by Kim Harrison
“Yes?” Ted asks, looking up at her adoringly.
“No,” Lila says. “That’s what I’m getting for my tattoo next time I’m in Cancún. Across the small of my back. The word Ted. So from now on, everyone will know I belong to you.”
“Oh, honey,” Ted says. And pulls her head down so he can stick his tongue in her mouth.
“Oh my God,” I say, looking away.
“I know.” Adam’s returned from throwing a glow-in-the-dark twelve-pound bowling ball down the disco-lit lane. “I almost liked her better when she was under Drake’s spell. But I guess it works out better this way. Ted’ll hurt a lot less than Sebastian. That was a strike, by the way. In case you missed it.” He slides onto the bench beside me and looks down at the scoring sheet in the glow of the lamp just above my head. “Well, what do you know? I’m winning.”
“Don’t get cocky,” I say. Although I have to admit, he has a lot to brag about. Not just winning at Night Strike bowling, either.
“Just tell me,” I say as he reaches up and finally pulls off his bow tie. Even in the weird disco lights of Bowlmor Lanes—the bowling alley where we’d retreated for our post-prom activities, a mere nine-dollar cab ride from the Waldorf—Adam still looks obscenely handsome. “Where’d you get the holy water?”
“You gave a bunch of it to Ted,” Adam says, looking down at me in some surprise. “Remember?”
“But how’d you get the idea to put it in the water gun?” I demand. I’m still reeling from the evening’s earlier activities. Midnight bowling is fun and all. But nothing can really compare with slaying a two-hundred-year-old vampire at the prom.
Too bad he’d fizzled into ash out in the garden, where no one but Adam and I could see it. We’d have been voted prom king and queen for sure, instead of Lila and Ted, who are both still wearing their crowns…although they’ve tilted a little rakishly, due to all the kissing.
“I don’t know, Mare,” Adam says, filling in his own score. “It just seemed like a good idea at the time.”
Mare. No one has ever called me Mare before.
“But how did you know?” I ask. “I mean, that Drake had—well, whatever? I mean, how could you tell that I wasn’t faking it? To lull him into a false sense of security?”
“You mean besides the fact that he was about to bite you on the neck?” Adam raises a single dark brow. “And that you weren’t doing a damned thing to stop him? Yeah, I had a pretty good idea of what was going on.”
“I’d have snapped out of it,” I assure him, with a confidence I most definitely do not feel, “as soon as I felt his teeth.”
“No,” Adam says. Now he’s grinning down at me, his face illuminated by the light from the scoring desk’s single lamp. The rest of the bowling alley is in darkness, except for the balls and pins, which glow with an eerie fluorescence. “You wouldn’t have. Admit it, Mary. You needed me back there.”
His face is so close to mine—closer than Sebastian Drake’s ever got.
Only instead of feeling as if I could dive into his gaze, I feel as if I’m about to melt under it. My heartbeat staggers.
“Yeah,” I say, unable to keep my gaze from drifting toward his lips. “I guess I kinda did.”
“We make a good team,” Adam says. His own gaze, I can’t help noticing, isn’t straying far from my mouth, either. “Wouldn’t you say? I mean, especially in light of the coming apocalyptic event? When Drake’s dad finds out what we did tonight?”
I can’t help gasping a little at that.
“That’s right,” I cry. “Oh, Adam! He’s not just going to come after me. He’s going to come after you, too!”
“You know,” Adam says. And now his gaze has drifted from my mouth, and downward. “I really do like that dress. It goes great with bowling shoes.”
“Adam,” I say. “This is serious! Dracula could be getting ready to descend upon Manhattan at any moment, and we’re wasting time bowling! We’ve got to start getting ready! We need to prepare a counterattack. We need to—”
“Mary,” Adam says. “Dracula can wait.”
“But—”
“Mary,” Adam says. “Shut up.”
And I do. Because I’m too busy kissing him back to do anything else.
Besides, he’s right. Dracula can wait.
The Corsage
LAUREN MYRACLE
Readers, beware! The following story was inspired by “The Monkey’s Paw,” first published in 1902 by W. W. Jacobs, which scared the dickens out of me when I was a teenager. Be careful what you wish for, indeed!
