The Vampire Next Door

by Natalie Vivien

  I sigh and take a bite of my sandwich.

  Lare leans forward again, coppery hair shifting over her shoulders. “If you'd indulge me, Courtney, I do need a taste tester for another tea blend,” she says, her head tilted to one side, her mouth slanting encouragingly. “It's brand-new—as of this morning, in fact. Making it helped relax me when I got home from...” Her expression darkens as she trails off, shaking her head. She gazes down at the tabletop, unseeing, for a handful of heartbeats. Then her lips part, and she says, simply, “I call it Carmilla.”

  “Carmilla,” I repeat, with a nostalgic smile. I read Carmilla in college for my Gothic Lit class with Professor Dugal. The little book left a lasting impression on me, and no wonder: it was the only time I had a class assignment that involved reading a novel with a lesbian main character.

  And a vampire lesbian main character, to boot.

  “I'd love to taste-test your tea,” I say.

  “Well, good, because I would love to have you taste-test my tea.”

  And the wheels in my brain begin to squeak, and squeal, and finally, with one last rusty grunt, turn.

  So, this is a tea blend named Carmilla. And Lare made another blend named Colette. And yet another she called Oscar Wilde. There's an obvious literary theme here, and the teas taste amazing, unlike anything I've ever tried before...

  Hmm.

  Yeah...

  Okay, it's happening.

  I'm starting to get one of my Wild Ideas.

  Normally, I get my Wild Ideas when Azure is there to talk me down, to tell me that my whim is either outrageous (and totally doable) or outrageous (and totally not doable). She's the one who, gently but firmly, persuaded me to resist the urge to get that buzz cut back in college, and that tattoo of my sophomore year girlfriend's name inked on my shoulder—in Comic Sans font, no less.

  She's the one who, not so gently and very firmly, persuaded me not to date Mia Foster. Advice which I soundly ignored but which, in retrospect, may have had more wisdom in it than I realized at the time.

  Anyway, Azure isn't here right now, and Lare is, so....

  I draw in a deep breath.

  “Lare,” I begin, swirling the straw in my glass so that the ice cubes rattle.

  “Courtney.” She gives me a sideways smile, one eyebrow raised.

  “Okay, feel free to say no, and I'm probably out of line for suggesting this, but...” I pause nervously before the question, of its own accord, just kind of spills out of my mouth: “Would you ever consider selling your teas...at a bookstore, perhaps?”

  “Mm.” Lare looks thoughtful, leaning back in the booth. “A bookstore...” She bites her lower lip, serious, considering—but then, within moments, that sexy smile breaks out over her face again, and her eyes flash at me like silver moonbeams. “Well, you know, it would have to be a really fantastic bookstore.” She inclines her head of red waves toward me with a teasing smirk. “Owned by my really fantastic next-door neighbor.”

  Excitement rushes through me. I'm so excited that I almost spill my tea, and I only spare a millisecond to inwardly revel over the really fantastic compliment. “You'd be interested in doing it? Seriously? Because it's as if my store were made for this purpose! There's an old counter in the back of the shop—my dad used to dream of serving customers coffee and donuts, but he never had the chance to make that dream happen before he died. If I did some research, got the proper permits, maybe we could set up a tea bar, some cafe tables...” I trail off; I feel like I'm short-circuiting. I press the backs of my hands to my hot cheeks. “Sorry. I'm getting carried away here.”

  “No, no.” Lare smiles, her eyes soft and blue and fond. Her lips quirk up subtly as she gazes at me. “I like seeing you get...carried away.”

  “Oh... Um. Thanks.”

  She watches me for a moment longer, still smiling that small, mysterious, Mona Lisa smile. And then she drums her fingers on the table and nods decisively. “Let's do this.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Oui. Very sure.” She breathes out, and her gaze slides to my lips—brazenly, teasing me. When her eyes flick back up to meet mine, they're as clear and blue as the summer sky. “I'll put together some packets of tea to sell and some to brew. I could probably get them to you next week. Well, barring any further incidents at work.” For a heartbeat, pain flickers over her face, but it's gone as quickly as it appeared, and she reaches across the table, extending her hand to me.

