The Vampire Next Door

by Natalie Vivien

  She gives me another quick hug before peering keenly into my eyes. “Seriously, though, I need details. A vampire? I feel it fair to warn you, sis,” she begins with a cheeky smile, “that once you go fangs, you never go—”

  “God, Sharon, it's not like that,” I tell her miserably, burying my face in my hands. I can feel the all-too-familiar blush creeping over my cheeks.

  “Details, Courtney. You can't drop a bombshell like I'm attracted to a vampire and then just leave me hanging.”

  “I won't. Calm down.”

  “Inquiring minds want to know—”

  “Okay,” I begin, sighing as I try to piece together a chain of inarticulate emotions. How do I describe Lare? How do I explain how her voice, her eyes, her nearness affects me?

  I can't. Not to my little sister. Not now. It's all too new, too soft and unformed. Too raw.

  I decide to stick to the facts: “Her name is Lare—Valeria—and she's a scientist at Give Life Technologies.”

  “A scientist vampire,” Sharon informs me helpfully, holding up her index finger, “is super hot.”

  I roll my eyes at her—even as I silently agree. “Um, she has a Saint Bernard. She's possibly French. And...that's about all I have to tell you.” I tug at an errant knot in my hair. “It's just a crush. I'd never cheat on Mia,” I say firmly.

  “Of course not. I never thought you would.” Sharon arches one brow as she watches me carefully. “I know you better than that.”

  “Thanks.”

  She shrugs, then crosses her legs on the bed with a wicked smile. “I can't lie, though. I'm really happy that you're thinking of splitting up with Mia. She's been bad news from the start, you know? I was shocked when you introduced me to her. She's so...flighty. She never struck me as the type of person Courtney Banks, Perfectionist, could fall in love with.”

  My lips part, and we both stare at one another for a long moment.

  “What? What did I say?” Sharon asks nervously. “You look sick... Was it the pizza? Do you need to throw up?”

  Well, while my soul is already bare...

  “Sharon,” I start, voice hushed, my mouth as dry as ash. “I don't even know if I believe in love. I mean...love love. Falling in love, true love, soul mates... That kind of stuff.”

  My sister watches me, unblinking—stunned or bored, it's hard to tell.

  I sigh. “You were right there with me, Share,” I tell her hoarsely, flicking my gaze to my hands in my lap. “Our parents fought like cats and dogs. No,” I reconsider, twisting my mouth to one side, “they fought like rabid cats and dogs. They fought about everything: the bookstore, us. They fought about dinner. They were the most incompatible people in the world, and that's what I see over and over again. I see incompatible people coming together and just...hurting each other. It's this vicious cycle that no one else seems to notice.”

  Sharon remains still and quiet as I stand up, tossing my torn napkin into her silver, skull-embossed trashcan. I smooth my hands over my skirt, shaking my head as I turn back to her. My throat is tight. “You know I enjoy reading love stories. Like Jane Eyre. It's my favorite book. But, I mean, I love reading ghost stories, too—and that doesn't mean I believe in ghosts. I've been in enough relationships to wonder,” I breathe, “if maybe love is only a work of fiction, after all.”

  Sharon opens her mouth, is about to say something, but then there's a soft rap at the partially shut bedroom door.

  “Hey, I just wanted to see how you guys are doing. Can I come in, or are you ladies dishing about the latest RuPaul's Drag Race? If you are—spoilers! 'Cause I haven't seen the episode yet.” Marcus grins companionably, peering around the edge of the door.

  Sharon and I laugh, grateful for the break in the tension. Then, like a black leather-clad gazelle, Sharon leaps from the bed and springs to the door, reaching out for her boyfriend's hand. “Come on in, snooper.”

  “Sorry.” Marcus ducks into the room with an apologetic shrug, a dimpled smile adorning his boyishly handsome face. He gathers Sharon into his arms, and the intimate act comes so naturally, as if Sharon is an extension of his own body. He leans down and kisses my sister deeply but somehow softly; she sighs against him.

  As a couple, they've never been shy about public displays of affection.

