by Molly Harper
The black vehicle with its heavily tinted windows was driven by a friendly, recently turned brunette named Miranda Puckett, who kept up a steady stream of conversation with Jane for the long drive. Mostly funny stories about an extremely uptight vampire named Collin whom Miranda appeared to be dating. I didn’t think Jane intended to ignore me, but it sounded like she and Miranda hadn’t caught up in a while.
Miranda drove us through a tunnel that seemed to go on for miles, until we finally emerged into the inky dark of Kentucky in October. Just before Ophelia had been “urged away” by the goon squad, she’d pulled me aside and told me that no matter how stupid or complicated things seemed at Jane’s, I needed to make my placement there work. I wasn’t sure what she meant by that, but since she didn’t follow it up with some sort of hyperbolic threat, I knew she was serious.
“Otherwise, you could end up staying in one of the Council’s holding cells,” she’d said. “You do not want to end up in one of the Council’s holding cells.”
With that piece of helpful advice echoing in my head, I leaned back against the headrest and stared out the window. The trees slipped past, melting into one giant dark shape. Headlights from other cars zoomed by. I blinked as headlights and the stuttering white of the center line became one long, syncopated pattern, flash dark flash dark flash dark.
All of the stress and worry of the last few hours seemed to drain out of me. I relaxed against the seat, from my toes to the top of my head. My eyes strained to keep up with the moving shapes in the distance.
Dark shapes. Dark shapes moving in front of my eyelids. I am lying in a small, dark box, with the hum of an engine nearby. I can’t move, but that doesn’t seem wrong. I’m not scared. Just tired. A familiar voice. I can hear someone talking and laughing, but that voice is muffled. It is nice, though, to hear something I recognize nearby as I bump along through black emptiness.
And suddenly, cold hands were shaking my shoulders. Screaming, I swung my fist and felt my knuckles collide with a cool, soft surface.
“Ow!”
My vision shifted into focus, and I was back in Miranda’s car. Jane was hovering over me, one hand shaking my shoulder and the other cradling her nose.
“You punched me. In my face.” She groaned, backing out through the car door. “In terms of trying to get into my good graces, that’s an interesting strategy.”
“I’m so sorry!” I cried.
“Sadly, this isn’t the first time I’ve been punched in the face,” she said, yanking her nose to the left with a crack, setting the cartilage. She shuddered. “It is the first time I’ve been punched by an unconscious person, which is more humiliating than I thought it would be.”
“I wasn’t unconscious,” I told her. “I wasn’t asleep. That was some sort of weird road hypnosis, like a creepy daydream I couldn’t escape. I’ve never done that before. Also, I don’t usually punch people in the face.”
“Are you someone who is easily hypnotized?” she asked, eyebrow arched. “Because I’ve run into that before, and no good comes of it. Only crying werewolf brides and visits to Precious Moments hell.”
“Was I supposed to understand that?” I asked.
“Not really. Well, we’re here,” she said, sweeping her hand to the house looming behind her in the purpling light of predawn. “Let’s get inside before the sun makes us burst into flames, shall we? That would be a bad way to start off.”
Jane’s house had a name, River Oaks. How fancy was that? It was one of those old houses that wasn’t quite movie-ready but looked cozy enough with its fieldstone walls and wide front porch. Even through the brightly lit windows, I could see that the inside was fully modern. Jane and her husband, Gabriel, had clearly sunk some serious money into renovations.
“Gabriel and Dick took Georgie to a gaming tournament in Murphy,” Jane said as Miranda opened the back hatch of the SUV. “It amuses her to see the smirks melt off the faces of college students when a girl who looks to be eight years old beats their asses at ‘Call of Duty.’ Also, she enjoys counting the cash prize in front of them. For that extra touch of demoralization.”
Miranda handed me my luggage while Jane opened the hidey-hole and lifted Ben’s limp body into her arms with very little effort. Ben looked so still and pale with his head resting against Jane’s shoulder. He could have been sleeping.