—LAUREN MYRACLE
OUTSIDE, THE WIND WHIPPED around Madame Zanzibar’s house, making a loose rain-pipe thump against the siding. The sky was dark, though it was only four o’clock. But within the garishly decorated waiting room, three table lamps shone brightly, each draped with a jewel-toned scarf. Ruby hues lit Yun Sun’s round face, while bluish-purple hues gave Will the mottled look of someone freshly dead.
“You look like you’ve risen from the grave,” I told him.
“Frankie,” Yun Sun scolded. She did a head jerk toward Madame Z’s closed office, worried, I suppose, that she might hear and be offended. A red plastic monkey hung from the office doorknob, indicating that Madame Z was with a client. We were up next.
Will made his eyes go vacant. “I am a pod person,” he moaned. He stretched his arms out toward us. “Please to give me all your hearts and livers.”
“Oh no! The pod person has taken over our beloved Will!” I clutched Yun Sun’s arm. “Quick, give him your hearts and livers, so he’ll leave mine alone!”
Yun Sun shook free. “Not amused,” she said in a tone both singsongy and threatening. “And if you’re not nice to me, I will leave.”
“Stop being such a pooter,” I said.
“I will take my thunder thighs and I will march right out of here. Just watch.”
Yun Sun was on a my-legs-are-too-fat kick, just because her superslinky prom dress needed a little letting out. At least she had a prom dress. And a for-sure chance to wear it.
“Bleh,” I said. Her grouchiness was endangering our plan, which was the whole reason we were here. The night of the prom was getting dangerously close, and I was not going to be the sad shell of a girl who sat home alone while everyone else went crazy with glitter dust and danced ironically in spectacular three-inch heels. I refused, especially since I knew in my heart of hearts that Will wanted to ask me. He just needed a little encouragement.
I lowered my voice, all the while smiling at Will like la la la, just girl talk, nothing important! “It was both of ouridea to do this, Yun Sun. Remember?”
“No, Frankie, it was your idea,” she said. And she did not keep her voice down. “I’ve already got my date, even though he’s going to be squished to death by my thighs. You’re the one hoping for a last-minute miracle.”
“Yun Sun!” I glanced at Will, who turned red. Bad Yun Sun, throwing it out in the open like that. Bad, bad, naughty girl!
“Ow!” she yelped. Because I’d whacked her.
“I am very mad at you,” I said.
“Enough with the coyness. You do want him to ask you, don’t you?”
“Ow!”
“Um, you guys?” Will said. He was doing that adorable thing he did when he was nervous, when his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. Although, huh. That was kind of an icky image. It made me think of bobbing for apples, which was only one step away from bobbing for Adam’s apples.
But. Will was indeed possessed of an Adam’s apple, and when it moved up and down in his throat, it was indeed adorable. It made him look so vulnerable.
“She hit me,” Yun Sun tattled.
“She deserved it,” I countered. But I didn’t want it to go further, this line of conversation that was already too revealing. So I patted Yun Sun’s totally unfat leg and said, “However, I forgive you. Now shut up.”
What Yun Sun failed to get—or more likely, what she totally got and yet failed to appreciate—w
as that not all things needed to be said aloud. Yes, I wanted Will to ask me to prom, and I wanted him to do it soon, because “Springtime Is for Lovers” was only two weeks away.
And fine, the name of the dance was dorky, but springtime was for lovers. It was an indisputable truth. Just as it was an indisputable truth that Will was my forever boy, if only he could get past his enduring bashfulness and make a frickin’ move. Enough chummy shoulder slugs and giggling, snorting tickle wars! Enough clutching each other and shrieking, blaming it on our Netflix copies of The Body Snatchers or They Come from the Hills! Couldn’t Will see that I was his for the taking?
He’d almost popped the question last weekend, I was ninety-nine-point-five percent sure. We’d been watching Pretty Woman, an overblown romance which never failed to amuse. Yun Sun had disappeared into the kitchen for snacks, leaving the two of us alone.
“Um, Frankie?” Will had said. His foot tap-tap-tapped against the floor, and his fingers flexed on his jeans. “Can I ask you something?”
