by Molly Harper
I rolled my eyes and went behind the counter to grab one of the shop mugs—rippling blue earthenware from a local retired-teacher-turned-potter. “Really, you’re going to keep playing the ‘city guy not impressed with the tiny town’ card?”
“Yes, because I happen to live in the greatest city in the world,” he said as I stuffed a tea ball with one of the more mushroom-based tea blends. I poured steaming water into the mug and dropped the ball into it, finishing with a bit of B positive.
“Cleveland?” I guessed, a false smile matching my chipper tone.
All amusement and energy drained from his face, sending a little thrill of triumph rippling down my spine. “I don’t think we can talk anymore.”
I snickered. “Which is cool, because I didn’t really want to talk to you in the first place.”
“Oh, please.” He scoffed. “I didn’t come here seeking you out—and I happen to live in New York City. Not Cleveland.”
“Couldn’t let that go, could you?” I asked, shaking my head and smirking.
“No, I could not.” The barest hint of a smile quirked his lips, and it was like seeing past the cool, composed mask he presented to the world to the soft caramel center beneath.
Geez, I missed caramel.
But then Weston seemed to realize he was displaying some emotion beyond disdain and sniffed. “What could a grubby little backwater like this have to compare to a place where you can find everything a human or vampire could possibly want—museums, theaters, symphonies, culture?”
“We have culture, too. Kentucky has a rich history and music—”
“With jugs and washtubs,” he supplied.
I huffed out an exasperated breath. “Look, I know you probably don’t spend a lot of time in ‘grubby little backwaters’ like this one, so you probably haven’t figured out that we ‘backwater dwellers’ are not particularly impressed when someone from the ‘big city’ comes into town to let us know how inferior they think we are. You should probably know that that sort of thing is not going to endear you to the locals. It will make your job harder, and you probably won’t give the best report possible to your boss. You strike me as the kind of person who pins a lot of his integrity on his professional performance.”
He seemed to think about that for a moment and nodded. “I will take that under consideration. You make a good point.”
“Finally, we make some progress,” I told him, sliding the mug across the counter. “Here, this is on the house. Consider it a public service.”
He sniffed at the mug and gagged. “What the hell is this?”
“I call it the Clog Cleaner,” I said, waving at his midsection. “Trust me when I say you have a lot of emotional snarls that need to be unblocked.”
He pulled a disgusted face and set the mug aside. “You really believe in all this woo-woo bullshit?”
“I absolutely believe that Western medicine has its place. But in some cases, I believe plants are better medicine than mass-produced chemical compounds for no other reason than big pharmaceutical companies are generally evil.”
“What about the crystals?” he asked, nodding toward the glass container full of amethysts.
“Not really. I mean, they certainly don’t hurt anybody. I’m not going to tell people that a quartz is going to cure their cancer. But a certain amount of place setting is expected in a hippie shop.”
He laughed—actually laughed out loud, and I was struck by the music in it. His face was transformed when he laughed, into something far more pleasant. He ran a hand through his hair, ruffling it. “I can see that. Look, I know I’ve been prickly since the moment we’ve met.”
“I’d say more along the lines of ‘prick-ish,’ but why quibble?” He gave me a stern look, and I shrugged. “I’m a work in progress.”
“I don’t do well in this sort of environment,” he admitted. “I don’t get people. I understand them at a behavioral level. I get their motivations and their reasonings, but for some reason, I’ve never been able to translate that into social interactions. I mean, my parents were perfectly nice people, but they were German immigrants who came to the country after World War I—which wasn’t easy in terms of getting to know your neighbors. My parents thought it would be better just to keep to ourselves. So I didn’t have neighborhood friends I rode bikes with after school. I came home and did my homework, and then when I was done, my parents gave me extra schoolwork. Because that was the only way to achieve the American dream: working harder than anyone else. So while I might have learned more about geometry or organic chemistry or Revolutionary War history than any kid on my block, I never learned how to just sit with someone and have a conversation for no point other than to just talk. I don’t know how to spend leisure time with people or get to know them. And it’s just stuck with me. So no, I’m not good at getting to know my neighbors or coworkers or seatmates on a plane.”
