sounded so familiar. “I’m pretty sure he’s the one. We were downing some brewskis at a bonfire and I was like, dude, do you know anyone I can interview, and he was like, dude, you totally gotta talk to Wil Spiggott.” I wondered if I could expand this narrative as a short piece with a mutated shark that would represent the offshore oil industry.
“Bodhi gave you this number?” Wilcox said.
“Uh-huh. Any chance I could buy you a drink today?”
“What do you look like?”
“No one’s complained,” I said, which wasn’t entirely true, since some people didn’t appreciate my physical and sartorial extravagance.
Wilcox said he could meet me at a pub after work. That gave me time to go to St. Paul’s Cathedral. I cried as I read the memorial to American soldiers who died in World War II, young men long gone but not forgotten.
Then I climbed to the top of the beautiful dome. I stood on the windy parapet and looked at the city below. The sun was already beginning to set and lights began to glow golden.
I wished that I was sharing this with someone else because it was too incredible just for me. I wondered what Oswald was doing now, and I tried not to wonder what or whom Ian was doing.
I went to the hotel and changed for the evening. I put on tight black jeans, black boots, and a snug cranberry cashmere sweater that I’d gotten on clearance because the shoulder seam was crooked. But the sweater was low-cut and I thought no one would notice the imperfection, especially if I let my hair fall forward over it. I wore a pink trench and a scarf that I’d knit from chunky violet yarn.
When I arrived at the pub, it was crowded with young professionals. I realized I had no idea what Wilcox looked like. I saw a muscle-bound guy with a bleached buzz cut jostling toward the bar. He smiled when he caught me looking at him.
I grinned and made my way to him. “Wilcox?”
“Sure I will coc—” he said, and stopped and glanced over my shoulder.
I turned to see what he was looking at.
The man behind me was tall and thin, with very fine, messy, streaked blond hair. He had a really good fake tan and nice features, but I focused on his light hazel eyes, lined with kohl.
“Are you Milly? I’m Wilcox.”
The first man burst into laughter and said “Who isn’t with jubblies like that?” before turning back to the bar.
I shook Wilcox’s hand and bopped my head. “Aloha. Cool to meet you.”
His coat was open, revealing a black V-neck sweater over a rust-colored crewneck and dark-wash jeans. Around his neck was a thin, worn leather cord with a single shell. He had silver rings on his slim fingers and small silver hoops in his ears.
He was definitely, unquestionably fabulous.
“Call me Wil. Let’s get a table outside. If you don’t mind the cold and the dark.”
“That’s fine by me.”
Wil led me out to an empty bench by a sidewalk table. A waitress had just finished taking orders at the next table and she stopped by. Wil ordered a pint of bitter, and I said, “Me, too, thanks.”
When she was gone, the vampire smiled at me and we checked each other out.
“So, Milagro de Los Santos, what do you want to know?”
I laughed and said, “What gave me away?”
“My bros don’t know my work number, and Patrick Swayze played Bodhi in Point Break.”
I thought for a second. “That’s why the name seemed familiar. And Keanu played Johnny Utah. Great movie.”
“Agreed, but your story was rubbish. Now, Milagro from California, filthy cute, rep for asking lots of questions, brilliant”—he let his gaze drift downward—“immune system. You know I’m stoked to be sitting here with you. We all know about you. Do you really go by Milly?”
“Milagro or Mil will do,” I said. “I lied because I didn’t need your coworkers to know we were meeting. I heard that the Council was hassling you, and the Council has some Issues with me.”
“I heard they wanted you dead.”
“Like I said, Issues.” I wondered what else he’d heard. “I don’t die easily, though. Or willingly. I’m quite reluctant about the whole ceasing-to-exist thing. How about you?”
“Equally reluctant. How did you hear about me?”
“Do you know the Grant family in California?”
He nodded and said, “Never met them, though.”
“They’re good people,” I said. “After I was accidentally infected by Oswald Grant, they took care of me and helped me transition.”
“I met your friend, Ian Ducharme, last year when I was on holiday in Lviv.”
“Lviv is the new Warsaw,” I said automatically.
“That’s when he was with a gorgeous icy blonde, Ilena, at all the parties.”
“I’d rather not discuss Ian if you don’t mind,” I said, trying to quell
the ugly swirl of emotions rising in me. “Anyway, one of the Grant family mentioned that you’re organizing a movement to have your kind live openly.”
“My kind? Aren’t you one of us?”