How angry was he going to be with me when he woke up? I’d known the guy for less than two days, but somehow the idea of him waking up pissed off at me made my chest constrict. Boys definitely didn’t date girls who bit them. Hell, I knew some guys who wouldn’t tolerate girls with funny-looking pinkie toes.
So yeah, I’d taken that sweet baby beginning of a possible relationship with Ben, bitten it, and killed it. I forced myself to look away.
“Jane!” Miranda called. “I’ve got to get going. Collin gets all grumpy if I don’t tuck him in.”
“Gross!” Jane yelled back. I somehow expected that to wake Ben up. But it didn’t. “Come into the shop for coffee this week!”
“Will do!” Miranda slammed the car door and sped down the tree-lined driveway.
“ ‘Tucking in’ doesn’t really mean tucking in, does it?”
“No, it does not,” Jane assured me.
“So who’s Dick? Does he live here, too?”
“Sometimes I think so.” Jane snorted as she entered a pass code into the keypad by the door. The massive oak door swung open and revealed an airy, brightly lit foyer flanked by a wide varnished-oak staircase. A large vase of sunflowers took up most of the space on a little round table under a small chandelier. I could see a large dining room off to the left with a huge antique table. That struck me as a little odd, since vampires didn’t eat, but I supposed there were creepier options in terms of vampire décor. The parlor to the right was cozier and done in warmer gold tones. The blue denim couches on either side of the fireplace looked well used. Despite being fancier than any place I’d ever lived, this house had definitely been lived in.
I heard the scratching of claws over wood and tensed. I whirled toward the noise, fangs dropped, just in time to see a muddy-brown blur streak around the corner.
“Meagan, don’t.”
All I could make out were big brown eyes, fur, and a lolling tongue. And slobber. So much slobber. The shape crashed into me, almost knocking me to the ground, while I scrambled under its weight.
And then the slobber was on my face.
“Aw, what the hell?” I exclaimed while the huge dog-type creature in my arms licked my face. It was the ugliest animal I’d ever seen, with fur the color of shower mold and these weird flaps that covered its eyes. “What is this?”
“That is my dog, Fitz,” Jane said.
“No, dogs are cute and sweet and do what you tell them to,” I told her. “That’s why people like them better than cats, right?”
“Have you ever had a dog?” she asked.
I shook my head. Very few of my foster homes had dogs, and in those that did, it was very clear that the dog belonged to the family, not me.
Jane said, “Well, just put him down and tell him no. If you do it often enough, he might figure it out.”
I plopped Fitz carefully on the floor. “You smell, and I don’t like tongue baths,” I told him. Fitz tilted his head up, letting his eye folds fall back so he could stare at me. Then he threw his tongue out again and licked my face.
“Ahhh!” I yelped, making gagging noises as I wiped my face.
Jane led the way upstairs, again carrying Ben like he weighed nothing. Fitz followed us, sniffing at my heels. “No, Dick’s more of a best friend–colleague hybrid. He and his wife, Andrea, work at my shop, and Dick and I both serve on the local Council. Dick works more behind the scenes, because that’s where he’s most comfortable. And less prosecutable.”
“That sounds . . . enmeshed.”
�
�You’re not wrong.”
Ben was laid to rest, so to speak, in the guest room two doors down from the one that would be my own. Jane set him down on the big brass bed and pulled a blue-and-white log-cabin quilt up to his chin. There was something distinctly maternal about the way she brushed his hair back from his forehead. And then she hit a button that brought two heavy-duty metal shutters sliding over the windows with a distinct click, which read more Bond villain than mom.
In terms of random guest rooms I’d been assigned to, mine wasn’t the ugliest I’d ever slept in. That title belonged to a basement rec-room-turned-bedroom that was wallpapered in green shag carpet. These walls were painted a light purple. The bed was wide, topped with a fluffy white duvet and throw pillows in different shades of purple. There was a neat desk next to the window that during night hours allowed me a beautiful view of the garden behind Jane’s house.
