by Ash Krafton
"Didn't I tell you?" I lightened my voice. "Before I moved out here, I got chased after work on a regular basis. I think I shook him now, though. I don't come out through the foyer anymore since I started parking next door."
Rodrian looked as if my news had pushed him over the line between concerned father and protective barbarian. "Why didn't you say something sooner? I'd have given you a guard! We could have gotten him!"
"Rode..." I shook my head. "It went on for weeks, long before I got your letter."
His anger faded into a puzzled look. "But why didn't you call me?"
I shrugged and looked away. "Same reason why you didn't call me, I guess."
"Aw, Sophie..." His voice was a strained combination of worry and frustration. "All that time... you were in trouble and I was too self-consumed to notice."
He scooted closer and wrapped me in a hug. "I'll always take care of you, Sophie, I promise. And you must promise to tell me everything. Are you being followed now?"
I shook my head and made a small negative sound. I'd closed my eyes and rested my chin on his shoulder. The simple touch made me feel valuable again, reaffirmed, validated.
"Okay. The first sign of trouble, you call me." He released me, stroking my shoulders as he pulled away. His eyes gently warmed with his hazel glow. "You mean too much to me. I don't want anything to happen to you."
"Thanks, Rode," I whispered. A small tear moistened the laugh lines I'd managed to develop, despite not having laughed much lately. "It means a lot."
"It's not nearly what you deserve. Not even close." He rose hastily and rubbed his palms down over his pant legs. "I'm going to check in on her before I go. Caen is pulling up the bistro's surveillance and I told him I'd be back to review it. Can you handle her tonight?"
"We'll be fine," I assured him. Dahlia planned on coming over to watch a movie. She'd provide the perfect distraction. "Kisses to Caen."
"How about, no? He'd only take it the wrong way."
"He should, the bastard."
"There you go, getting all sentimental again." He stooped to kiss me on the cheek. "I'll see you tomorrow."
I heard his dress shoes tapping on the tiled stairs and listened as his steps faded down the hall. After a few moments, I got up and headed upstairs to change. No one saw me lay my hand over my cheek, hiding the blush that warmed it.
Dahlia arrived soon after Rodrian went back to town and I got the obligatory tour out of the way. She was like me—more accustomed to simple living but not above admiring splendor.
I could tally up the people whom I consider dear friends on one hand. I had a best friend from high school with whom I traded occasional notes on Facebook; I had Barb who, despite being my supervisor, had become my closest confidant on every aspect of my life except the supernatural; I once had Jared, whom I count even though he's gone, because I still talk to him in my head when I'm lonely; and I had Dahlia, the DV who took care of me even when I didn't realize I needed the care.
Maybe two hands, now that I had Rodrian and Shiloh back.
Dahlia would never be what I'd consider typical DV, if there could ever be such a thing. For one thing, she's a vegetarian. Strange but hilariously true. I kind of assumed that someone who needs to consume blood to survive would be all into the meat experience but, no. She won't even eat fish. Eating with her can be a challenge sometimes but I always took a little comfort in her vow to eat nothing with eyes.
I have eyes. I like the security of our relationship.
Dahlia also has a cute little flip of an accent when she speaks English. It's like she curls around every word she says. She told me she was born in Puerto Rico but left when she was still a child. One day, I'll ask her when she was born. However, she's dropped so many casual references to historic events that I'm worried I won't be comfortable with the answer.
Despite my suspicions that she was old enough to have seen the Civil War, Dahlia appeared to be a young Latina, late-twenties at the most, with long curly hair that made me drool with jealousy, and brown eyes that would glow bluish-purple when her DV power surged. She worked as a social worker and loved violent movies. I admit I didn't get her, but I adored her and valued our friendship. She was everything I wasn't but she liked me in spite of it.
Halfway down the hallway toward my rooms she declared herself "not nosy enough" to gawk at my bedroom. I noticed she did a little shiver-and-chills shake of her head when she said it. Good manners prevented me from pressing further although I really wanted to know more about those wards.
