Leveling me with a soft, cool stare, Lare strides back toward the table and hands me the jar, which I take automatically, subconsciously, because I can't seem to stop staring at her. I can't look away from those eyes... In the bright kitchen light, they're as blue as ice floes, as deep, as dangerous as the Arctic Ocean. Not silver, but not human, either: they're too lovely, too knowing, too penetrative and complicated to belong to a simple mortal being. I swallow and lick my lips, whisper, “Thanks,” as I place the jar on the table.
“Sweets to the sweet,” she smiles, arching a brow. “And I do expect you to use up the entire jar,” she tells me, in her low, velvety tones. “Don't return it until you've spoiled your sweet tooth criminally.”
I laugh. “Deal.”
“So.” Her eyes flick to my bare forearm. “How's your cut?”
“Oh, fine. Nearly healed. Thanks for your help.”
“All the same,” she says, voice dropping lower, causing my heart rate to dangerously accelerate, “I’d like to check up on it. If you don’t mind.”
Before I can respond, Lare crouches in front of me, one knee pressed to the floor, the other hot against my leg. She’s close, so close that...
I draw in a deep breath. I keep forgetting to do that: breathe. My heart is skip-skip-skipping in my chest. It skips another beat, then two, as Lare reaches between us, cradling my wrist in her long, deft fingers. They’re so warm against my skin, her fingers, feather-light but sure. Practiced. Doctor's fingers.
She turns my hand over so that my wrist is exposed to her, and she brushes her dark-painted nails along my skin until she reaches the Band-Aid that I stuck on in place of the gauze. “Sorry, this might sting...” But she peels the sticky thing aside gently, stinglessly, and bends her head, lips parted, to consider my little wound.
Dry-mouthed, I gaze at the top of her head, at her hair beneath the overhead light; the thick strands shine red and gold, waterfalling over her china-smooth, bare shoulders. Her scent surrounds me. I could reach up with my free hand, could thread my fingers through her hair and trace the shell-like curve of her ear, feel the warmth of her cheek beneath my shaky fingertips...
“It’s healing well,” Lare murmurs, lifting her gaze with a small, secretive smile. Her voice jars me out of my reverie. “You won't have to worry about scarring.”
“Oh.” My voice is gravelly, and my head feels kind of gravelly, too: rough, overcrowded, disoriented. “Great.”
She rises in her silent, tiger-like way and regards me with eyes too blue to compare to anything belonging to the natural world. They're alight, alive, neon. “Now, would you like some tea?” Lare leans on the table, her right thigh bumping—again, feather-light—against my knee. “It's hot out there. You must be thirsty.”
“Thirsty?” I stammer, swallowing as my eyes skip to her mouth, flit over her sharp, bared teeth. How does she kiss? I wonder, blushing at the thought. How does it feel to be kissed by her, to feel those teeth against your teeth, those lips against your lips, those long white arms wrapped around you...
My heart thumps loudly in my chest.
Okay.
I’m kind of a mess.
I cough and smile at her self-consciously. “I wouldn't want you to go to any trouble—”
“No trouble. It's vanity. I make my own tea blends and am always eager to find new and willing victims—er, tasters.” She grins and tilts her head to one side, red waves tumbling over her arm. “Because I can't taste them myself, of course.”
“Right.” I bite my lip, taking this in. Vampires can't eat, can't drink anything aside from blood. My brows narrow. “But then...why do you make them?”
“Mm, the million-dollar question.” Her mouth slides into a slow, easy smile. “As a scientist and, well, a vampire, choosing and combining the ingredients, hypothesizing how those ingredients might taste together, and then conducting tea-drinking experiments with friends and colleagues, is an oddly satisfying—and relaxing—hobby. So much of my work is about hard things, big things—life, death. It's a comfort to mix herbal potions during my free hours. It feels a little bit like...” She glances off, her expression smooth and thoughtful. When she looks at me again, she's wearing this intense smile that makes my heart leap against the cage of my ribs. “Magic,” she says softly, chuckling beneath her breath.
“Magic,” I repeat, watching her, marveling at her. “You mean, like alchemy?” She glances at me in surprise. “Like that book you wanted me to look up?” I go on, breathless.