The room did have the highest rate of unicorn infestation of any room I’d ever slept in. Shelf upon shelf was filled with unicorn figurines—glass, pewter, brass, crystal, cheap ceramic, and I think one was made from smashed-up bits of other unicorn figurines. It was a Frankencorn. I could feel their beady little eyes following me around the room as I counted them. (Forty-two. Who has forty-two unicorns in their house, much less in one room?) I was going to have to turn all of them around before I went to sleep in here.
Jane must have spotted my horrified expression, because she said, “Yeah, I collected unicorns growing up, mostly from assorted relatives who were unaware that I was not perpetually five years old and a wannabe fairy princess.”
“How long were you ‘collecting’?” I asked.
“My uncle Corky gave me a unicorn-shaped candy dish for a wedding present.”
I shuddered.
“Believe it or not, this is the best of my collection. I threw the rest out.”
“Wow. If I stare too long at them, will they devour my soul?” I asked her.
She frowned at me.
I shrugged. “It’s a fair question.”
“The sun will be up in about an hour,” she said. “I recommend getting into bed and being ready to be unconscious for twelve hours, because it should hit you pretty hard.”
I shook my head. “I’m not tired. But I can just read or something. You did stick some of my books in my bag, right?”
Jane smirked at me, like I’d just said something really stupid. Probably because most kids my age had an iPad, and I was reading paper books like a broke jerk. “Suit yourself. Do you feel like you need to feed?”
“I think I’m OK, which is a little weird, because I didn’t really drink that much from Ben.”
“I’ll bring you something as soon as you rise. And if you’re not up yet when I come in, I’ll leave a bottle on the warmer next to your bed, in case you wake up thirsty again.”
I glanced at my nightstand, which did indeed have a one-bottle warmer, like something you’d use to heat formula bottles, next to my Moonrise alarm clock. Jane was a very considerate hostess/jailer.
“Which reminds me, do you think you’re going to prefer bottled blood or live feeding from a human donor for most of your feedings? And I’m asking you this without a hint of judgment, because I really need to know in order to make the right arrangements.”
I shuddered, remembering the sensation of my teeth sinking through Ben’s skin. “You know, I think I’ll stick to bottled for . . . ever.”
“Fair enough,” she said. “Get settled in. We’ll talk more when you wake up.”
I nodded.
“Fitz, get off the bed,” she commanded. The dog whimpered but rolled off the quilt and reluctantly joined her at the door.
Jane reached toward the light switch and pressed the button that brought down my own sunproof shades, shutting out my view of the garden. I shivered, feeling oddly claustrophobic, as if she’d shut my coffin lid. Jane gave me a little smile and closed the door. Fitz continued to sniff and scratch at the door from the hall but eventually gave up when Jane called him away.
I scrubbed my hands over my face. While Jane was a bit friendlier than she had been when I rose, things still felt pretty awkward with her. That whole “I hope we get along, but I think there’s a very real possibility you’ll try to make meth in my guest bathroom” vibe brought back unpleasant memories that weren’t exactly helped by the sight of my blue suitcase at the foot of my bed.
A contrary, almost petty part of my personality wanted to put off unpacking, just to prove I didn’t need Jane or her unicorn-ridden guest room. I didn’t need her generosity or her stupid bottle warmer. Hell, I could put off even opening the damn suitcase and just flop down onto the bed in what I was wearing.
But then I remembered that I’d basically murdered Ben in those pajamas.
Nope. Nope. Nope.
I slid open the zipper, splitting the faded, slightly dirtied canvas down the middle. I let my hands probe among the familiar clothes until I found my My Little Pony pajama bottoms and a pink tank top. I changed quickly, throwing my dirty clothes into the hamper Jane had provided. I wondered what the laundry situation would be here. I’d gotten used to being responsible for just my own clothes while I was in school. I wasn’t looking forward to being regarded as live-in part-time help, if that was how Jane planned on making me earn my keep, but I would do it and not complain. I figured I was skating on pretty thin ice anyway.