  And, yeah, the love Marcus and Sharon share is unquestioningly real. They've been together for five years and just got engaged last spring—though they claim that they knew, from their very first date, that they were destined to marry one another. They've been saving up for the whole length of their relationship to finance the nuptials of their gothic dreams: a destination wedding in—where else?—Transylvania. They intend to promise their undying love in the place that—mythically, at least—the undead call home.

  After smacking lips in another passionate kiss, Marcus and Sharon draw apart, and Sharon taps his chin with her finger, says, “We'll be right down, okay?”

  Marcus nods, baring his vampire teeth as he grins at me. “No rush. Come on down when you're done gabbing, and we can all watch the episode together. The VampWatch crew's gone home, so now it's just me and the roomies playing Mario Kart.” He offers us a small salute before turning on his heel to disappear down the hallway.

  Sharon pushes the door closed; then she stretches out her arm to tug at my hand. “Look, Court,” she tells me gently, squeezing my fingers. “Think about what Dad always used to tell us when we came to him for advice. You remember, right?”

  My throat tightens, but I nod, whisper, “If you were reading the story of your life, what would you want you—the heroine—to do right now?”

  Sharon and I stare at one another for a long moment as my pulse begins to accelerate. The thing is, before I even spoke those words—a well-worn litany that formed on my lips as easily as the Pledge of Allegiance—I knew my answer. I could never bring myself to say it out loud, but it's there. And it's so obvious, it hurts.

  Even if nothing ever happens between myself and Lare, my relationship with Mia has been in its death throes for weeks, if not months. And it's harmful to both of us to be half of a failing relationship. We're not right for each other. I thought I was in love with her—or deluded myself into thinking that I was, that I must be. But I wasn't.

  I'm not.

  Mia deserves someone who can love her for who she is, for everything that she is, with an unwavering constancy. An unshakable certainty.

  I'm not that person. I can't do that for her. And I don't think she can do that for me.

  It's over.

  I gasp, caving inward, and am only vaguely aware of Sharon's arms wrapped around me. I feel as if I've just been thwacked in the chest with one of those anvils that always appear in old-school cartoons.

  But even as the resolve hardens inside of me to break up with Mia tonight, I remember the hurt look on her face when I attempted to break up with her a couple of days ago, how the tears stood shining in her eyes...

  God, I can't handle that expression again, not yet.

  “Just...think about it,” says Sharon quietly, watching me.

  I shake my head, suddenly exhausted. “Hey, could you tell Marcus that I'm sorry I can't—that it's just been...” With a heavy sigh, I stand up and lean against the ornate dresser. Its surface is decorated with framed photographs of Sharon and Marcus—laughing, kissing, sharing a candy apple at the state fair. I stare at the pictures dully. “I think I'm going to go home, go to bed early. I'm just...drained.”

  Sharon springs up beside me and gives me a tight hug. “Don't forget these.” She shoves the pile of black clothes into my arms.

  Outside of the old fire station, a humid summer rain is beginning to fall in large, heavy drops. I run toward my car, but the deluge soaks me through before I reach it.

  Through my damp, dripping lashes, the whole world looks as if it's been painted watercolor gray.

  Chapter Six: Love and Hate

  My fantasy of escaping to the misty moors of Jane Eyre while soaking in a hot, sudsy
bubble bath evaporates the moment that I pull into my driveway.

  I lean forward over the wheel, watching my house's blurry silhouette through the raindrops splattering on the windshield.

  Something feels...wrong.

  Maybe I'm just projecting, or absorbing the gloomy atmosphere. Dark storm clouds are hanging over the edge of the horizon, and the rain is falling silently, steadily. With an unaccountable dread, I slump out of Colonel Mustard and shut the car door. It thuds dully, and the rain thuds dully, too, on the top of my head: thud, thud, thud. My feet feel heavier and heavier with each step, as if they're urging me to stop, turn around, go back...

  Just as I'm putting my key into the lock, the front door of my house opens beneath my hand.

  And Mia's standing on the other side.

  I freeze.

  “Mia.”