“They gave me a membership card, but most of the time they tell me that the club is closed for a private party. I think so long as your kind live in hiding and fear, there will never be …”
The waitress came back, and I paused while she delivered our drinks. Wil and I fumbled over who would pay, but he insisted, saying, “You’re my guest.”
I sipped the warmish beerish drink and said “Mmm” to be polite. “You’re lucky our drinks came. I was just about to launch into a speech about human rights for all. I know all the politically correct talking points.” I didn’t mention that I’d learned many from animal rights activists.
“Before we get into all that, what are you doing tonight?”
“I was hoping to see a play, or see if any museums have evening hours.”
“Could I interest you in a special tour befitting a special guest?”
When an attractive and unknown man presented me with a vague offer of a good time, I always had the same answer. “Absolutely.”
We finished our drinks and took the Tube to a crescent-shaped block of white terrace houses with graceful black railings and boxes of blooming flowers. “It’s an underground restaurant,” Wil said, putting his arm through mine in a very friendly way. “It’s not in the guidebooks.”
“Do we need a secret knock?”
“Fer sure.”
“I’m not an expert, but you seem to speak surferese very well,” I said as he led me up the steps to the glossy red front door.
“It’s one of my languages.” He lifted the brass door knocker and tapped it twice, then three more times. After we waited, he looked at me and said, “It gets loud.” He banged the door with his fist and yelled, “Open up, you bastards!”
I heard footsteps and then a bulky older man came to the door. Wil practically tackled him and gave him a smacking kiss on his cheek. “This is Mil, Graham. Mil, this is Graham.”
“Hello, Mil,” Graham said sternly, and looked me in the eyes. “This is a private gathering. Nothing that happens here leaves.”
“She’s cool,” Wil said. “She’s with the Grants in California and Ian Ducharme.”
“I know Ian,” I said. “But I’m not with him.”
“Ian Ducharme,” Graham said with a cynical smile. Then his expression changed. “A sexy señorita with the Grant family and Ian Ducharme? Don’t tell me this is Milagro de Los Santos!”
I was a little annoyed at the sexy señorita description. “Okay, I won’t.”
“Come in! Come in! Welcome to the Bloody Good Table.”
The interior of the house was chic and modern, dove grays, snowy white, and black with red accents. A niche in the long hallway held a tall vase of red ginger, and the dark gray runner was edged in red.
Voices and music came from down the hall. “Everyone’s in back,” our host said.
five
My Fair Vampire
As we entered the large back room, people turned to look at us and a shout of “Wilcox!” went up. There was a jumble of greetings, backslaps, hugs, and kisses. Graham had my arm and was saying, “This is Milagro from California.”
A few guests stared, but other than that they went on with their conversations.
A glass of red liquid was put into my hands. “Wild boar,” someone said. Everyone looked at me expectantly, but as I was about to take a sip, I heard someone say, “With bathwater.”
“Whose bathwater?” I asked, which people found hilarious.
“Water from the City of Bath,” Graham said. “Lots of sodium and mineral that stands up to the gaminess of the boar.”
So I took a sip and swished it around in my mouth before swallowing. “I get the mineral and salt from the water, and the boar … it’s fresher than I thought, cleaner.”
“It’s from a small herd that’s taken over an apple orchard,” Graham said. “That’s the apple you’re tasting.”
“Like Eve,” Wil joked.
While I was introduced, I surveyed the crowd. Only about half were vampires, and the others seemed totally cool with hanging with blood-drinkers. There was a bubbly Indian scientist, a gorgeous Latvian painter, clever and grungy graduate students, and a range of foodies. Some may have been thralls, but I couldn’t tell by their manner.
It felt different than Ian’s crowd, less decadent, I thought as I sampled a canapé of red caviar and salmon mousse accompanied by an eel’s blood spritzer.
The food was prepared for both vamps and nonvamps. We all shared spring lamb carpaccio. The wild boar had been braised in Barolo and herbs until it was tender, but fresh blood thickened the sauce for the vamps.
I was introduced to a zoologist who procured rare animal bloods for his culinary adventures. He was anxious about dessert. “It’s something I’m trying out for the first time, Masai trifle, a construction, if you will, of the Masais’ diet of blood, milk, meat, animal fat, tree bark, and honey.”
“Really?” I said, and smiled as if I wasn’t squinging inside. “A construction, not a deconstruction?”