Frowning, I reached for the suitcase lid, and my own neat block printing caught my eye. Inside the lid, in black Sharpie, I’d written the names of the seven foster families I’d lived with over the years. A lot of foster kids I knew did something like it, keeping track of the names somewhere they couldn’t be spotted easily. One girl I knew wrote them on the inside of the butt of her jeans, an indirect way of telling her foster parents to kiss her ass. It was like a monument to ourselves, reminding us that we were badass, that no matter what life threw at us, it was just another entry on the list until we aged out and could control our own lives. But on the other hand, it was also a warning not to get too comfy where we were, that our situation could change overnight. And if we got too attached to the family we were living with, it would be that much harder to pack up and leave.
It took me a while to learn this lesson. I’d been crazy about the first family I was placed with, a really sweet couple in their late thirties named Tom and Susan. They painted my room a sunny yellow and let me pick out my own bedspread as a “welcome home” gift. Susan took me shopping for my first pair of real high heels, and Tom made blueberry pancakes on Sundays.
I’d hoped that I’d won some sort of foster-care lottery, finding the perfect adoptive family on my first try and riding out my three years with them until I turned eighteen. But two months after my placement, I was moved to another home for reasons I never quite understood. My social worker, a nice woman who always seemed to be rumpled and running late, couldn’t be bothered to explain it to me. Also, she sometimes called me Melanie.
There seemed to be very little logic to when and why I was moved, but it happened enough that I eventually stopped forming attachments. I was polite. I did any chores I was asked to do and rarely broke the house rules. But I didn’t join in Family Game Night with the Richardsons. I voluntarily went to the weekend respite-care home to avoid camping with the Freemans. With the other families, I generally stayed in my room and studied like hell so I qualified for scholarships.
But I supposed I was lucky. You heard so many horror stories about teenagers in the foster-care system. My foster families didn’t abuse me. They didn’t spend the money the state gave them on lottery tickets and cigarettes. But I didn’t exactly form lifelong loving relationships, either. I got shipped from one house to the other every couple of months, toting my things along with me in the same Chiquita banana box and old battered blue suitcase. For some reason, it was important to me to keep that same box, that same suitcase, in my close
t, so I was always ready to go. It didn’t feel like they were tossing me out if I was ready to go.
My decent grades and my heart-wrenching story were enough to qualify me for several college scholarships. The rest I made up for in loans. And I even managed to get into the new vampire-friendly dorm. The campus became my home. The friends I made there became my family. No one could take them from me.
Holidays were the worst. There was nowhere safe to hide from movies, commercials, magazines that reminded me that other people were preparing to spend quality time with their loved ones, while I was scrambling to find somewhere to stay when the dorms closed. Last year, Keagan took me home with her, but it was so awkward. Half of her family tried too hard to make me welcome, and the other half asked me weird, pressing questions about where my parents were and why I wasn’t with them.
Summers were better. I was able to get grants to take classes during the break, and that included campus housing. Which was why I was getting ready to graduate a year early—at least, that was before my sternum got crushed by a barbell weight.
This was not how my life was supposed to turn out. I came from a happy home. My parents loved each other. Hell, they had planned me. And then I was brought up by a single mother who never once made me feel like a burden, despite the fact that she’d had to raise me alone from the moment my father died in Afghanistan. Mom was a hard worker, no-nonsense. She taught me how to make a mean banana bread and how to change my own oil, how to balance a checkbook and how to achieve a perfect smoky eye look.
Unfortunately, Mom passed away when I was fifteen. That was how people preferred that I say it. My mother didn’t die suddenly in a head-on collision after falling asleep behind the wheel on the way home from her second job. She “passed away.” It seemed like a ridiculously gentle way to put it.
I was supposed to have not a perfect life but a smooth one. I was supposed to be convincing my dad that there was a boy on planet Earth good enough for me to date. I was supposed to be worrying about how not to hurt my parents’ feelings while explaining that I couldn’t come home to visit every weekend. I was supposed to have people back home who cared whether I was turned into a vampire after a tragic Ultimate Frisbee accident.