Legally Undead

by Margo Bond Collins

  With a final burst of speed I didn’t know I had in me, I rounded the corner into a pool of light. And ran smack into a man walking out the door.

  I think “bowled him over” might be an accurate description. He’d been carrying a stack of books, and they went flying everywhere as he and I went down. I think I skidded across him and rolled to a stop—I know I ended up flat on my back on the concrete apron in front of the door, staring up at the sky, just in time to see Greg do some complicated flip over me.

  Again, the best comparison I have is to a cat, the way that they flip around in the air and still manage to land on their feet. Vampire-Greg landed on all fours, one knee on the ground, about five feet away from me.

  I twisted around and had just enough time to register that he was dressed all in black and that his eyes were also all black—no whites anywhere—before he hissed that awful hiss again, and was gone.

  Just like that. I didn’t see him get up, didn’t see him move away. He was just gone.

  It was a good thing, too. I don’t think I could have stood up if I’d tried, and I certainly couldn’t have run any farther. And my letter opener was under a tree somewhere behind me.

  I sank back to the ground and put my hands over my face, groaning. It’s never easy to see an ex for the first time after you’ve broken up. Seeing an ex for the first time after he’s been turned into a bloodthirsty evil creature of the night is possibly even less easy. Especially if he pulls you into a tree. Then chases you.

  “Um. Hey. Are you okay?” The voice came from somewhere above me. I spread my fingers wide and opened my eyes to peer between them.

  The guy I’d flattened was standing over me, looking concerned.

  And no wonder. I was wearing athletic shoes, jeans, and a lacy black bra. I had Vampire-Greg’s blood—black and foul-smelling—smeared down one arm, and I suspected I had my own blood welling out of my back where he had grabbed me. My jeans were ripped, my hands and knees were skinned, and I had dirt smudged across my hands, my face, my torso. I was a mess.

  And for one insane moment, I was intensely grateful I’d chosen to wear my nice bra that day. God forbid someone should see me running for my life in a tatty bra. I giggled a little wildly.

  The guy frowned and knelt down beside me. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath to choke off any impending hysteria.

  “Yeah. I’m okay. I think,” I said.

  “Who was that guy?”

  “Um. I don’t know.” Well, that was true enough. I didn’t know him anymore. He certainly wasn’t the man I had agreed to marry. That guy wouldn’t lurk about in trees and chase me across campus.

  “Did he hurt you?”

  “Not much. No.” I reached behind and touched the scratches on my back. My fingers came away with only a little blood—the scratches hadn’t been too deep.

  He held out his hand and I took it. Shakily, I worked my way to my feet. I was shivering.

  “Here. Take my jacket.” He wrapped it around me and pulled out a cell phone. “I’m going to call 911.”

  “No!” I almost shouted, and he looked at me as though I’d lost my mind. I thought quickly. “I… I just want to go home. I couldn’t really tell the police anything, anyway.”

  “Let me at least call campus security. They can make a police report if they want to.”

  I could tell that I wasn’t going to get out of this without making some kind of report—and when I thought about it, I realized that thinking some crazed maniac was attacking women on campus might actually make security beef up patrols. That might make the campus a safer place for everyone.

  When the security guards showed up half an hour later, I was glad that the guy’s jacket covered up the blood on my arm; that would almost certainly have meant a trip to the police station. I told them as little as possible, but stuck to the truth: some creep dressed in black had grabbed me by the shirt, I’d wiggled out of it, and I’d run. Then this guy had appeared and my attacker had fled. They asked where he had grabbed me.

  “Right beside the library, just as I came out,” I lied. What else could I say? From a tree. I was on the sidewalk on the other side of the fence. He was in the branches. Right.

  I gave them my name and my phone number, and when they pressed, I gave them my address. I didn’t want to, especially not with a stranger standing next to me. I didn’t trust anyone at night, not even someone who was willing to step in to help a screaming shirtless woman. Even if he was, I suddenly realized, beautiful. Classically beautiful. Model beautiful. Stop-your-breathin-your-throat beautiful.