By the time we worked our way to the tri-suite, Shiloh had regained most of her composure and agreed to tag along with us to the movie rental store for some nostalgia, located in a strip mall fifteen minutes away. Mini-mart, gas station, movie rental, cell phone dealer, and frozen yogurt/bagel shop. All the necessities of modern life, minus The Shoe Department.
"I don't get it. Where do they come up with this crap?" Looking up at a poster in the window, Dahlia wrinkled her nose. It was a promo for a vampire series that was soon to be released on video. "It's completely ridiculous."
"I don't know," said Shiloh. "He's pretty hot if you ask me."
"Not the guy, the whole vampire thing. Who came up with it? Don't people have better things to do than to romanticize death?" Dahlia looked at me, seeming to expect an answer.
I shrugged and made a yeah, stupid people, what do they know kind of face. Who was I to talk, anyway? Up until fairly recently, I thought mainstream vampire lore was pretty much as romantic as romantic got, what with the Victorian-style clothing and the eternal love/undying passion themes. Hanging out with the DV came as close to going through the looking glass as a girl could get without bleeding to death. My ideas concerning vampires were drastically different these days, thanks to my lovely experiences with them.
"I don't know why you get so bent out of shape, anyway." Shiloh held the door open for us. "My dad said that we're the ones that keep the farce going, to keep us a secret. You know." She deepened her voice to mimic Rodrian's. "Protecting our interests and all."
"As long as it seems made up, it may as well be, right? It's just stupid. If people really knew what vampires were, they'd stop with the love stories."
"Been going to DAVE again, Dally?" Shiloh said.
"Who's Dave?" I asked.
"Not who, what. D-A-V-E," Dahlia spelled out. "It's an organization. Demivampires Against Vampire Evolution."
"It's PETA for the undead," Shiloh clarified.
"As if." Dahlia sniffed and tugged her fluffy vest down with an indignant snap. "We're an advocacy group that promotes the maintenance of DV values and lifestyle through education and awareness. We, as Demivampire, are a privileged society and as such we have certain responsibilities."
I thought it sounded snobby but I didn't say as much. "Awareness? Like, anti-vampire pep rallies? Movie boycotts and book burnings?"
Shiloh snorted. "That's good. I have to remember that."
"No," Dahlia said patiently. "Although there are different target audiences, our biggest focus group is the adolescent demographic. If we can instill the proper frame of mind in our young, they'll continue growing with the right values."
"Yep, brainwash 'em early on," said Shiloh.
"I don't get you, either." Dahlia wheeled around to face her. "You're Marek's niece!"
The sound of his name made me flinch. I stiffened as if I'd been pinched on the ass by an old man. Shiloh, completely unfazed, stared her down. "So? I didn't plan that."
"No, but don't you think that you've got a duty to promote what you know is right?"
"What does Marek have to do with this?" I said.
"He's the founder," said Dahlia.
"Yeah, and he's also, like, a gazillion years old." Shiloh rolled her eyes with the practiced ease of the under 18. "What does he know about kids? Look, Dally, I totally agree with the whole Vampire Is Bad campaign, okay? My family had its share of turners and, trust me, I hear about it all the time. But you guys are l
ike Nazis. You won't stop until every DV teen on the planet goosesteps to your drumbeat. Educate the kids, that's fine. But you can't make choices for them."
"We do educate," Dahlia shot back. "Kids don't listen. You guys think you know everything, but you're still just kids. You need an older, wiser person telling you the truth. Someone who's been through it."
I slipped away to look over the new releases, since I didn't want to be associated with the "older, wiser" reference. I suppose it was silly, since Dahlia'd probably been in Girl Scouts with my grandma.
"Well then, start by giving us someone who's actually been through it, instead of some old guy who read a self-help book about it."
Yikes! Definitely wanted distance from the old reference now. I spied a historical romance on Queen Elizabeth that I'd seen advertised and picked up the DVD case before continuing down the wall.
"Shiloh, you're awful defensive," Dahlia said warily. "Is there something you want to talk about?"
"Great gods, no." She pushed the movie case she'd been holding into a vacant space on the shelf. "I don't use. I know kids who do but I don't. But you know, stuff like this makes me think maybe I should, just so I'd deserve the lecture for once."