  I assume that she wants to shake on our new, unexpected venture, but when my hand slides into Lare's, her fingers curl and lift my hand toward her mouth. She leans down, brushing her warm lips against the backs of my knuckles.

  “I'm delighted to have such a lovely business partner,” she whispers against my skin.

  Then, with a soft, slanting smile, she lets go of my hand.

  Some distant, observant part of me is aware that my eyes have opened wide and that my lips have suggestively parted. And I can't... No, I can't think about what just happened—about Lare's mouth, shaping words for me, kissing me... Don't think about it. I'll stop functioning entirely if I do. I'll say things, do things, that I can't say or do, not as a woman in a committed relationship.

  So, instead, I focus on the non-sexual thrills pinging through my body over the fact that we're going to create a tea bar at Banks' Books. I haven't felt this excited about a project—or the shop—in a long time. I pick up my sandwich and take a big, messy, satisfying bite.

  “My dad would love this idea,” I think out loud, as I wipe my mouth with a paper napkin. “I mean, he was a coffee drinker—black coffee, nothing fancy—and he never drank tea. But the reason he bought that counter was because he wanted to introduce a way for our customers to relax in the store, to spend some time there, feel comfortable, read, escape their busy lives.” I take another bite pensively and then sip at my iced tea. “He always used to tell me that he wanted the store to be more than a store. He wanted it to feel like a home away from home. That's how it always felt for him.” I smile softly. “And for me. It still feels that way.”

  “It's a special place. I knew it the moment I stepped through the door.”

  I fall into Lare's cool, silver-blue eyes. She's leaning back in the booth, watching me with an easy smile. “Thank you. This... This really means a lot to me. And it'll get the word out about your teas—everyone will be talking about them once they give them a try. And who knows? Maybe maybe this will breathe some life back into my gasping little store.”

  Lare chuckles softly, glancing down at her hands in her lap.

  Suddenly self-conscious, I ask her, “What?”

  “Oh, nothing. It's just... You're beautiful when you're like this. So full of...hope.” She smiles at me, the soft points of her teeth visible between her lips.

  I blush, stare down at my now-empty plate, as I think—and hate myself for thinking—about how those teeth, that mouth, would feel against my mouth—

  “I'm afraid we'll have to continue this discussion later.”

  I look up, surprised, and Lare gestures to the clock on the diner wall. She rises quickly, gracefully, with an apologetic smile. “I must get back to the lab, but we'll talk very soon, yes?” She pulls a slim wallet out of her back pocket and presses a ten dollar bill to the table.

  “No, you don't have to—”

  “My treat,” she insists. Her gaze is complicated, intense. Seeing the reflection of myself in her silvered eyes makes me feel strange, small, but a little euphoric, as if some part of me already belongs to her, is part of her.

  Well, we are more than next-door neighbors now. We're business partners. And being business partners involves an inordinate amount of trust. It's a definite level-up, as far as relationships go. Granted, it isn't exactly the sort of relationship I want—or daydream about—with Lare, but it'll be a great step for both of us. I know it will.

  Because Lare was right: I am full of hope.

  “Thank you.” I smile up at her awkwardly. I feel like a girl o
n a first date, a date that just went surprisingly well, and that's really, really not how I should be feeling right now. “I mean, for everything. I'll call you with the details for wiring your payment for that book. And...yeah. We'll talk soon.”

  “Au revoir, Courtney.” Lare touches her fingertips to the back of my hand in an oddly intimate gesture. Then she turns and walks out the door. Through the diner window, I watch her move down the street, admiring the lyricism of her limbs, the surety of her every step.

  When I get back to the shop, I dig through a pile of estate sale acquisitions that I haven't cataloged yet. And there it is, just like I remembered it—a gold-gilt copy of Carmilla bound in burgundy leather.

  Perched on my stool, I lose myself in the story's dark passages until closing time.

  ---

  Apparently, my parents were incapable of producing a conventional daughter. There's me, the book-devouring lesbian. And then there's my younger sister Sharon—the artist goth who lives in a converted firehouse downtown.