  I shook my head to clear it and tried to focus on the conversation.

  I listened carefully when Mr. Beautiful gave the cops his information. His name was Malcolm Owens, and he was a Ph.D. student in the math department. He lived on the other side of campus. I hoped he was telling the truth and wasn’t connected to Vampire-Greg. I hoped his presence was sheer accident.

  When they were done talking to us, the security guards offered to take me to a hospital, and when I refused, to escort me home. I hesitated, then accepted. I was too tired to worry about whether or not Fordham’s security force was in league with vampires. I told Malcolm Owens that I’d drop the jacket off at the math department the next day. He nodded, and I left with the security guards.

  *

  Back in my apartment, I stepped into the tub, turned on the shower, and scrubbed at the gunk on my arm. It rinsed away, and vanilla-scented soap took away the smell of rotten meat, but I kept wiping at it as if perhaps it had penetrated deep into my skin.

  I’ve got to think about this logically, I told myself sternly as I wrapped my terrycloth robe around me and curled up on the mattress. Millie came over and sat down on my hip. I stroked her silky back and tried to consider the attack calmly. It worked, for the most part. I ignored the occasional murmur in the back of my mind that told me there was nothing logical or rational about my fiancé becoming a vampire.

  I’d gone about this all wrong, I realized. I should have waited for Nick to return my call. I’d gone to the library to learn about vampires, but I already knew about vampires. We all do, really—what is there to know besides they’ll suck your blood, they’ll kill you, they’re evil? Oh, and a stake to the heart will kill them.

  But now my undead ex-fiancé was hunting me—not just any available meal, but me, specifically. I needed to find out about the vampires who had changed Greg, not just vampires in general. I mean, I had half expected Vampire-Greg to come after me in some sick vampirey version of Stalker Ex-Boyfriend. But tonight’s attack had still come as a complete shock. I needed to quit thinking of Greg as my fiancé, once again ignoring the part of me that knew it wasn’t going to be that easy. I stabbed him with a letter opener and he barely flinched, I reminded that part of me. He’s definitely a monster.

  I rolled over onto my back and stared at the ceiling, still thinking. Vampire-Greg might be the end result of my problem, but what was the beginning? The law firm. And that brought me back to Nick. He worked for the law firm, had a contact there who had known that Greg was going to be attacked that night. Nick was the place to start. My new phone was on the floor right next to the cross Nick had given me. I picked up the phone and found his number.

  This time he answered. “Nick here.”

  “Hi, Nick. It’s Elle Dupree.”

  “Hey, Elle. What’s up?”

  “I need to talk to you. About Greg. He attacked me tonight on campus. I got away, but I need to know more, because he’s after me now.” I felt—and sounded—strangely detached as I spoke.

  “Oh.” Nick was silent for a moment. “Not on the phone, okay? I’ll meet you tomorrow. In the city.”

  He named a restaurant on Union Square and we agreed to meet for lunch the next day—easy enough to do as it was a Thursday, one of my no-classes days. I stayed awake a long time that night, questions swirling through my head: who had tipped Nick off to the vampire attack? Why? How had the contact known what was coming? Wha
t did Vampire-Greg want with me? What did vampires have to do with a Manhattan law firm? Or, perhaps more importantly, what did a Manhattan law firm have to do with vampires?

  Three hours later I sat straight up in bed. The letter opener, I thought frantically. It was still somewhere under the tree.

  Chapter 3

  I was woken up early the next morning by the sun streaming into my windows.

  I didn’t feel like moving, but I decided to face the day. I was determined to start a new life—one in which I was safe from Vampire-Greg.

  I turned over, ready to spring out of bed, and instead rolled up into a groaning ball. I hurt all over. Every single muscle. My arms felt like they’d been pulled halfway out of their sockets. My neck was stiff, my calves felt like they were contracting up into my stomach somewhere. The sheets scraped against my battered knees like sandpaper.