She turned on her heel and stormed out, letting the door bang shut behind her.
"Holy crap," I said. "I hope she didn't take off. She had a rough day, and I'm supposed to keep an eye on her."
"Don't worry." Dahlia flicked through the cases in the "three for twenty" bin. "She's sitting in your car, sulking."
Typical teenager. "So, you do drug abuse education, too? That's a good thing. Why'd she get mad?"
"Because it's not exactly anti-drug. It's anti-blood. Teens don't need blood until they reach their cusp. But like cigarettes and drugs, blood poses a temptation. The for-bidden apple. Blood in the uncusped DV can accidentally trigger evolution reactions, even without death energy. Mostly it just hyper-activates their powers, like a power surge, but some kids get addicted to the surge. They're called 'lution junkies. They even coined the nickname 'lution for blood used illicitly."
Now I realized what made Shiloh so upset; the topic hit too close to home. I didn't think Dahlia knew about Shiloh's condition or about her brother Boxer, who'd been an evolution junkie. Boxer had turned vamp and had to be exterminated. I shuddered, remembering the day Rodrian told me, the pain he'd carried with him for decades.
"The world is becoming so violent, Sophie. Is it wrong for us to keep kids from accidentally killing them-selves? DV are lucky to be what we are. We just want to preserve our kind. Is that such a bad thing?"
"No," I said. "It's not wrong. But remember, kids don't make sense because nothing makes sense to them. Keep giving your message but don't stop looking for better ways to communicate it. Their language seems to change weekly. I think it's so that adults can never figure out what they are up to."
My phone buzzed as it alerted me to an incoming text. Slipping it from my pocket, I read Shiloh's message: R U CMING OUT HERE OR DID SHE BRAINWSH U 2?
Sighing, I smiled at Dahlia. "Got one?"
Dahlia grinned and held up a military action film. The girl loved violence. Her idea of a stuffed animal would probably be a war hammer. I couldn't figure her out some-times. She was so cute, yet harbored wicked tendencies when it came to her guilty pleasures.
I'd once asked her about her savage streak; all she'd say was that she used to be an enforcer of peace. It sounded so militant that I figured she'd have to kill me if she told me anything.
I countered with my Elizabethan film. Dahlia wrinkled her nose. "Tights? Again?"
"What? I like tights. And they're called hose."
"Great," she said. "Hose and bum rolls and big dresses. What do you see in that stuff?"
I waved it enticingly. "There's a beheading in this one..."
"Okay, you win." She grinned as if I'd promised ice cream. "But we watch mine first."
I handed my card to the cashier, waving through the window at Shiloh, who slumped in the front seat. I got an exasperated are you coming? look for my troubles, and she tapped at her wrist watch. Someone was wearing her pissy pants tonight. "Promise not to talk about DAVE on the way back? She's going through a bad time and lately she's been touchy. Rode would kill me if she threw herself from the car to get away from your rhetoric."
"DAVE?" Her eyes glittered with innocence and she picked up the movies from the exit counter. "Who's Dave?"
Once we got home, Dahlia tried another approach with Shiloh. She was a counselor, after all, so I didn't try changing the subject.
"Cusping isn't all that bad, Shiloh." Dahlia closed the door of the microwave and hit the popcorn button while I pulled a big orange bowl out of the bottom cabinet.
Shiloh crossed her arms. "Name one thing that I shouldn't hate about it."
"You'll manifest your gifts, for one thing."
Shiloh chewed her bottom lip and I could almost hear the wheels grinding as she thought about it. "Well, I have been wondering what that would be like. My dad is always showing off with his."
"Showing off, eh?" I wiped out the bowl with a paper towel before opening the fridge to look for the spray butter. Sure, the box said butterlicious, but I had higher standards than Mr. Reddenbacher. That man had never endured the throes of PMS. If he had, his product would have been banned by the FDA.
"You've seen him, Sophie. Gods forbid he actually uses a key to unlock anything. He never looks where he's driving. I'll bet he doesn't even get out of bed to pee at night. He probably just compels—"
"Enough," I said. "I get the picture. The big, gross, peeing-in-bed picture."