She laughs again. “Well...I'm not an alchemist. Or a magician. But I'm always chasing after that feeling. That...numinousness.” Her eyes fire like glittering aquamarines as her voice rises with her excitement. “Have you ever felt it? It's a—I don't know—high feeling, like you're disembodied and floating, like you know all of the secrets of the universe, but you can't quite put them into words...”
“Yeah,” I say softly, nodding my head and licking my lips. I lean forward over the table, supporting my head on my hands as I gaze up into Lare's watchful, gleaming eyes. “When I read an especially moving or crushing or inspiring or...exquisitely phrased sentence in a book... Yeah. I feel it then. I feel weightless and a little dizzy—”
“That's it. That's it exactly. Oui. I knew you'd understand...” Lare lifts an arm to brush some hair back from her face, and as she moves, I stare at the tattoo on her wrist, at the large black V and the numbers imprinted beneath it: 45832. She pauses, noticing the direction of my gaze. “Pathetic, isn't it, as far as body modifications go?”
“What?” I glance up at her.
“My tattoo. When they made me get it, you know, I asked the tattoo...well, I don't know what to call them. I hesitate to use the word artists. But I asked the tattoo people if I could choose a different font for my brand, or a different color, but they refused to speak to me. They barely acknowledged my existence.” Her eyes look distant, misty, as she smooths her thumb over the numbers on her arm. “I imagine that's what cattle feel like, hmm? Unpitied.” Her voice is so soft, I can hardly hear her; maybe she doesn't want me to hear her.
I do hear her, though, and my heart aches with a sharp, deep pain. Because it's true. The vampire tattoo is an insult, a purposeful insult. It's humanity's way of marking the vampires as inferior, lesser creatures—lesser even than cattle. Cattle are wanted; by and large, vampires are not. Here in Cincinnati, there are only four Free Residence neighborhoods where vampires can move in without petitioning the residents first and proving themselves—through a series of humiliating tests—to be upright citizens. Some of the shops downtown have Vampires not welcome signs posted in their windows, and groups like SANG strive to make the vampires' lives more difficult—and more dangerous—than they already are.
I don't know how Lare endures it: the demoralization, the bare hatred.
Suddenly my small and very human problems seem, well, selfish and silly in comparison.
Suddenly I feel very ashamed of sharing genes with humanity—at this point in history, at least.
On instinct, I stand up beside Lare and place my hand over her tattoo, obscuring it with my palm and fingers. The skin of her arm is softer, warmer than her hands, and she doesn't startle at my touch, doesn't move away. She only tilts her gorgeous head of hair toward me, eyes icy pinpoints of light, and offers me a small, quizzical smile.
“I'm sorry we did this to you,” I tell her, my voice low and hoarse with emotion. “I never realized...” I curse beneath my breath. “I've been so stupid, Lare. So wrapped up in my safe little haven of books; I shut the rest of the world out. I've always done that. I've always...cocooned myself. When President Garcia told the world about vampires, I hardly noticed. I wasn't curious. I didn't give it more than a passing thought. God.” I rake a hand back through my hair.
Growing up, my sister used to tell me that I was too focused, forever staring into a metaphorical kaleidoscope. All I could see were the pictures right in front of my face—or, more often, the book right in front of m
y face. She would stand on her head and make silly faces and do all sorts of things to try to catch my attention...but I just kept reading.
That's how I've lived my life, I realize now. Every single aspect of it. Tunnel vision. Ignore the peripheries, ignore the relationship issues with Mia, because you might see something you don't want to see, or know, or acknowledge. Something too hard, too painful. And life is painful enough.
“I'm sorry,” I say again, drawing a deep breath into my lungs and meeting Lare's bright, watchful eyes. I slide my hand to the back of her wrist, so that the tattoo is visible once more; I regard it bleakly, tracing a finger over the thick lines of the V. My sister is covered in tattoos, and none of her body art feels like this: Lare's skin is raised up beneath the ink, as if swollen. The tattooist obviously used a less-than-gentle hand—and, in all likelihood, less-than-sterile materials—when he or she imprinted Lare.
My breath comes out in a huff. “You don't deserve this. No one deserves to be treated like this.”