  I wouldn't be more shocked if a ghost suddenly materialized before me. Mia is the last person I expected to see right here, right now. The last person I wanted to see, given my state of mind.

  She stares at me with wide, dark eyes surrounded by darker circles. “Hi,” she says shortly, stepping back and gesturing toward the room behind her. “Come on in.”

  “What are you doing here?” My voice is icier than I intended, icier than I feel. “I mean, your car isn't in the driveway. How did you—” I begin, but Mia shakes her head, moves further back into the shadows of the house.

  She looks agitated, haunted. Her long brown hair is drawn up into a messy bun. She's usually neat, even vain about her physical appearance. And I've never seen her wear a collared, button-down shirt before. This one is oversize, and the sleeves are rolled up to her elbows. The sight reminds me of those girls in high school who strutted through the hallways wearing their boyfriends' too-big varsity jackets.

  I draw in a deep breath, and my stomach churns inside of me as I wonder—how can I help but wonder?—if the shirt Mia is wearing belongs to Drew Yarrow.

  She doesn't kiss me, greet me. Doesn't speak at all. Impatient, she grabs my arm, and, instead of pulling me into the house, she yanks me back outside, beneath the silvery, pouring rain.

  And her gaze is pointed very, well, pointedly toward Lare's house.

  Oh, God...

  I wrap my arms around my middle and bow my head, bracing myself. Raindrops slide over the bridge of my nose and drip from the tip of it, plinking softly to the ground below. Cold water streams over my lowered lids.

  “Do you know who's living next door to you?” Mia asks, voice knife sharp. She's staring at me now, her eyes wide, wild, and growing wider and wilder as she waits for me to answer.

  I stand my ground, lift my chin, my own words colder than the iceberg that sank the Titanic, and with the same cutting edge. “Yes. I know Valeria Máille. She's a customer of mine—”

  “A customer?”

  Okay, I expected Mia to be pissed—given her new anti-vampire lifestyle.

  But I didn't expect her to explode.

  “Are you kidding me, Courtney?” she snarls, her narrow face paling as her lips draw back to reveal a row of very white, very human teeth. “She's a monster, and you're saying she bought books from you, that you let her come into your shop? How could you allow that thing to get anywhere near you and your employees?”

  As I gape at her in horror, stunned to silence, her face smooths. The lines on her forehead are gone; the frown is replaced with a neutral curve. This instant calm seems even more unsettling than her angry outburst. I take a step back.

  “Listen to me, Courtney.” Her tone is low, even, and sinister. I've never heard Mia speak this way before, or look this way—so tense, as if she's on the verge of violence. “You can't associate with her anymore. You can't. In any way. It's as simple as that,” she says firmly, darkly, her eyes flashing with an unfamiliar light. “You can't be linked to the vampire agenda.”

  I remain still, wordless, for several seconds. The ground feels as if it's tilting beneath my feet, as if it might give way at any moment. I press fingers to my temple and force out, “Did you honestly just say vampire agenda?”

  My body has gone cold. Disbelieving, I grit my teeth together, stare hard into her unflinching eyes. “Tell me, Mia,” I say, unable to keep the bitterness out of my voice, “are those Drew's exact words, or did you do a little creative revision of your own?”

  Mia snarls again—actually snarls—and moves nearer, her hands curling into fists at her sides. We stand before one another, facing off, and I can't think, can't react, can't do anything but marvel over this change, this metamorphosis. Mia is acting like a completely different person, like a junkie in need of a fix.

  I don't know who she is. She's a stranger.

  My girlfriend has become a stranger to me.

  My mind whirls and my heart stutters in my chest, but I refuse to back down. I won't look away. And, finally, Mia relents, because that's what Mia does. Her yielding gives me a small flare of hope—not for our relationship but for Mia's well-being. A portion of the old Mia is still inside of her, though Drew has worked something supernatural, reinventing her in such a short amount of time...

  I watch mutely as Mia turns on her heel and, with an exaggerated sigh, marches back into my house. I follow her to my kitchen, where she grabs her purse off of the counter and stomps toward me with a huff.