Any fool would have known what was coming, because if he’d just wanted me to turn up the volume, he’d simply have said, “Hey, Franks, turn up the volume.” Casual. Straightforward. No need for any preparatory remarks. But since there were preparatory remarks…well, what could he possibly have wanted to ask me besides “Will you go to prom?” Eternal delight was right there, only seconds away.
And then I’d blown it. His palpable nervousness triggered a spaz-out of my own, and instead of letting the moment play out, I’d skittishly changed the subject. BECAUSE I WAS A FREAK.
“Now see, that’s the way it’s done!” I said, pointing at the TV. Richard Gere was galloping on his white steed, which was really a limo, to Julia Roberts’s castle, which was really a crappy third-story apartment. As we watched, Richard Gere climbed out of the sun roof and scaled the fire escape, all to win the affections of his beloved.
“None of this namby-pamby ‘I think you’re kinda cute’ baloney,” I went on. I was blathering, and I knew it. “We’re talking action, baby. We’re talking grand gesture of love.”
Will gulped. And said, “Oh.” And blinked at Richard Gere in a startled-teddy-bear way, thinking, I’m sure, that he could never, ever compare.
I stared at the TV, knowing I’d sabotaged my prom night happiness through my own stupidity. I didn’t care about “grand gestures of love”; I just cared about Will. But brilliant me, I’d gone and scared him off. Because in actual real reality, I was an even bigger wimp than he was.
But no more—which was why we were here at Madame Zanzibar’s. She would tell us our futures, and unless she was a total hack, she would state the obvious as an impartial observer: Will and I were meant for each other. Hearing it spoken so plainly would give Will the guts to try again. He’d ask me to prom, and this time I’d let him, even if it killed me.
The plastic monkey twitched on the office doorknob.
“Look, it’s moving,” I whispered.
“Oooo,” Will said.
A black man with snow-white hair shuffled out of the office. He had no teeth, which made the lower half of his face look puckered, like a prune.
“Children,” he said, tipping his hat.
Will stood up and opened the front door, because that’s the kind of guy he was. A gust of wind nearly toppled the old man, and Will steadied him.
“Whoa,” Will said.
“Thank you, son,” the old man replied. His words came out mushy, because of the no-teeth thing. “Reckon I best skedaddle before the storm blows in.”
“I think it already has,” Will said. Past the driveway, tree branches thrashed and creaked.
“This weensy old wind?” the old man said. “Aw, now, this is just a baby waking up and wanting to be fed. It’ll be worse before the night is over, mark my words.” He peered at us. “In fact, shouldn’t you children be home, safe and sound?”
It was hard to take offense when a toothless old-timer called you “children.” But come on, this was the second time in twenty seconds.
“We’re juniors in high school,” I said. “We can take care of ourselves.”
His laugh made me think of dead leaves.
“All right, then,” he said. “I’m sure you know best.” He small-stepped onto the porch, and Will gave a half wave and shut the door.
“Crazy coot,” came a voice from behind us. We turned to see Madame Zanzibar in the office doorway. She wore hot pink Juicy Couture sweatpants with a matching hot pink top, unzipped to her clavicle. Her breasts were round and firm and amazingly perky, given that she didn’t seem to be wearing a bra. Her lipstick was bright orange, to match her nails, and so was the end of the cigarette she held between two fingers.
“So, are we coming in or are we staying out here?” she asked the three of us. “Unveiling life’s mysteries or leaving well enough alone?”
I rose from my chair and pulled Yun Sun with me. Will followed. Madame Z ushered us into her office, and the three of us scrunched together in an overstuffed armchair. Will realized it was never going to work and lowered himself to the floor. I wiggled to make Yun Sun give me more room.
“See? They’re sausages,” she said, referring to her thighs.
“Scooch,” I commanded.
“Now,” Madame Z said, crossing in front of us and sitting behind a table. She puffed on her cigarette. “What’s your business?”
I bit my lip. How to put it? “Well, you’re a psychic, right?”
Madame Z exhaled a cloud of smoke. “Gee, Sherlock, the ad in the Yellow Pages tip you off?”