“That was a lot,” I marveled. “And you didn’t even drink the Clog Cleaner.”
He snorted. “And I never will.”
“Do you feel better now?” I asked.
He nodded. “As a matter of fact, I think I do. When I’m in a smaller, more rural setting like Half-Moon Hollow, where my success can depend on social graces, I get… prickly,” he said. I opened my mouth, and he added hastily, “Don’t make the joke again!”
“What I was going to say is that I sympathize,” I told him. “I know what it’s like to not be able to connect to people, especially when a lot depends on connecting. And I’m sorry. That really sucks.”
His brow wrinkled as he said, “Thank you.”
“Has it ever occurred to you that this study in Half-Moon Hollow would be a really good opportunity for you to flex those socializing skills a little bit and get better at understanding people?” I asked. “People here are pretty welcoming, even if you get off on the wrong foot.”
He shook his head, “No, it didn’t—”
Weston’s response was cut short by a group of vampires pouring through the door, which was more people than had ever physically occupied my shop. Jane and Gabriel; Jane’s childe, Jamie; Dick and Andrea; Cal and Iris; Jane’s friend Miranda and her slightly grumpy-looking husband, Collin; Gigi and her boyfriend, Nik; Libby, a lovely vampire I’d met through the book club, with her boyfriend, Wade. Jamie’s fiancé, Ophelia, was included by virtue of her being Jamie’s mate, but she held herself aloof from the general merriment of holding brightly colored balloons and yelling, “Happy birthday,” as everyone else did at the top of their lungs. Right at the front of this gaggle of the undead was Luke Corso, holding an OVER THE HILL banner on silver-and-black mylar.
I laughed, ran around the counter, and threw myself at Luke’s solid frame, letting him drop the banner and catch me around the waist. I caught the confused and irritated expression on Weston’s face while Luke whirled me around, and I felt suddenly awkward. I squirmed in Luke’s arms, which Luke seemed to think was a ticklish response, muttering, “Sorry, sorry!” while he set me on my feet.
“Happy birthday, sweetheart,” Luke drawled, grinning up at me. He’d had his parents’ olive complexion before he was turned, though he was still in possession of their inky blue-black hair and dark eyes—eyes that were smiling at me like I was the best thing since Netflix and chill.
Luke and I had met at a Council seminar Jane offered on entrepreneurship for vampire-owned businesses. Luke, a native of Chicago, had worked “not for Elliot Ness, but Elliot Ness–adjacent” in the 1930s; now he ran a security consulting business advising vampires on the best way to make their homes and businesses sunproof and safe. While Half-Moon Hollow was considerably more evolved than a lot of small towns, some humans still hadn’t accepted vampires into their community.
My own lack of security measures, beyond a sturdy lock and sunproof shades, often drove Luke to despair, but he knew better than to push me about installing one of his scary systems. We suited each other that way, without really trying. Luke traveled a lot for work, and w
hen I saw him, it was great, and if I didn’t see him, that was fine, too. We were not quite dating but not quite platonic, enjoying fantastic sex whenever the mood struck us and a nice supportive friendship when it didn’t. We called ourselves Fangs with Benefits.
Even over the multilayered potpourri of the other vampires, I could smell the gunmetal-and-green-grass sharpness rising off of Luke’s skin. It was a dependable smell, steady and uncomplicated, much like the man himself, which I appreciated.
“Thank you,” I told him.
“I honestly don’t know any of these other people,” Luke said. “They just followed me as I was walking across the street. They seem nice, though.”
“Very funny.” I scoffed as he put me down. Dick, Jane, and Andrea surged forward to wrap me in hugs. Even Gabriel gave me a kiss on the cheek, before getting behind the counter to set up glasses they’d brought for all the bottled blood.
“Thank you. I really didn’t expect all this,” I told Jane.
“Well, I know your birthdays are a little bit of a sore spot,” she said as Miranda hugged me. “So I thought after the card thing, you could use something more life-affirming.”
