The Vampire Next Door

by Natalie Vivien

  “Oh. I...I have to go. I'll...call you.” Mia steps forward, tries to wrap her arms around me, tries to bring me close enough to kiss. Her face is tilted up toward mine, and her lips are parted, waiting...

  I take a firm step backward, shaking my head. “No,” I tell her quietly, my voice thick with sobs. “No. We're done, Mia. It's over.”

  “Over?” My ex-girlfriend's brown eyes flood with tears, and I'm suddenly seized by the urge to hug her, to comfort her, even though I'm the one causing her to feel this pain. But I can't hug her. I can't be soft, vulnerable.

  I have to break the cycle, or we'll just keep hurting each other, over and over again.

  So I stand my ground, imagining myself a statue—immobile, unfeeling—though I'm acutely aware of the aching cavity in my chest, a black hole where my heart used to beat.

  And then Mia is shaking her head, too, and she whirls around, away from me, running off in the direction of the parking lot.

  I feel as if all of the air has been forced out of my lungs. I start to hyperventilate, bending over at the waist, drawing in deep swallows of cool air. From the corner of my eye, one last hot tear falls, streaking its way over my raw, reddened cheek.

  And then Lare's there. Lare. I feel her beside me, soundless, wordless. I feel her like a warmth, like a guiding star. She curls her long fingers around my elbow, drawing me up and gazing at me with her impossible silver eyes. In the neon glow cast by the stage lights, her eyes look electric, full of glimmering sparks.

  “I'm sorry,” she murmurs, her voice as soft as her expression.

  I nod resignedly. “You heard.”

  “I heard.” She inhales through her nose, staring intensely into my eyes. “Should I go? Am I complicating things for you—”

  “No, no,” I say quickly, raking a tired hand through my hair. “This... None of this has anything to do with you.” I breathe in and breathe out and try to smile. It's a weak attempt, but Lare's mouth curves slightly in response. And then I take another deep breath and slip my hand into hers, feeling her warm palm pressed against mine. It's...comforting. It feels right.

  “Come on,” I sigh. “Let's go bang our heads or crowd-surf or...stand in the back with the other old people and tap our feet, listening politely.”

  Lare's smile widens, and as we face one another, she lifts her hand; slowly, softly, she wipes the stray tear from my cheek. “You have eyes like forests, Courtney,” Lare whispers, her voice husky, her eyes brimming with something unspoken. “I think you can be wild, when you want to be. Oui?”

  My heart—which, only a moment ago, had felt insubstantial, nonexistent—beats triple time in reply to Lare's words. I swallow and then laugh self-deprecatingly. “Oh, no, I'm not wild. Unless, by wild, you mean staying up past eleven on a work night to finish reading Jane Eyre.”

  Lare raises a brow, lowers her voice, and then, as if in a dream, she whispers to me, “You, Jane, I must have you for my own—entirely my own.”

  I stare at her, lips parted, heart thundering, chest constricted as desire blazes, reborn phoenix-like inside of me.

  Lare just quoted my favorite line from my favorite book. A line she knew by heart.

  She smiles disarmingly, tilting her coppery head to one side. “Believe it not,” she says, her brow still raised, “I played Mr. Rochester in a stage production of Jane Eyre at my women's college...once upon a time. I was quite fond of the cravat.”

  “...oh.”

  I'm so surprised, so flustered that I go into Robo Courtney mode, automatically following Lare as we move toward the line and then hand our tickets over to the bouncer at the gate. We make our way through the crowd inside of the Dome itself, trying to find—i.e. shove our way into—a place in the audience.

  “Do you enjoy acting?” I shout to Lare over the music; the floor beneath our feet is shaking.

  She laughs, bringing her lips close to my ear. “No, but some friends of mine dared me to audition for the part. And I never turn down a dare.”

  Despite the strobing lights and the ear-splitting music, I pause in the flow of hot, pushing bodies, feeling a time-out-of-time moment as I meet Lare's gaze. She's returning my stare meaningfully, and then she inclines her face toward mine, brushing her mouth against my ear. “I never turn down a dare,” she repeats, and I can hear the smile, the dare, in her voice. “For future reference.”