  From now on, I vowed, I was going to hit the gym every single day. If I was really going to continue to live, I needed to be able to get away from vampires that attacked me, and that meant being able to move. Quickly. And reliably. If I couldn’t trust my body not to go into the fetal position when I tried to move it, I wouldn’t survive long.

  I managed to drag myself out of bed and pull on sweatpants and a t-shirt, though. I walked slowly to the tree Greg had grabbed me from and stared up into the branches. It was a warm enough day, but I shivered. I started combing the grass around the tree, trying to remember where the letter opener had landed.

  A bloody letter opener with my fingerprints all over it might not be the best thing to leave lying around on campus for anyone to find and turn in. I’d watched enough true crime shows on television to know what the forensic guys could figure out with evidence like that.

  Of course, I don’t know if the forensic guys could figure out “vampire” with evidence like that. But I was actually more afraid of them drawing other conclusions, like “murder weapon” or even just “violent attack,” and then attaching those conclusions to me in any way.

  I couldn’t find the letter opener. Naturally. That would have been too easy. Bad enough I had to fret about my vampire ex jumping out of trees and trying to eat me. Now I had to torment myself with the idea of life in prison for fighting off my vampire ex who jumped out of trees and tried to eat me.

  Weird didn’t even begin to describe it.

  I trudged back to my apartment, muscles aching.

  I felt better after I’d dragged myself through a hot shower. I spent an hour in the basement laundry room washing and drying the windbreaker-style jacket Malcolm Owens had loaned me—it seemed rude to return it with vampire ooze all down the inside of one sleeve. It was only 9:00 by then, and most grad students don’t make it to campus that early unless they have class, so I knew that my chances of running into Malcolm were slim. After breakfast at the local diner, I headed to the math department to return the jacket. Just like I had said I would. Of course, the possibility of seeing him again—this time in broad daylight with the sun shining full on him and him not bursting into vampire-induced flames—didn’t hurt, either. It would be nice to be sure he wasn’t a vampire.

  The math department was open when I got there. I wrote a quick note thanking Malcolm for his help and left the jacket with the secretary. As I walked down the hall toward the exit, though, Malcolm himself jogged up behind me.

  “Hey. Wait up!”

  I paused briefly, barely giving him time to catch up with me before moving on. “I left your jacket in the main office,” I said. “Thanks for letting me borrow it.”

  “No problem. How are you feeling today?”

  “Fine. A little sore, but mostly okay.” I put my hand on the door and walked out into the daylight. Malcolm followed me, and I silently sent up a thankful little prayer as the sunlight washed over him.

  “Listen. I couldn’t stop thinking about last night,” Malcolm said. “And the thing is… that was really weird, you know? I mean, I saw the guy jump over you, and then he was just gone. I didn’t see him leave or anything. Don’t you think that’s weird?”

  “Um. I dunno. Maybe you were in shock or something?” I did not need this. I had enough on my mind without having to try to convince some random pretty boy that he hadn’t seen anything bizarre when he clearly had. “Maybe he left when you weren’t looking? Things got pretty hectic. And, you know, I’m sure he didn’t want to stick around until the police got there.”

  “Maybe.” Malcolm looked unconvinced—he had a little furrow between his eyebrows as he thought.

  “Look, I’ve gotta go—maybe we could talk about this later? I’ve got a train to catch.” I inched away from him.

  “Really? I’m headed to the station, too.” He followed me.

  With a mental sigh of resignation, I fell into step next to him.

  “Okay,” he said. So the guy grabbed your shirt, right? And you got out of it—and got all bloody, somehow—and took off running. Then you bumped into me, and he jumped over us. And then—”

  “Look. I’m sorry, but I really don’t want to relive last night, okay? It was kind of traumatic.” I knew I sounded peevish, but I needed him to quit talking about it. And thinking about it, for that matter.