“You’re right, this is great,” I replied, accepting a bottle of very rare French vintage blood from Gigi. “Oh, wow, Geeg, this is too much!”
“It’s from Nik’s collection,” Gigi said, squeezing the muscled arms of her mysterious Russian beau.
“Only someone with your refined nasal palate would appreciate it properly,” Nik said, winking at me. “This one still thinks Faux Type O is a treat.”
“I like what I like!” Gigi cried as Nik laughed. “Give me a few centuries to get all sophisticated!”
I hugged her and nodded respectfully to the slightly older vampire who bore a striking resemblance to Gigi. The first time I’d met Gigi’s sister, Dr. Iris Scanlon, I’d fangirled so hard that I’d embarrassed myself. I couldn’t help it. She was the author of Bitten Botanicals, meaning her work was the foundation for most of my products, and, well, I may have lost my cool a little bit. There had definitely been a hug that lasted way beyond the appropriate amount of time for a new acquaintance. So now I tried to play it pretty cool around Iris.
“Dr. Scanlon,” I said. “Good to see you.”
She rolled her eyes and pulled me in for a much more appropriately timed hug. “Oh, come here, silly girl. I told you I’m used to awkward introductions. The first time I met Cal, I tripped over him and then poked him in the eye.”
“It’s true,” Cal said, wrapping his arm around her. “It was love at first eye gouge.”
“That’s really, uh, aggro-romantic?” I guessed.
Iris laughed and gestured to the shelves. “The store looks great. I think I’ll look around, if that’s all right.”
“Of course,” I said, nodding. And then I kept nodding because I just couldn’t seem to stop. I was like a bobblehead doll with an overactive spring. Gigi gently placed her hand on the back of my neck.
“Breathe,” Gigi whispered to me.
“I don’t need to breathe,” I whispered back. “Especially when I’m trying to avoid smelling everybody’s emotions.”
“Yeah, but it still helps.” Gigi put her hand on my shoulder. “Also, you’ve got to stop staring at her so intently when she’s talking to you. It’s unnerving.”
“I really thought I had a handle on that,” I muttered.
“UNNERVING,” she said again.
“Don’t care. This is still the best birthday ever.”
“All right, all right, everybody gather around and let’s have a toast to the birthday girl,” Jane said, approaching the counter. She skidded to a stop when she saw Weston, as if she was noticing him for the first time. “Aw, hell.”
Weston’s spine stiffened. “Is this how you normally handle birthdays for your employees, Ms. Jameson-Nightengale?”
“Only the ones I’m showing an indecent level of favoritism for,” Jane shot back, her smile paper-thin.
Gabriel actually slapped his palm over his face, which was way funnier as a GIF than in real life.
“Are you still here, Weston?” I asked. “This is very clearly not an office supply store.”
Gigi shot me a confused look. “What?”
Ever the peacemaker, Luke stood and held out his hand for a manly shake. “Hey, you must be Meadow’s new neighbor.”
“Wait, that’s the guy who rented out the furnished unit?” Dick cried.
“This is what you get for not doing background checks,” Andrea muttered, “Mr. Mind Your Beeswax.”
Weston eyed Luke’s hand suspiciously but ultimately shook it and said, “Nice to meet you.”
Luke smiled blithely. “So, New York?”
Weston’s lips quirked, and his face relaxed into an expression that was almost sociable. To my surprise, I felt a little bit proud of him. “Yeah, how did you know?”
“Guys from Chicago can always pick up on a New York accent,” Luke said. “Part of the eternal ‘greatest city in America’ struggle.”
Weston nodded. “I moved to Manhattan a long time ago, but I still have my parents’ place in Forest Hills. If they taught me anything, it was ‘don’t let go of a rent-controlled apartment.’ ”
“My parents said the same,” Luke said, chuckling. “I bought their building back in the ’50s. I think it’s a yoga studio and juice bar now.”
“Mr. Weston, did you want to stay for a drink?” Gabriel asked, putting on his best party face. “Maybe get to know Jane and Dick outside of work. It may give you a better appreciation for how and why they run the Council in their unconventional fashion.”