  Suddenly, the music that has been booming all around us stops—for a long, drawn-out moment. Someone shouts indecipherable words into a microphone, and then, just as unexpectedly, the music starts up again, but there's a different vibe to the melody, something fresher, wilder. The crowd erupts into frantic, delighted screaming.

  In all honesty, I'm only peripherally aware of the shifting waves of sound, but I'm all too aware of Lare's nearness, her scent, her thigh hot against mine. We're still holding hands, and every so often, Lare caresses the back of my hand with her thumb, invoking lightning bolts of longing within me.

  We've positioned ourselves several feet away from the stage, but I recognize Azure the instant she struts out in front of the crowd—purple-mohawked and drop-dead gorgeous in a black-sequined jumpsuit—and that's when I shake my head, command myself to be here, now, to pay attention.

  “That's her, isn't it?” Lare asks excitedly. “Azure?”

  I nod my head. “Yeah, the acts must be running late. We got here just in time.”

  Lare lifts a brow, whispers, “Fate,” into my ear—and I inhale deeply, staring at my reflection in her mirrored eyes.

  Azure grabs the microphone with rock-star confidence, and when she belts out the first verse of her first song—a classic called The Straight White Male's Lament; JK, LOL—the concertgoers cheer, jumping up and down and waving their hands above their heads. Caught up in the adrenaline rush, I scream my heart out for Azure as she dances, moonwalks—she tried to teach me how to moonwalk once...once—and sings until she nearly goes hoarse.

  She's incredible on stage. Charismatic, sexy, funny... As her best friend, I'm biased, granted—but I'm hardly her only fan. There are women throwing phone numbers and bras onto the stage, and a bouncer has to physically restrain a young lady from climbing over the speakers to fling herself at Azure, though she keeps screaming, “I love you!” even as she's dragged away upside-down.

  Lare appreciates the music, too. She's bouncing on the balls of her feet, whistling through her fingers. She looks odd, different, and it takes me a moment to realize that she looks different to me because—in this moment, at least—she isn't worried about anything.

  She's simply happy.

  And she looks radiant when she's happy, like a luminous, red-haired angel in a Botticelli painting, no cares in the world.

  I make a vow, then and there, to try my best to inspire this state of happiness for her whenever I have the opportunity. The tension that she's been experiencing for the past couple of weeks has taken too high of a toll.

  After the concert, and after we drive to my house, with the explosively loud music still ringing in my ears, Lare eases her car into my driveway, her bumper braking just behind Colonel Mustard. She leans back in her seat, tilting her head toward me with a warm smile.

  “Thank you for tonight, Courtney,” she says softly, drawing me in with those shining eyes. “I really needed something like that.” Her voice is hoarse.

  I shake my head with a small smile. “Don't thank me. I needed it, too.” I lick my lips as I hold Lare's gaze. One of her arms is pillowed beneath her head, and her stare smolders as she regards me, indulgently, lazily, her eyes raking over my length with slow, bare appreciation.

  Maybe I'm still hyped up on the energy of the concert. Maybe the now-confirmed fact that Mia cheated on me has finally sunk in, settled like a old rubber boot on the bottom of the sea, and ceased kicking me in the gut with every breath I take. Maybe the way that Lare is studying me, the way that the silver in her eyes catches the moonlight, is making me feel wild, fairy-charmed, enchanted.

 
I surprise myself by leaning across the space between us. Again, I place my hand on Lare's thigh, but this time—we both know—my gesture isn't one of comfort. I trace my fingertips lightly over the fabric of her pants, holding her gaze as her mouth opens, as she softly inhales. Her heat radiates into my palm, igniting something inside of me.

  Everything within me aches for Lare. She makes me feel wonder and excitement and raw, real desire.

  I can't deny this anymore.

  So, impulsively, breathlessly, I brush my mouth against hers.

  As far as kisses go, it's light, barely there. A question of a kiss. “Do you want this, too?” my lips ask, their contact feather-light.

  I want her to want it.

  And—thank God—she does.

  Lare wraps her arms around my shoulders, and the gear shift presses against my hip as our mouths crash together. I feel her sharp teeth on my lips, my tongue. Suddenly, I'm all heat, all longing. Lare's fingers curl into my hair, her arms tighten around me, and we dedicate ourselves to this kiss—one kiss, single, hungry, endless.