“Courtney.” Her long lashes lower to her cheeks. “I appreciate the sentiment, but this wasn't your doing. There's nothing to apologize for—”
“There is, though. Because I'm one of them. I'm human. And I never spoke up. I never protested. I never understood—”
“Oui.” Smoothly and slowly, Lare captures my hand with both of hers, cradling it in her palms. Her lips draw up into a sad, subtle curve. “But you understand now. That's all that matters. And it does matter. Very much.” Her soft eyes search mine, alternately flashing blue, then silver. “It matters to me. Thank you.”
“Don't thank me. I don't—”
“Shh.” Lare places a finger against my lips; my eyes widen with surprise, and my heart does a backflip in my chest. “I don't want an apology from you. You don't represent all of humanity any more than I represent all of vampirekind. We're just two people, Courtney, aren't we? Two people who have more in common than geography. Two people who enjoy books, and conversation, and one another's company...” Her gaze flits over my mouth as she draws her finger away.
I swallow, sliding my hands into the back pockets of my shorts. It’s a reflexive gesture, but there’s a reason for it. If I didn’t purposefully put my hands in my pockets, I would reach up right now, reach for her, and I shouldn’t... I can't. I take another deep breath. “You...enjoy my company?” I ask her, feeling childish and the opposite of suave: Do you like me? Check yes or no.
But I don’t have to wait very long for my answer. “Very much,” Lare says again, taking a step nearer to me, filling the empty space that had lingered between us. I feel her hands lightly grip either side of my hips and, startled, I search her eyes. They're fully silver now, her eyes—two mirrors reflecting my flushed, confused face and my hair: a bright, tangled mess.
Lare's lips part, revealing her sharp incisors. But there's nothing menacing in her expression; those teeth are simply a part of her, and I can't imagine her without them. I don't want to imagine her without them. “Do you enjoy my company, Courtney?”
God, yes. I want to kiss her. I've never wanted to kiss anyone as much as I want to kiss Lare right here, right now. The feeling is so raw, so all-consuming, so primal, that I clench my teeth and fist my hands to force it down, to restrain my instinct—though my heart still beats like a frenetic drum inside of me, and my blood feels too hot, too aware...
“Well?” Lare smiles, arching a brow.
“You...fascinate me,” I tell her truthfully, flushing more deeply with every word. “Yes. Yes, I enjoy your company. I... I feel like a different person whenever I'm around you.”
She chuckles lightly. “And is that a good thing?”
“It's an amazing thing. It's...a really good thing.”
Lare laughs again, a low, husky vibration that I feel in every nerve center of my body. “All right, then. I suppose there's only one thing left for us to do.”
I swallow and bite my lower lip, unable to tear my eyes away from the beautiful, full curve of her mouth. “What should we do?”
“Well, toast to our friendship, of course,” she says simply. Her words suggest platonic affection, but her tone of voice—and that hot glint in her eyes—suggests...otherwise, and an electric current moves through me, jump-starting my sleepy soul. “So, Courtney,” Lare breathes, leaning near, her hands still poised quite naturally on my hips, “would you like a glass of iced tea?”
“I'd love one,” I answer quickly, mentally transposing the words a glass of iced tea with a night of passion...
But Lare was, of course, being literal. A moment later, she hands me a tall glass of a faintly pink liquid, its surface bobbing with ice cubes that reflect the light. “Lavender green tea, with hints of rose petals, hibiscus and jasmine. I call it the Oscar Wilde,” she smiles, watching me take a sip.
The flavor is, at first, subtle, but then a soft, floral sweetness dances over my tongue, and my eyes widen as I swallow another cool gulp. “Lare—what did you put in this, the nectar of the gods? Or, I don't know, booze?”
She laughs and shakes her head, her coppery waves catching the light. “I just did science to it,” she grins, with a wink. “That's a new blend I've been working on; you're my first taster. So how would you rate it, on a scale of one to five stars?”