  She shares the firehouse with her boyfriend Marcus and an ever-changing group of eccentric roommates. The decor of the place is industrial, exposed ducts and brickwork, and Sharon's paintings—of cemeteries, mostly—cover the unpainted walls. The gloomy decor fits, Sharon's always joking, because many of her roommates, including her boyfriend, are vampires.

  I was so flustered and overstimulated after having lunch with Lare that I nearly forgot Sharon had invited me to join her for dinner tonight. I had to speed all the way from the bookshop. Of course, “speeding,” in Colonel Mustard's automotive dictionary, is defined as, “stalling out in three intersections and refusing to accelerate above thirty miles per hour.”

  But, hey, I made it in one piece, and only half an hour late.

  When I knock on the broad front door and Sharon ushers me inside, I notice a large group of people in the common area, playing video games on a huge pull-down projector screen and eating pizza.

  Well, the humans are eating pizza.

  Sharon squeezes me in a tight hug with an exuberant, “You're late! But we saved you some 'za.” She grabs one of the boxes of pizza and pulls me up the wide antique stairs, original to the firehouse, and heads toward the bedroom she shares with Marcus. “How are things at the shop?” Sharon asks, holding the door open for me.

  “Okay. No, they're good...and getting better.” I walk into the bedroom, taking in the black walls, the Dumpster-dived furnishings, the big zombie painting hanging above the queen-sized bed—which, of course, is draped in black velvet.

  I smile to myself as I remember how my sister, when she was in elementary school, used to insist on wearing dresses every day—pink dresses, the puffier the better, with layers with tulle stuffed under wide, watermelon-colored princess skirts. With her blonde curls and pretty mannerisms, she was on the fast-track to becoming a princess or a prima ballerina when she grew up.

  But, well...times have changed.

  I watch my sister as she sets the pizza box on the bed and turns toward me with a triumphant smile. Her hair—once more yellow than mine—is now dyed jet black and chopped in a punk, A-line cut. Adult Sharon wouldn't be caught dead in anything pink; she wears all black, head to toe, and the more metal, the better. I've lost track of how many piercings she has.

  The entrepreneurial gene that runs rampant in our family manifested in her, too, because Sharon has never worked a “traditional” job. She scraped along until she made it, and made it big, selling her gothic artwork on Etsy for a living.

  “So,” she says, head tilted to the side as she raises a black-penciled brow, needling me with her emerald green gaze. “What's up?”

  “Oh, you know...” I bite my lip thoughtfully. I'm not really prepared to spill any details about Lare yet. I'm still feeling overwhelmed and speechless about the whole business partners thing. “Just...the usual. Um... What's going on with you?” We both sit down on the edge of the bed and take slices out of the box of pizza, making twin sounds of contentment as we relish the gooey cheese.

  “Well, I'm ridiculously stoked about the music festival tomorrow night,” says Sharon, around another huge bite. “Marcus is going with me, as are all of the roomies. We picked up our tickets the minute they went on sale.” She pinches a long string of cheese stretched between her mouth and the slice and gobbles it up with a satisfied smile, just like she used to when we were kids. “I've been planning my outfit for weeks. I got these sickening fishnet arm warmers from the alternative arts and crafts fair, hand-crocheted. I can't wait to show them to you.” She pauses, lips pursed, and gives me a sidelong glance. “What are you wearing?

  I shrug, and immediately Sharon casts her eyes to the black-painted ceiling, despairing over her big sister's nonexistent fashion sense.

  “Come on. This event isn't exactly...my scene. I mean, I don't have any fishnet arm warmers, hand-crocheted or otherwise,” I tease her.

  But Sharon is already standing up, her half-eaten slice flung to the lid of the open pizza box. She opens her closet doors with a dramatic sweep of her arms and pulls a series of very black clothes off of very black hangers. Then she wordlessly tosses the dark bundle at me.

  “Sharon. This really...” I hold up a short black skirt, a zippered black tank top and a pair of black fishnet tights. “...isn't me.”

  “It is a truth universally acknowledged that music festivals provide a prime opportunity to show off, to dress up,” Sharon tells me with a wheedling smile.

  “No fair, bringing a literary reference into this. You know that's my weakness.”