“Their food is already elemental, so I’m constructing. I’m using a zebra-blood jelly that’s been sweetened with honey and spiced with cinnamon, a tree bark. The meat and fat component are suet mincemeat with black pudding. All layered with organic Devon cream, of course.”
“Mmm, sounds … unique.”
It was unique. Uniquely bad. I took one small bite of the sweet, greasy, mealy, salty trifle and looked for a place to spit it out. Another guest was ahead of me and pretending to cough as she turned toward a palm in a glazed red pot.
“Hmm,” Wil said after a taste.
“A noble experiment,” Graham, our host, said as he gathered up dishes of dreadful dessert and passed around packets of chocolate-covered biscuits.
Wil and I left the table and went to sit on a long leather sectional. He pulled me close to lean against him and played with my hand, sending a continual stream of pleasant zings through me in the way that alcohol and drugs could not.
“Wilcox, I’ve been meaning to ask you, how does a vampire surf?”
He laughed. “Bleak, isn’t it, being an English vampire surfer? It’s like being a Jamaican bobsledder. I wait for bad weather and there’s night surfing. Haul some floodlights on a lorry, position them on a cliff, and let the good times roll.”
“If you came out of the coffin, it would be easier to do what you love. Most people have no idea of how everyday life is restricted and limited by others’ fears and prejudices.”
“Yeah, and there’s also sun poisoning.” He obviously needed to be cheered from his weighty, unhappy thoughts because he asked, “Do you want to go dancing after this?”
“I’d love to.”
Graham put out bottles of icy vodka and a tray with slices of lemon, lime, a mound of sea salt, and sprigs of fresh dill and fennel. “Have you decided who’s first?”
“Me, I am,” said one of the grad students. “I’ve only had herb salads for a month. I’ll taste brilliant.”
She stood up and took off her sweater, revealing a thin wifebeater and lots of skin.
A brawnier guy scoffed, “You’re a trinket. There’s nothing in you to drink.”
“Shut up, you,” she answered cheerfully. “You fainted the last time you saw a needle.”
More guests advocated for themselves and after lots of competitive insults, three of them were selected. The zoologist/amateur chef brought out a black leather doctor’s bag, and Graham placed a silver tray with thimble-small glasses on a tall cabinet.
They offered me the first taste. When I hesitated, Wil said teasingly, “Come on, Eve, you’ve already had the apple.”
I’d already had Ford’s blood, and this situation was much more … wholesome. I took a small sip. It hummed warmly through me and I could taste the green herbiness of
the grad student’s blood. Everyone followed me, and Graham said, “I get the fennel up front and there’s mint, too. Fantastic.”
Another vampire swished the blood in her mouth and said, “I’m tasting lemon in here, with rust and chocolate in the finish.”
As the others began discussing food pairings with the blood, Wil said, “Shall we?” and I nodded.
We said good night to the group and thanked our host.
Graham said, “I hope you’ll come again. I’ll cook if you tell me about how you dismantled Corporate Americans for a Corporate America, exposed the movement for vampire supremacy, and tangled with an angry werewolf.”
“It sounds impressive when you say it that way,” I said, “but the individual incidents were rather humiliating and involved a lot of sexy costumes, pink fuzzy handcuffs, out-of-control parties, and demented plans for world domination.”
Graham laughed and slapped Wil on the back. He said, “Milagro, I think you’re underestimating the reality.”
“It’s probably more amusing for an observer,” I said. “Thank you for an extraordinary meal.”
Wil and I went out to the dark, cold street.
“I love this time of night,” I said, “when most people are getting ready for bed, and party girls are getting ready to go out.”
“Did you like the Bloody Good Table?”
“I loved it. Everyone was so friendly and lively. It was completely different than the vampire bars I’ve been to back home, which have so much attitude, and there’s a real class division between vamps and thralls.”
“We’ve had longer to adjust, and we’re not repressed like you Americans.”
“That’s a gross generalization. I’m not repressed.”
“Excellent,” he said with a smile.
When we got to the corner, Wil hailed a cab and we went into the heart of the city. After we got out, he waited until the cab had left and disappeared into traffic. He said, “Rule number nine, never let anyone take you to the real address.”
“What are rules one through eight?”
“You know, don’t sink your teeth into your nursery school mates.” He took my hand, giving me a warm buzz, and led me down a narrow alley, lined with ancient buildings, dark with soot. “Don’t run starkers in broad daylight and fry like a chip. Don’t tell your girlfriend that the condom broke and you’ve filled her with vampire spunk.”