The Vampire Next Door

by Natalie Vivien

  I cast a glance to Drew. She's facing away from us now, speaking in a low voice with the press, who are holding their microphones or voice recorders out to her while she smiles widely, graciously, into the lone video camera.

  “That vampire and his shrewish cohort, as you just saw, were verbally and physically attacking me,” Drew announces to the camera crew, oozing an oily, lawyerly charm. “They're as undomesticated as wild animals. Clearly a threat to the safety of this city.”

  “What did you say?” Sharon starts with a snarl, but Marcus and I close our hands over her arms, simultaneously shaking our heads.

  “Come on, Sharon,” I mutter. “We have to get out of here. Away from them.”

  Sharon gives me a sour look, but then she sighs and nods. “Okay. Yeah, we're done. The police have our statements. The questioning took forever, because Marcus is a vampire.” She rolls her eyes. “A fact which the cops brought up exactly eleven billion times...”

  The three of us stalk past Drew, who smiles broadly as she talks on to the news reporters about the “vampire agenda.” I stifle my fury, though I feel like an atomic bomb three seconds away from exploding. How could anyone take that woman seriously? Can't they see the eerie, unnatural glint in her eyes?

  We really need to go outside, as far away from the police station—and, more specifically, Drew Yarrow—as possible.

  But before we reach the door, I suffer a moment of weakness: I glance back for one last look at Mia. Her arms are locked around Drew's neck, tightly, desperately, as if Drew is her flotation device in an angry, stormy sea.

  Suddenly, I'm compelled to turn around fully, to stop in my tracks, though I'm not sure why. I just can't stop staring at Mia's arms, Mia's hands. Mia's fingers...stained bright blue.

  “Hey, I thought we were leaving,” Sharon calls out to me. She's holding open the door with one hand, and Marcus is already waiting on the steps outside, ducking his head so that the SANG protesters won't catch sight of his telltale eyes or teeth.

  “Coming,” I say automatically. My mind reels as I follow my sister and her boyfriend into the sun. I feel numb, stunned, mute. I unlock Lare's car, and after we pile onto the seats, after I turn on the engine, the stuck gears in my brain come loose, creak, begin to turn again. What I saw and what I know finally click into place.

  Mia's fingers were blue.

  The words spray-painted on Lare's house were blue.

  Is it possible? Could Mia have vandalized Lare's house? Would she have done something like that, something so stupid, so reckless, so motivated by blind hatred? And, if she did spray-paint those words, what the hell could they possibly mean?

  “Hey, when'd you get a new car?” Sharon asks, yanking me back to the present moment.

  “Um...” I cough into my hand; my voice is hoarse with emotion. “It's not mine. It's Lare's,” I tell her, casting her a glance. Sharon stares at me blankly, so I clear my throat and say, “Remember? The woman I was telling you about?”

  She's still staring, uncertain. Well, Sharon did have a long night, didn't get any sleep, so I smile slightly and shake my head, try again, “The vampire next door?”

  “O-o-o-o-oh.” An expression of satisfaction breaks out over Sharon's face, and then she exchanges a look with Marcus, who's sitting behind her in the backseat. Sharon flops tiredly against the plush headrest and tosses a smile at me. “That's great, Court. I'm happy for you.”

  “Thanks, but...” I trail off, too tired to explain that Lare and I aren't exactly a couple. Not yet. I don't even have the energy to come to terms with the fact that the woman I was in a relationship with for four months has become someone else entirely, someone unrecognizable. Cheating is bad enough, but if Mia vandalized Lare's house, she's a perfect stranger to me, a person I never knew, and never want to know.

  Whenever I blink, the image of Drew Yarrow's mouth on Mia's mouth flashes behind my closed lids, as if it's burned there. But, I'm encouraged to note, this isn't heartache I'm feeling.

  It's cool, calm anger.

  Drew and Mia—they're perfect for one another. Partners in hate.

  We peel away from the police station, and Sharon brandishes her middle fingers to the SANG protesters as we leave them in our dust.

  Chapter Nine: Falling into Silver

  “And you want to know what the worst part is, Court?”