  My hand cups her cheek, and then I trace her jaw, gliding my fingertips along the side of her warm neck, her skin so soft, so hot.

  When we part hours, minutes, or seconds later, I'm panting. Lare's eyes are dark with desire as she gazes at me. She studies me for a moment, one brow raised, and then she flicks her flashing eyes toward her house.

  “Would you like to go inside and—” she begins, but her last word is clipped; she falls silent. She's staring at something, and—eyes wide—she closes her mouth, straightens her shoulders.

  I follow her gaze.

  No.

  No, no, no.

  And just like that, the memory of our kiss begins to fade, replaced by a sight that I can hardly make sense of. I blink at it as I sit in my seat—in shock, speechless, wringing my hands, shaking my head.

  Vandalism. On the front of Lare's house, the words I know what you did are spray-painted in bright, jagged blue paint. Whoever did this stood, brazen, on Lare's lawn and scrawled the words in plain sight, where anyone might have seen—any neighbor, any passerby. Anyone could have seen, and someone probably did see, and no one stopped it from happening. No one stood up for Lare.

  “Oh, my God,” I whisper, as Lare and I reach for our door handles at the same time and climb out of the car, walking over to her driveway to stare at the ugly graffiti with our mouths hanging open. We're silent, dumbstruck.

  I know what you did? What the hell could that mean?

  Lare takes a deep breath and fists her hands on her hips, jaw set, her eyes solid mirrors beneath the glow of the streetlamps.

  “Lare.” I thread my fingers through hers, squeezing her hand gently.

  She gazes at me with a distant, hollow gaze. “It's... It's all right. Don't trouble yourself, Courtney. This isn't a big deal. Only...a small one.” Her voice is gruff. She sighs and rakes a hand through her long, red hair. Suddenly, she looks weary, lifeless, not at all like the vibrant, passionate woman who was kissing me in the car a moment ago. “I must call the police,” she says, pulling her phone from the back pocket of her pants. “No,” she pauses, narrowing her brows. “First I have to make certain that Helly is okay, that they didn't break into the house—”

  “I'll call the police, Lare. Don't worry about that. You go check on Van Helsing.”

  She offers me a grateful half-smile, the most she can muster, I assume, at this point in time. “Thank you.”

  I begin to dial the police station as Lare unlocks her front door, and I follow her inside with the phone pressed to my ear. She tries to wave me back, but I shake my head, doggedly persisting her. Because what if the vandal is still here? There's a slim chance that he or she would be stupid enough to stick around, but just in case, I don't want Lare to confront an intruder alone.

  My stomach twists as I listen to the phone ring. I think about the kidnappings from Give Life Technologies. I think about the people who hate vampires, who want them demeaned, punished, dead. I think about the fact that Lare isn't safe, and that I don't know how to protect her.

  “Hello?” I say, when a bored-sounding policeman picks up my call.

  “How can I help you, ma'am?” he drawls into the receiver, making wet, slurping sounds. He must be drinking something. Coffee, most likely, given the late hour. “What's going on?” His voice is young, sleepy.

  “My...” I stop, tongue-tied, uncertain as to what I should call Lare. “My friend Lare's house has just been vandalized,” I say into the receiver, wincing. I take a deep breath, soldier on: “She's a vampire, and someone spray-painted the front of her house.”

  “Vampire, eh?” the guy snorts.

  I grit my teeth, squeeze the phone, realizing, too late, that I shouldn't have mentioned the word vampire at all.

  “Look, her house has been vandalized. Could you send someone to—”

  “Lady, we're real busy here tonight.” He makes a show of yawning loudly, and I can almost hear him rolling his eyes. “We can get a squad car over there in the morning.”

  “The morning?” I blink, then glare at the phone for a moment, trying to suppress my anger. I'm standing in the lamplight of the living room; Lare has moved into the kitchen, where I can hear her speaking softly to her dog. “But what if she's in danger? What if—” I swallow, wide-eyed, disbelieving. “Would you send a car out tonight if it were a human's house that had been vandalized?”

  “Eh... Dunno. Maybe yes, maybe no. Like I said, it's a busy night.” His tone is simpering; I think he's actually smiling. “Just gimme the details, and we'll be out first thing in the A.M., okey-dokey?”