"What's your family good at, Dally?" Shiloh asked.
"You mean my gift? Well, I'm a fabricator."
"Of..." Shiloh rolled her hand, trying to prompt Dahlia for more information.
Dahlia, looking sheepish, toyed with the hem of her shirt. "Of...whatever I need, I guess. I can...create...stuff. I don't know how to explain it."
"You mean, make stuff appear out of thin air," I said. It sounded too good to be true.
"No, it's a little more complicated than that. It's more like I can...rearrange matter to assume a form that is more convenient."
"Ooh!" Shiloh looked like she was ready to spring. "Can you make me a Vera?"
"Sure, if you don't mind a knock-off." Dahlia picked up a sheet of notebook paper from the snack bar and crumpled it. When she twisted her hands over each other, I caught a glimpse of blue and green cloth expanding between her fingers, growing into a flash of familiar paisley.
Shiloh's expression twisted in revulsion and she grabbed Dahlia's hands to stop her. "Ew! Never mind then. I'll keep working on Dad for another purse. What's the point of getting talents if you only make cheap imitations?"
Dahlia winked at me and pressed the cloth first into a ball, then flat as she unfabricated the despicable faux purse into a sheet of paper again. "Sometimes, a cheap imitation is better than nothing at all."
"You keep telling yourself that." Shiloh tossed her hair back. "But you buy cheap, you get cheap. And people know cheap when they see it." She ducked behind the fridge door to rummage through the shelves. After a moment she lifted her head and peered over the door. "Not that you look cheap, Sophie. I mean, it looks good on you. Not cheap. Much."
I smirked. "Thanks, smart ass."
She didn't find the popcorn I'd tossed into her hair until halfway through the movie.
"Now there's a familiar expression," Barb said, glancing up as she hung up the phone. "You look on edge enough to strangle someone but happy enough to do it smiling. I haven't seen that look on your face since the week Starbucks opened across the street."
I'd popped into Barb's office to hand over some column work for the new market. So far, so great—I had a file full of mail from across the country that I'd tried to hold off on sending since I'd be soon going local in their area. I would take advantage of the timing as long as possible. Two-Birds-With-One-Stone Sophie, that's me.
I stifled a forlorn sigh. "Yeah. Free mocha lattes. I almost got caffeine poisoning."
"You didn't fall off the coffee wagon, did you?"
"No."
"Then why the look?"
"Stupid people in the parking garage again."
"Ah. Explains the bared teeth. Now the happy part?"
"I'm digging my new crib. House." I hurried to correct my unintentional Shiloh-ism but I wasn't fast enough.
The sounds of slang made Barb's forehead wrinkle. "So, you did it. You moved again. You know, maybe you have an addiction to moving, kind of like those women who get addicted to plastic surgery."
"My neighborhood and I weren't getting along. And my neighbor—" I stuck out my tongue and pretended to retch. If I thought about Mrs. Petterson's bare legs long enough I wouldn't have to fake puking. "Things are different now that I'm house-sitting in the 'burbs. The change of scenery is doing me wonders."
"House-sitting? For who?"
"An old friend."
She eyed me, making me feel like a child awaiting approval from a parent. Part of me really needed her approval right now.
After a moment she dipped her chin and rocked back in her chair. Approval granted. "About time you have something to smile about."
I relaxed a little and flopped into the red chair by her desk. "And Shiloh talks non-stop, so I don't have the excuse to remain secluded anymore."
"Roommate? You?"
"She came with the house. She's great, although I don't understand half the things she says."
"Wait—you're living with a foreigner?"
"No," I said with a laugh. "Although, when you think about it, aren't all teenagers a little foreign?"
"Teenager?" Barbara looked at me over the tops of her glasses, the scrutiny making me squirm. "Whose house did you say it was?"
"My friend." I uncrossed my legs. Crossed my ankles. Crossed my legs again. Why was I afraid to say it? "Rodrian."
"Your ex's brother."
Uh, oh. She used The Tone.
"Sophie. Are you sure this is a good idea? I know you're hung up—"