  I smile weakly at my sister as I hand over the cup of tea that I just brewed for her. It's one of Lare's teas, a blend called Victor Hugo—a complex black tea with notes of bergamot, lavender, and vanilla. Lare left a few packets of it on the kitchen counter with a handwritten note: Sweets for the sweet. Right away, I tucked the note into my jeans pocket; now I blush to imagine Lare writing it for me.

  There was another note beside it, though, more hastily scribbled: Lare informing me that she'd been forced to return to her house due to “police business,” begging me not to worry—and, anyway, it was good timing, she said, because Van Helsing was “overdue for his lunch.”

  To be honest, I breathed a sigh of relief when I came home to an empty house. I needed time to process my revelation about Mia, to figure out how to explain to Lare that I suspected my ex-girlfriend had vandalized her property.

  “There's a worst part?” I ask Sharon glumly, as I sit down in a chair with my own mug of tea.

  Sharon is seated beside Marcus, who lies sprawled on my couch, his head resting against the throw pillow behind him. He stares owl-eyed up at the ceiling, as if he hasn't relaxed in days; his features are wan with exhaustion.

  In contrast to her boyfriend's blank, silvered gaze, Sharon's eyes are wild, agitated. A little crazed. She keeps raking her hand through her black hair while crossing and uncrossing her black-stockinged legs.

  She's in rage mode again.

  “Of course there's a worst part. Because if there were enough solid evidence against her, Drew would have to be held—no bail, no get-out-of-jail free card. But there isn't enough evidence, so of course the police are going to let her go, as free as a bird.” Sharon flaps her hands like wings. “Or...a harpy.” She pauses to blow on her tea. Then a dark smile slides over her face. “But VampWatch will keep an eye on her. We're not going to let that lunatic kidnap anybody else.”

  “Sharon.” My stomach tightens. I stare at my sister for a long moment, heedless of the steaming mug burning my fingertips. “What do you mean, anybody else?”

  She lifts her chin, green eyes flashing. “I have reason to believe that Drew is up to something. I haven't figured it out yet. But when I do, the woman is going down.”

  I clear my throat, shifting uncomfortably. “Okay. Keeping an eye on Drew is important, but I think we all know that it's not enough. I mean, why isn't there enough evidence to hold her? You said that you saw her talking to Marta right before Marta was nearly kidnapped, right?”

  “I did, but it's my word against hers. Drew denied ever speaking to Marta. And since there is, unfortunately, documented proof at the police station of my disgust toward SANG, my word doesn't count for all that much in this case. Too much bias. Plus,” she adds, nudging Marcus with her hip, “I have a vampire fiance, and, as you know, the police don't look too kindly on our vampire friends.” Sharon drinks down her tea in a single gulp and then shakes her head. “I just wish my eyes were equipped with surveillance cameras so that I could play back what I saw.”

  “You know, that's not the first time you've had that wish,” says Marcus sleepily, flashing her a soft, suggestive smile.

  And, despite everything, my sister smiles back at him.

  There. Right there. That's how I know that Sharon and Marcus are meant to be together. No matter what's happening, no matter what type of predicament they find themselves in, good or bad, Marcus can always get my sister to soften, to step back, take a look at the bigger picture, and Sharon can do the same for him. Let's face it: it isn't every day that someone comes along who can soothe you in your darkest moments.

  As I gaze at the two of them and sip
my tea, my thoughts gradually drift toward Lare. I've only known Lare for a short while, true, but when I think about her, butterflies tickle my stomach, and I can't help but blush, smile, glow. There is, somehow, inexplicably, this bright, shining connection between the two of us, a bond that seems to grow stronger every time we interact.

  The very first moment that I saw Valeria Máille, something stirred inside of me. Her spirit drew mine like a moth to the flame.

  Watching Marcus and Sharon now, I wonder if I could ever have what they have, or if I'll make another wrong decision, like the one I made to trust Mia...

  But then I think about Lare—her warmth, her passion, the way she makes me feel, the way she feels in my arms—and I don't wonder anymore.

  “—right, Courtney?”

  I glance up, surprised. “What?” Then I smile self-consciously. “Sorry, Sharon. I'm not used to going to rock concerts, and I didn't get much sleep last night. There's been...a lot of excitement around here. So, hey...” I straighten, rise, taking Sharon's empty teacup from her. “I think we're due for some of my famous spaghetti. Are you hungry?”