  I answer his questions through clenched teeth and manage to keep my temper in check, but when I hang up the phone, the injustice, the absence of decency, of kindness, of empathy spikes my blood pressure sky high. My body is coursing with adrenaline—from the vandalism, from the kiss. I grip my temples.

  This is all too much.

  “Look,” I tell Lare, who's kneeling on the floor in her kitchen and gently massaging the area behind Van Helsing's ears. He's sitting before her with a dopey dog smile, thumping his tail against the tiled floor. “It isn't safe for you to stay here tonight.”

  She regards me with haunted silver-blue eyes.

  I exhale heavily, dropping my phone back into my purse. Then I crouch down next to her and rest a hand on her shoulder. “Lare, something terrible could happen if you stay here. What if the vandal comes back? The police refuse to do anything until morning.” I press my lips together, hard, breathing out through my nose.

  “Because I'm a vampire, right?” Her mouth curves softly, bitterly. “That's why they won't come right now?”

  I bow my head.

  “I heard you on the phone,” she says, with a small, sad smile. “I'm sorry. I should have warned you not to say anything about—” She shakes her head, staring down at Helly with a forlorn expression. Her hair drifts from her shoulder, obscuring her face. “The police in this city aren't disposed to serve and protect people like me.”

  My heart constricts in my chest, and I can feel tears gathering at the corners of my eyes. “But that's so unfair—”

  “It's all right, Courtney,” she tells me soothingly, wrapping her arms around me in a warm embrace. I hug her back, holding her tight against me.

  “It's not all right. God, I'm so sorry. I wish there was something I could do.” My cheek against her shoulder, I take a deep breath, inhaling Lare's sweet perfume.

  “Being here with me now is enough, more than enough,” she whispers, pressing her lips to my forehead. We remain in that position for a long moment, tiredly supporting one another, reluctant to let go. The rhythm of her heartbeat calms me, and I find myself breathing easier, relaxing slightly. My head begins to clear.

  “Please,” I say then, hoarsely, sitting up and searching her face. “Stay with me tonight. Not for...not for any other reason than that I want to make certain you're safe,” I finish weakly. I swallow t
he lump in my throat and await her answer.

  After a moment's consideration, Lare nods. She looks drained, exhausted. “That's kind of you. Thank you, Courtney.”

  “Good. It's settled. Come on, Helly,” I tell the big dog, gathering his leash from the floor, where it lay coiled. We walk quietly together through the living room, and then, after Lare locks her front door, the vampire, Saint Bernard and I make the short trek to my house.

  I rummage around in my drawers until I find my most comfortable pair of pajamas—the ones covered in sepia illustrations of books—and lend them to Lare, who considers them with a quiet, tired grace, a soft smile, and simply says, “Merci.”

  “Sure. Um, you can head upstairs to the bathroom to change, freshen up...”

  “Okay.” Lare nods and aims for the steps.

  To feel useful, I look after Van Helsing, setting him up in his own room—my guest bedroom. I fill a mixing bowl with water and carry it up the stairs, placing it beside him. He laps at it for a moment; then he wags his tail, gazing up at me in adoration. I tug the comforter off of the bed and spread it out on the floor. He snuffles it appreciatively, pawing at its folds until he's satisfied by the messy configuration. Then he flops down with a sigh.

  The door is open, and Colette, who has never met a dog in her life, fluffs up to ten times her normal size at sight of our new, very large animal guest. Her tail is puffed out like a bottle brush, and the fur on her back is standing up in a straight line. And yet, despite the fact that she obviously loathes Van Helsing's presence, Colette dashes into the room and darts under the guest bed.

  Cat logic.

  “Why?” I moan, crouching down to peer under the mattress. “Colette, you crazy cat, you just ran into the same room as the animal you're terrified of,” I remind her in soft, soothing tones. I've always believed that Colette understands human speech, but, if she does possess that superpower, she isn't putting it to use now. Instead, she's yowling and staring at Van Helsing's paws as if they're locked-and-loaded weapons of mass destruction.

  I sigh again, rising up to a kneel and half-collapsing onto the bed. I'm too tired to deal with this. But if I don't get my panicked Colette out of this room, she's probably going to need therapy. And poor Helly will definitely need therapy.