“A hundred stars, and—honestly—I'm not a tea drinker. I mean, I enjoy a cup now and then, but I guzzle coffee like cars guzzle gasoline. This, though...” I gaze at the half-empty glass in my hand. “It's like drinking flowers and energy at the same time. I was exhausted a moment ago, in my car, and now I feel like...” I pause, lips parted, as my eyes move over Lare's long, artful length. She's leaning back against the refrigerator door (which is bare, I realize now, save for one pulp fiction-style magnet declaring How come all the cool girls are lesbians?), arms crossed over her low-swooping tank top, watching me with the quiet, receptive, concentrated gaze of a scientist, a doctor, a lover.
“You feel like what, Courtney?” she prompts me softly.
“I...” I draw in a shallow breath and, with shattering regret, remind myself that I am not a single woman—regardless of the fact that my flighty girlfriend might be doing God-knows-what right now with God-knows-who. I want Lare... I want her with a passion I didn't know I was capable of feeling. It's heart-seizing; it's bone deep. But I need to break things off with Mia, once and for all, before I even begin to wonder whether Lare might feel the same way about me. Lare's been warm and friendly and sweet and teasing, but I don't know her, not really. I don't know what she wants from a relationship, or if she wants a relationship at all.
Still, if that fridge magnet is any indication, my gaydar was spot on, and Lare is a member of a long (and exploitative—cinematically speaking) legacy of sapphic vampires. But for all I know, she might have a girlfriend, too.
“Courtney?”
I cough self-consciously. “Um, didn't you say something about a toast?”
“Oh... I did, didn't I?” Lare looks thoughtful for a moment; then she pushes off from the refrigerator door and grabs another tall, clear glass from the cabinet to her left. With a sheepish smile, she strides over to me. “Let's pretend my glass is half full, hmm?”
I blink. “You aren't drinking?”
“No, I can't drink tea—”
“Not tea. I mean...” God, my throat is dry. I lick my lips and meet Lare's confused gaze. “Blood,” I say softly, swallowing. “You could fill your glass with blood—”
“Courtney, that's...” She watches me for a moment; then she sighs heavily. “No. I don't think that would be a good idea.” She crosses her arms over her chest, still gripping the empty glass in her hand. “I've never... I couldn't. You wouldn't want to see—”
“I do, though,” I tell her, and then cringe a little, because the statement sounds voyeuristic and a little ghoulish. But I'm asking her to drink in the interest of fairness. It isn't fair for me to drink and eat in mixed company and for her to be forced to hide her appetite away. That's like the right
-wingers insisting that gay couples shouldn't kiss in public, because it might upset the straights.
It's discrimination.
“Please, Lare. It's only fair,” I say, my voice wavery, quiet. “You have just as much right as me to—”
“I appreciate the sentiment, Courtney. I really do.” She rakes a hand back through her red waves, uncertainty flickering in her silver stare. “But it's...a big deal. It's something I've always kept hidden. From my foster family, from friends. I don't even drink in front of other vampires.”
“Oh.” My eyes widen. “Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to cross a line or...make you uncomfortable.” My face flushes, and I stare at the floor, at my feet, Lare's feet. Her feet are bare, and the nails are painted a deep, chic charcoal gray. I inhale deeply. “I only wanted you to know... You don't have to hide with me. I...know some things about hiding.” I smile weakly, blushing beneath her intense, thoughtful gaze. “And it sucks. It makes you feel like less than a person. I don't want you to feel that way.” I take a step nearer to her, drawing in another deep breath. “Not with me.”
For a long, tense moment, Lare doesn't reply. She stares hard into my eyes, and I feel as if her gaze has moved through my outer surfaces and into my soft, secret core. I'm too hot, too bewildered, but I don't glance away from her, can't glance away and break this electric, gossamer thread drawn taut between us.
Then her mouth slants subtly on one side, and she says, “I've never met anyone like you before.”
“Like me?” I bow my head and chuckle. “Incredibly awkward and prone to inappropriate suggestions?”
But Lare shakes her head and reaches for my free hand. She's warm, so warm, and her touch is gentle but firm as she effortlessly weaves her fingers through mine. Her long nails graze against my palm; I shiver. “No. Incredibly kind and prone to surprising acts of empathy.” She's standing close enough that I can make out faint freckles on her nose and cheeks; her sweet, lily scent is the only air I breathe. She squeezes my hand, and a thousand pinpricks of pleasure needle my skin, causing me to shiver again. “Are you sure it wouldn't bother you?”
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