  Sharon smiles fondly at me, then shakes her head. “I'm sorry, sis. It's not that I don't want your famous spaghetti. It's just been such a rough night. Day. Whatever. We didn't get a wink of sleep, and my stomach is too upset to digest anything right now. I think we're going to head home. I texted one of our roomies to come pick us up.” She pats her pocket, where her phone resides. “So can I have a rain check on the p'sketti?”

  “Sure.”

  Sharon and Marcus stand up, and then I hug my sister tightly, holding her as close as I can. “These are strange days, aren't they, kiddo?” I sigh. “The only thing we can do is keep fighting for what we believe in. And it'll all come up roses in the end.”

  “Dad used to say something like that,” says Sharon, stepping back and offering me a soft smile. “You going to be okay? That graffiti next door looks pretty threatening.”

  Sharon and Marcus had noticed the vandalism on Lare's house front the moment we pulled into my driveway, so I had no choice but to tell them what I knew about the crime. I tried to downplay it, though; the two of them have enough to worry about.

  “Yeah, I'm fine.” My throat feels tight, constricted. The word fine tastes like a lie. “Hey, Marcus, make sure she eats later, all right? And, Sharon—” I gaze into her eyes and shake my head. “Promise me that you'll get some rest.”

  “Scout's honor.” She holds up her first two fingers with a wink.

  Sharon and Marcus go outside to wait for their ride; a minute later, I hear a car horn honk, and Sharon shouts, “Later, Court!” before tires screech away.

  The house, without them, feels oddly lonely.

  I seek out Colette, who's claimed the back of the couch since our guests are gone. Her whiskers pucker in a stately kitty frown, as if to let me know that she hasn't forgiven me yet for the atrocity of inviting Van Helsing into our house.

  I scratch her back and win a begrudging purr as I stare through the front window.

  It's a lazy Saturday afternoon, and I have nothing planned, nothing to do. Normally, I cherish these sorts of slow, obligation-less days, but now, knowing that Lare is next door, I feel drawn to her. I long for her company.

  And, more importantly than that, I'm worried about her. I haven't seen her since this morning; she's had to deal with prejudiced policemen all day long.

  So I give Colette some wet food as a peace offering before I venture outdoors and trudge across the lawn. After a moment's hesitation, I knock on Lare's door.

  And Lare answers on the second knock, as if she were expecting me.

  She draws the door open, her silver-blue eyes softening as she gazes at my face. “Beautiful timing, as always.” Lare's lips move into a warm, welcoming smile. Then she nods her head toward the road. “Would you like to take a walk with me? Van Helsing has been begging for one ever since we came home. And if he doesn't have his daily walk, he becomes a bit surly.”

  I glance at Van Helsing, sprawled on the hallway carpet as if he's superglued himself to it, his chin pillowed on his paws, his eyes closed. He's snoring softly.

  I chuckle. “Surly? Really?”

  “Well... Maybe not surly so much as fluffier in the belly.” Lare plucks Van Helsing's leash from the hook by the doorway.

  But even when he hears the jingle of the clip on the leash, Van Helsing remains, unmoving, on the floor. Still, a single ear flicks, and he opens his bleary eyes to stare up at his mistress.

  “Come on, Helly,” says Lare invitingly, waving the leash in front of his large nose. “Up for a constitutional?”

  Van Helsing groans a little, as if to say, “Not really,” but then he rises, shaking himself, jowls flapping against the side of his head. He ambles toward the door, reluctant but good-natured enough to humor us.

  “That's my boy,” says Lare, clipping the leash onto his collar. Then we all slip out into the afternoon sunshine.

  I can't help side-eyeing the graffiti on the house as we move across Lare's lawn. Now that I suspect Mia committed the vandalism, I examine the blue penmanship carefully—and deduct, with a sinking sensation, that the handwriting does resemble Mia's wide, looping scrawl.

  I tug nervously at the bun at the back of my neck and then shove my hands into my jeans pockets. “Lare,” I begin, clearing my throat. “I...I may know—or at least, I have a good guess—still, it's just a guess—um, as to who might have spray-painted your house. I...think.”