  Malcolm looked like I’d slapped him—first horrified, then miserable. “Oh, geez. I’m really, really sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. I just have this thing—I have to figure everything out. My mother always says it’s why I’m a mathematician. I need to know how things work. I didn’t mean to upset you. I was just trying to figure out what happened.”

  I shook my head. “No. That’s fine. It was just awful and I want to forget it ever happened.”

  By that time we’d reached the train station. I bought a ticket to Grand Central from the automated machine and turned to Malcolm. “Where are you headed?”

  “Westchester—up to New Rochelle.” He bought his ticket and we stood there in awkward silence for a moment. I cast around for something to say.

  Finally I said, “Well, thanks again for the jacket. See you around.”

  I was halfway down the stairs to the train platform before he caught up with me.

  “Let me make it up to you,” he said. “Let me buy you dinner sometime, or a drink or something. I promise I won’t bring up what happened last night.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I’ve kind of got a lot going on right now… and I just got out of a relationship.…” The trite phrases—so ludicrous given what had ended that relationship—almost made me want to laugh. Or maybe cry. I wasn’t sure which.

  “Hey. No problem.” He scrabbled in his bookbag and pulled out a scrap of paper and a pen. “Here’s my number. If you change your mind, call me.”

  He jogged up the stairs and turned around at the top, grinning. “Call me!” With a wave, he was gone.

  I was still shaking my head as I boarded the train. My bloodsucking fiend vampire of an ex was hunting me. The last thing I needed was to drag someone else into this. Malcolm seemed like a nice guy. I didn’t want to disrupt his happy little mathematician’s life.

  Still, I folded the scrap of paper with his number on it in half and tucked it into my purse.

  *

  I had one errand to run before meeting Nick at Union Square, and I didn’t think it would take long.

  Little did I know how difficult it would be to find a wooden letter opener to replace the one I’d lost the night before. Lucky for me I had several hours before our lunch meeting.

  I started at the Staples Office Supply store at Fifth Avenue and 44th Street. The only letter openers they had were either plain metal or electric. Who needs an electric letter opener? At any rate, neither of those alternatives were any good for killing vampires, so I had to widen my search.

  In the gift shops on Times Square, I found stainless steel letter openers with Statue of Liberty handles and brass letter openers with lovely wooden handles carved with the words “New York City.” The Barnes and Noble on Fifth Avenue didn’t have any letter openers at a
ll.

  With an hour and a half to go before I was supposed to meet Nick, I grabbed a taxi and headed to Chinatown. Surely somewhere in the piles of junk there I could find what I was looking for.

  I didn’t, of course. What I did find on the second floor of a two-story emporium on Mott Street, however, were some lovely wooden chopsticks. With very pointy ends. The small Asian man who had led me to them looked a little startled when I started testing the points of all the chopsticks against my palm. He earnestly assured me, in broken English, that the points didn’t matter when eating with chopsticks. He even demonstrated the proper use of chopsticks to illustrate his point. I smiled and nodded, then went on testing the points. He shook his head in irritation and muttered to himself in Chinese when I chose the sharpest of the bunch and bought three pairs of them. I didn’t mind him thinking I was a stupid American tourist if it meant I had heart-impaling chopsticks when I left the store.

  I made it to Union Square with fifteen minutes to spare. Nick was already waiting for me when I walked into the restaurant simply labeled “The Coffeehouse.”

  The restaurant was much hipper than the ones I tended to frequent. The servers were all tall and willowy, an impression heightened by the all-black uniforms they wore. Most of them sported tattoos and many had nose-rings. Our waitress seemed irritated that she had to wait on us at all.

  I picked up the menu that was waiting for me. Most of the food on it was Brazilian. More hipness. I ordered something saladesque. When the waitress left, I leaned over the table toward Nick.

  “So,” I said. “Like I said on the phone, Greg attacked me last night. On campus.” I told him the whole story, lowering my voice to a whisper when I noticed the couple next to us staring.

  When I got to the part about Malcolm, Nick stopped me. “Did he see Greg?”