  “Seriously, Court, just give the outfit a shot! You can wear boring bookstore clothes if you want to, but you'll stand out like a sore...librarian.”

  “Hey, I resemble that remark,” I laugh, folding the clothes neatly before grabbing another slice of pizza. “God, this is so good.”

  “Food of the gods.” She falls back onto the bed beside me with an oof.

  From the common room downstairs, there's a sudden, muffled outbreak of laughter.

  “It seems like there are more people here than usual. Have you signed on some new roommates?” I ask curiously.

  Sharon shakes her head, picking up her discarded piece of pizza. “No, most of the people downstairs are part of VampWatch. You know, the Vampire Neighborhood Watch. Remember? I mentioned them to you before.”

  I nod, thinking as I chew. “Yeah, I remember.” According to Sharon, VampWatch is the most outspoken group of pro-vampire advocates in Cincinnati. She and Marcus are active members.

  “Well, anyway, we just had a meeting, and it got pretty intense. So now everyone's chilling, playing video games and goofing around to take the edge off.”

  I stiffen slightly. “Oh? What was the meeting about?”

  “Working out a plan to combat Drew Yarrow,” my sister mutters, her eyes green slits, “and her disgusting hate group, SANG.”

  “Right. That's what I was afraid you were going to say...”

  “What?” Sharon pauses mid-bite to blink at me, confused. “What do you mean, that's what—”

  “Look.” I sigh for a long moment. My sister continues to stare at me as if I've grown a second head. Frowning, I drop my pizza slice into the box; I've suddenly lost my appetite. “I've got something to tell you.”

  Sharon leans toward me, brow furrowed. “What's wrong, Court?” she asks gently.

  I fret at the edge of the paper napkin in my lap, feeling the pain that I've purposefully pushed down, ignored, well up inside of my chest, my throat. I straighten my spine, gaze mournfully into my sister's shining eyes. “I think Mia is involved with Drew.”

  “Drew.” Sharon shakes her head, as if waiting for me to say something more. Then understanding dawns over her face, and she shakes her head harder. “No. You mean... No. Drew...Yarrow? That Drew?”

  “Yeah. That Drew.”

  Sharon gapes.

  “I mean, I don't know for certain if they're having an affair,” I say, raking a hand back throug
h my tangles with a heavy sigh. “Mia has been, I don't know, interviewing Drew or something. Following her around to get a story for her paper. Or so she's told me. But I saw this picture of them together, a photo of Mia demonstrating with SANG...” I trail off. My eyes are stinging, and I sag on the bed, sunken down by the weight of the matter. “I just don't know who she is anymore.”

  “Oh, Court.” Sharon places a hand on my shoulder and squeezes.

  I smile at her weakly. “It's okay. Really. I mean, it hurts to realize you've misjudged someone so much, but...the truth of the matter is that I want to break up with Mia. I've wanted to for a while. There's always been something missing in our relationship, you know?”

  Sharon watches me sympathetically.

  I breathe out. “When I told Mia that I thought we should go our separate ways, though, she asked for another chance. And...I couldn't deny her that. She said she was sorry. She seemed sincere. But...” I swallow and bite my lip.

  “But...” my sister prompts me, staring very intently at my face.

  I stop tearing the napkin and draw in another deep gulp of air. “But the thing is,” I say softly, quietly, “I'm attracted to someone else.”

  My sister begins to smile, but, to her credit, she forcibly flattens her mouth, trying to maintain the straightest expression possible. She holds her tongue, simply raises her eyebrows and waits for me to go on.

  “I'm attracted,” I tell her, knowing that my next words are going to overwhelm her oh-so-fake appearance of composure, “to the vampire who moved in next door—”

  Sharon squeals, launching herself forward and wrapping her arms tightly around my neck. “Didn't I tell you that Mia was bad news from the moment I met her?” She sits back, her black-painted fingernails curled around my shoulders. “I mean, God, she's such a wet mop. Point her in the direction of a pretty woman, and she'll follow that tail like a bloodhound on a scent—” She makes a little gasp and covers her mouth with her hand. “God, I'm sorry. Too soon. Now's not the time, I know.”