  Lare raises a brow at me. “Okay. Who do you think it might have been? Anyone I know?” She guides Helly across the street, and I keep pace by her side.

  “I...” I pause, drawing in a deep breath. “I think it was my ex, Mia Foster. She could have come here after our run-in at the concert. She knows where you live.”

  Lare is silent, tugging slow, heavy-footed Helly gently behind her. “Why do you think it was her?” she asks finally, staring ahead, working her jaw.

  “A couple of things. When I picked Sharon and Marcus up from the station, Drew Yarrow was there, too.” I wince. “And Mia was with her. With blue paint on her fingertips.”

  “Blue...” Lare considers this for a moment, silver eyes wide. Then she exhales and shakes her head of coppery waves. “It doesn't make sense. What does I know what you did mean? Mia doesn't know me, doesn't know...” But then she blinks, glances at me, her expression heartachingly sad. “Do you think Mia suspected that you and I...” Her voice trails off, but she doesn't need to finish her sentence. The truth is, I've been wondering the same thing.

  By I know what you did, was Mia referring to Lare's relationship with me, insinuating that we were sleeping together?

  I shake my head firmly, swallowing the lump in my throat. “It's possible. Though it does seem extreme, even for Mia. And insanely hypocritical.” I kick a clump of loose dirt with the toe of my shoe. “But I guess Drew has brought out the extremist in her.”

  Lare walks quietly for several paces, hanging her head in a perfect imitation of the big, lumbering dog beside her. Helly's head is ducked down toward the sidewalk, as if he's more interested in the grass growing between the cracks than the expansive world shimmering around him.

  “I didn't mean to complicate things for you, Courtney.”

  I look to Lare in surprise. “Complicate?”

  “Well, if it weren't for me—”

  “No, Lare. No.” I squint up into the sun, searching for the right words. “You haven't complicated anything. In fact, you've made things...very simple.”

  We pause, facing one another, and Lare reaches out for my hand.

  “I'm a perfectionist, you know.” I smile self-deprecatingly. “I try to fit everything in my life into neat little compartments—labeled, alphabetized. So, I have a job—check. A house—check. Never mind that I'm in danger of losing both of those things due to poor sales at the shop. At least I have them, right?”

  Lare grazes her thumb over the back of my hand
, listening.

  I feel raw, vulnerable, and I never allowed myself to be raw and vulnerable with Mia, or any other romantic partner. But I'm learning that it's safe to reveal myself to Lare, to tell her the whole truth. So I take another shaky breath. And I go deeper, my voice cracking: “That's what you're supposed to have, a job and a house...and a partner. And so I had one of those, too. Mia.”

  Lare's eyes shift between crystal blue and mirrored silver, soft and shining as she gazes at me, as if she's trying to see all of me, down to my core.

  “Mia,” I whisper, flinching at the name, “didn't pierce my soul or make me feel ardent admiration or any Austenian thing like that. But I liked her company, was attracted to her. So I figured that must mean that I loved her...” I meet Lare's thoughtful stare. “I didn't, though.”

  “You didn't?” Her red brows arch.

  “No. I didn't know what love felt like. I had no clue.” I draw in a gulp of thick, humid air. “I wanted what Jane and Rochester have, that string thing—where they feel as if they're bound together by shared destiny, by mutual passion. I wanted it... But I didn't believe I'd ever find it.” I stare into the depths of her silver eyes; they're bottomless, forever. I hold her hand tighter, screw up my courage, and say, “I didn't believe I'd find it, Lare. Until I met you.”

  Lare's eyes grow larger, gentler. They gleam like polished metal, glinting with flecks of sunlight. She lets go of my hand to curl her fingers around my waist. The distance between us closes; we're pressing against one another, holding one another. Then Lare leans forward and kisses me.

  She kisses me as if we live in a world where hatred is a fairy tale.

  She kisses me as if it's the first kiss that ever was, as if, by kissing each other, we're creating something new, something that will alter the universe as we know it.

  It certainly alters me.

  Lare breaks the kiss and drinks me in with silver eyes that are darkened with bare longing. I feel desire stoked within me, too, flaring as she grips my hip with her strong, practiced fingers.