  “We're done,” Mia snaps, inches away from my face. Then, without another word, she runs back outside.

  “Wait—” Groaning in frustration, I follow her into the rain again. The storm is at its peak, with wind rattling through the gutters. “Mia—”

  “Look, I didn't come here to argue. I just wanted to give you these.” She digs around in her purse for a moment; then she pulls out a large stack of papers. Glossy brochures. “I thought you could put them out with the free newspapers in your bookstore.”

  I almost take the stack from her, simply to put an end to this painful encounter, but then I realize what the brochures are, and my arm recoils: SANG fliers. She's shoving SANG fliers at me, and in clear view of Lare's house.

  The enemy is very real and all around us is printed in bold typeface on the front of the fliers, along with a purposefully insulting photograph of a man wearing white face paint. Blood dribbles over his chin from comically oversized fangs.

  I can't hide my disgust. Still, Mia wags the brochures at me, urging me to take them, despite the fact that they're now floppy and soaked.

  I try to keep my voice steady as I say, in a clear, tight voice, “I will never distribute SANG literature in my bookstore. SANG is a hate group. Mia, I think you've been brainwashed—”

  “Brainwashed?” She stares at me with saucer-wide eyes, deeply startled, as if I've just announced the impossible, that I'm from the planet Neptune, or that I've suddenly realized I'm straight. “They haven't brainwashed me,” she says, with a small laugh of conviction. “God, if anything, they've opened my eyes!” Her cheeks are pale, and her hair is drenched. I notice now, too, that she appears as if she's lost some weight. She looks like a ghost of her former self. “Courtney, Billy was killed by a vampire. You know that.”

  “Billy...” I breathe out.

  Billy was Mia's brother. Two years ago, he walked into a convenience store at the wrong time, during a robbery, and he was shot and killed by a perpetrator who turned out to be a vampire.

  I inhale and exhale several times, gathering my thoughts and softening my tone. “Mia, your brother was killed by a criminal. I'm sorry for your loss. You know I am. I know you and Billy were close. But isn't it very obvious to you that you can't blame all vampires for the actions of a single one? You can't be this narrow-minded.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut as Mia's face begins to crumple. I want to reach for her, comfort her, but she feels so far away from me, worlds away.

  “Mia,” I continue quietly, “I...I'm sorry Billy died. But you have to realize that the vampire who killed him doesn't represent every vampire, or any vampire. He and he alone was responsible for his actions.”<
br />
  A tear streaks down Mia's face, disappearing in the rain, as she sighs, draws back her shoulders, and curtly nods her head. “Drew told me you would say that,” she whispers, eyes shining with a gleam that makes me, reflexively, shiver. “Last night, when she and I were...talking—”

  I wince at her emphasis of the word.

  “—she told me that you wouldn't understand. That I shouldn't even try to explain anything to you. But I'm not going to give up, Courtney,” says Mia, her eyes still fervent, afire. “I want you to see the truth. I want us to be together in this. Because it's right, Courtney. I swear to you, it is.” She claims my hand with her cold, clammy fingers, but I slip free from her and draw away.

  “No.” My heart aches in time with the thunderclap cracking overhead. “We will never agree about this.”

  “But—”

  “No, Mia.”

  She stares at me through the rain, her lips softly parted, her gaze dimming as their hopeful shine, moment by moment, fades.

  There's nothing left for either of us to say.

  I gulp down a breath of cold air, turn around slowly, and walking back toward my house.

  I don't expect her to call out for me.

  And she doesn't.

  Sodden and miserable, I walk through the front door, shutting it and locking it behind me.

  There's the sound of a car swishing up to the curb a few minutes later, and when I draw back the curtain to look out through the window, Mia is gone.

  ---

  It's been a slow week. And a difficult one.

  I haven't heard from Mia since our awful conversation in the rain. I keep replaying the scene, hearing her insist upon a “vampire agenda” while pointing at the house next door like the judge probably pointed at the unfairly accused women of Salem.

  I can't bring myself to call Mia after what happened.