Weston froze. It was like watching one of those videos where a kid is learning to ride a bike while his mother holds the back of the seat, only to realize that Mom stopped helping a few feet back and he’s doing it on his own, and he flops face-first into a rosebush. I felt a rush of something like heartbreak as he stammered excuses about errands and backed toward the door. He’d opened up and behaved… well, I didn’t want to use the word “human,” because neither of us were, but he’d shown some actual emotion. It felt like he’d taken a step forward, only to shrink back into himself.
“Thanks, but I should be going anyway,” Weston said, shooting an apologetic look at me. “Since I wasn’t able to obtain the things I needed, can you tell me where the nearest office supply store is?”
“Well, the Business Barn closed their doors a couple of years ago, but you can go to the Office Station over in Murphy,” Jamie supplied helpfully. “It’s only about an hour’s drive.”
“An hour?” he repeated. “For binder clips?”
“This is part of that small-town life I mentioned,” I told him, grimacing.
Weston grumbled lightly as he opened the door. He paused, throwing one last look over his shoulder. “Happy birthday, Ms. Schwartz.”
I nodded, offering him the barest hint of a smile. “Thank you.”
As the door closed, Jane smacked Dick on the shoulder. “You’re renting to that guy?”
“I rented to his female assistant, who applied for him. I didn’t know who he was when she filled out the application.”
“Who is this person, exactly?” asked Ophelia, a petite brunette who almost looked like an innocent coed in her University of Kentucky raglan shirt and jeans. But there was something very cold in her storm-gray eyes, a sharklike stillness that assured you if you crossed her, she could shove you into a running wood chipper and not feel one moment’s remorse.
“Erik Weston. He’s auditing our leadership of the district,” Jane said. “Ophelia, I can only assume that you are somehow responsible for arranging this. Did you call in some sort of complaint to the Council?”
Ophelia shook her head. “Actually, for once, it wasn’t me.”
Jamie, who was basically a blond Labrador retriever with fangs, grinned at her and wrapped his arms around her. “Aw, honey, because you’ve finally come to think of Jane as family?”
&n
bsp; Ophelia frowned. “No, not really. While I do wish I had thought of calling Weston in as a way of bedeviling Jane, I’ve found I quite enjoy life as a civilian. Less time spent plotting, more time spent enjoying Jamie and school and time with Georgie.”
“That’s… almost nice. Thank you, Ophelia,” Jane said.
Ophelia shrugged. “You’re almost welcome.”
“But why would someone want Jane and Dick out of the Council office?” I asked. “The district is running smoothly. People seem happy.”
“Someone who doesn’t appreciate your no-tolerance policy on violence toward humans?” Jamie suggested.
“Someone who stands to make money if Jane’s not around to keep local commerce quite so legitimate?” Dick guessed. When Jane raised her brows, he added quickly, “Not that I mind, really.”
“What about someone who wants to fill the power vacuum?” Ophelia suggested. “With you two gone, someone is going to have to take over the district. Someone like Peter Crown.”
Dick cried, “What? Why would Peter Crown do this?”
“He was passed over for the promotion when I was forced out of my position. He was supposed to be second in line for head representative, but for mysterious reasons I still don’t understand myself, you and Jane were plucked from obscurity and appointed instead,” Ophelia said. “He’d already started measuring my office for one of his awful Bosch paintings. When he found out that the territory he had very patiently waited to take over had been handed to ‘two fumbling idiots,’ he punched a hole through a concrete wall.”
“Hey,” Dick and Jane chorused.
“I’m only repeating what he said,” Ophelia swore.
“Wait, no, Peter was the one to nominate us for the position!” Jane protested.
“Yes, that’s what he said, afterward, to save face,” Ophelia said. “And the Council allowed him that small mercy because they didn’t want to completely alienate a vampire as old and powerful as him. Now that I think about it, Peter is probably still next in line for your jobs. He would be the most qualified for the position, and discrediting you two would certainly go a long way in persuading the Council against making ‘unorthodox’ selections.”