I blushed, while at the same time bristling. My question had been a conversation opener. Did she have a problem with conversation openers? Anyway, if she really was a psychic, shouldn’t she already know why I was here?
“Uh…okay. Sure, whatever. So I guess I was wondering…”
“Yeah? Out with it.”
I gathered my courage. “Well…I was wondering if a certain special person was going to ask me a certain special question.” I purposefully didn’t look at Will, but I heard his spurt of surprise. He hadn’t seen this coming.
Madame Z pressed two fingers to her forehead and let her eyes go blank. “Ahem,” she said. “Hmm, hmm. What I’m getting here is muzzy. There is passion, yes”—Yun Sun giggled; Will swallowed audibly—“but there are also…how do I say? Complicating factors.”
Gee, thanks, Madame Z, I thought. Could we dig a little deeper here? Give me something to work with?
“But is he—I mean, the person—going to act on his passion?” I was brazen, despite my knotted stomach.
“To act or not to act…that is the question?” Madame Z said.
“Yes, that is the question.”
“Ahhh. That is always the question. And what one must always ask oneself—” She broke off. Her eyes flew to Will, and she paled.
“What?” I demanded.
“Nothing,” she said.
“Something,” I said. Her message-from-the-spirits performance wasn’t fooling me. She wanted us to think she’d been suddenly possessed? That she’d had a stark and powerful vision? Fine! Just get to the bloody answer!
Madame Z made a show of pulling herself together, complete with a long, shaky draw on her cigarette. Looking dead at me, she said, “If a tree falls in a forest, and no one’s there to hear it, does it still make a sound?”
“Huh?” I said.
“That’s all I’ve got. Take it or leave it.” She seemed agitated, so I took it. Although I made cuckoo eyes at Yun Sun when Madame Z wasn’t watching.
Will claimed not to have a specific question, but Madame Z was oddly insistent on relaying a message to him anyhow. She waved her hands over his aura and warned him sternly of heights, which was curiously appropriate as Will was an avid rock climber. What was more curious was Will’s reaction. First his eyebrows shot up, and then a different emotion took over, like some secret anticipatory pleasure. He glanced at me and blushed.
“What’s going on?” I a
sked. “You have your sneaky face on.”
“Exsqueeze me?” he said.
“What are you not telling us, Will Goodman?”
“Nothing, I swear!”
“Don’t be stupid, boy!” Madame Z harped. “Listen to what I’m saying.”
“Oh, you don’t have to worry about him,” I said. “He’s a total Mr. Safety.” I turned back to Will. “For real. Do you have a fabulous new climbing spot? A brand-new shiny carabiner?”
“It’s Yun Sun’s turn,” Will said. “Yun Sun, go.”
“Can you read palms?” Yun Sun asked Madame Z.
Madame Z exhaled, and she was barely engaged as she traced her finger over the plump pad below Yun Sun’s thumb. “You will be as beautiful as you allow yourself to be,” she told her. That was it. Those were her pearls of wisdom.
Yun Sun seemed as underwhelmed as I was, and I felt like protesting on all our behalves. I mean, seriously! A tree in the forest? Be careful of heights? You will be as beautiful as you allow yourself to be? Even with her somewhat convincing touches of atmospheric creepiness, the three of us were getting cheated. Me in particular.
But before I could say anything, a cell phone on the desk rang. Madame Z picked it up and used a long orange nail to punch the talk button.
“Madame Zanzibar, at your service,” she said. Her expression changed as she listened to whoever was on the other end. She grew brisk and annoyed. “No, Silas. It’s called a…yes, you can say it, a yeast infection. Yeast infection.”
Yun Sun and I shared a glance of horror, although—I couldn’t help it—I was also delighted. Not that Madame Z had a yeast infection. I mean, ick. But that she was discussing it with Silas, whoever he was, while all of us listened in. Now we were getting our money’s worth.
“Tell the pharmacist it’s the second time this month,” Madame Z groused. “I need something stronger. What? For the itching, you idiot! Unless he wants to scratch it for me!” She twisted on her swivel chair, pumping one Juicy Coutured leg over the other.
Will looked up at me, his brown eyes wide with alarm. “I will not be scratching it for her,” he stage-whispered. “I refuse!”