Fangs for the Memories (4 page)

I stared at him, a bit dizzy over the rapid shift in how I viewed Dick Cheney. I couldn't believe what I was hearing. Dick Cheney was a father? A grandfather? Suddenly, his comment about burying his child made so much sense. But looking back, remembering how sweet he'd been with Mr. Wainwright, I could see it. He was always so deferential toward him, so kind. And now I was sort of ashamed that I had assumed Dick was buttering him up for some sort of multilevel marketing scheme.

“I put off telling Gilbert about us being family. That's why I was so pissed at myself at the shop. I always thought I had more time, you know? Maybe that's the danger of living forever; it makes you take time for granted,” Dick said, wiping at the reddish moisture gathering at the corners of his eyes. “Gilbert went off to war, traveled the world, made a life here in the Hollow. And I was able to see it all. I tried to approach him so many times. Over and over, I would get as far as his door and then run back to my car like a coward. I told myself,
Not yet. Give it a few more years
. I thought I would have more time to get to know him better and, eventually, tell him who I am. And when Jane's gettin' hired on at the shop meant spending time with him, I thought,
This is it
. This is my chance
. But I kept putting it off because I was afraid he'd be embarrassed or ashamed to be related to me. Plus, I didn't want to complicate Jane's job. She was so happy there, and Gilbert honestly needed her help. And now I've lost my chance.”

“But I thought that he was still hanging around the shop in his ghostly form?”

“He is.”

“So you still have time to talk to him!”

“I did. I told him before you showed up about Albert and his mama and about how I'd watched out for him over the years. He was happy, grateful even, and that made me feel like an even bigger ass. I could have had a relationship with him. We could have gone fishing or traveled together or something. And I missed out on it because I'm a coward.”

“But you can still spend time with him.”

Dick stepped back to lean against my kitchen table, looking glum. “It's not the same.”

“Well, cry me a freaking river, Dick!” I exclaimed.

He stared at me, eyes wide. “The hell, Red?”

I clapped my hand over my mouth. What was wrong with me? Why did grief bring about such horrifyingly inappropriate responses from me? Maybe I'd taken some sort of psychotropic, truth-serum-type drugs instead of my iron supplement?

Still looking slightly shell-shocked, Dick moved closer and pried my fingers away from my lips. “No, I think I want to hear this. You were saying?”

“I have parents who refuse to talk to me. I've been permanently removed from the family tree—with a blowtorch—because my parents are elitist, deadist snobs who are hyperaware of appearances. But you—you still have the opportunity to build that bond with Mr. Wainwright, to love him and let him love you, and you're too much of a wuss to do it.”

“Hey!”

“You are! Man up, Cheney.”

He pulled a pouty face.

“Tell me I'm wrong,” I challenged him.

He grumbled, “You're not.”

I preened, but only a little bit. “It's great that you told Mr. Wainwright. Now he knows what you did for him, that he wasn't as alone as he thought he was. You said he was happy and grateful to hear that you were related. That's not going to stop because of timing issues. Now, be the vampire I know you can be, get some perspective, and build a loving relationship with your grandson. Or do I need to keep insulting you for a while to get my point across?”

“No, nope, I got it.” Dick nodded and wiped at his cheeks with vampire speed so I wouldn't notice the traces of moisture on his skin. “Now, what's with all the iron pills, Red?” he asked. “You feeling all right?”

“Oh, I'm fine. Sophie set up an appointment for me later tonight with a new vampire who's nervous about feeding. I'm heading out in a bit.”

“I could come with you, you know. Make sure you're safe during the meet-and-bite and then take you out to get rehydrated,” he said, leaning against the counter and crossing his arms over his chest. “I could be your entourage. Your water-bottle-carrying, over-protective entourage.”

“Yes, because nothing sets the tone for what is already an uncomfortable experience like bringing along a bodyguard. I like my clients to know that I don't trust them as soon as I walk in the door.”

“I'm just not comfortable with you going out on these appointments for money,” he told me.

“Could you please rephrase that so I don't sound like the title character in that ‘Roxanne' song?”

Dick muttered, “I worry about you. “

“I appreciate that, but I'm a grown woman. I don't need you to keep tabs on me.”

“I don't think of it as keeping tabs. It's more like observing closely in a manner that you might not always be aware of but is mostly harmless.”

“Dick.”

“I said mostly!” He scowled. “What more do you want from me, woman?”

“I wish you were less charming while stalking me. And I'm sorry about the yelling and the ‘cry me a river' thing,” I said, patting his arm. “My reaction to death is bizarre and socially unacceptable.”

“That's OK. You're kind of adorable when you're yelling at me . . . in a supportive fashion. Other types of yelling from you are still pretty scary,” he said. “Also, I wouldn't mind kissing you again, under better circumstances.”

“Now you're pushing it.”

“And I was hoping that you might go with me to Zeb and Jolene's wedding,” he added. “As sort of a trial date? In fact, maybe we could go to the rehearsal together and you could decide whether to go to the wedding with me. Like a pretrial date or a hearing . . . wait, no . . . that's not right.”

I laughed. Jane had known Zeb since they were small children. He was a sweetheart—a goofy, unflappable guy Jane just sort of pulled into the supernatural world along with her. He wasn't the alpha-male type. He was a kindergarten teacher, for goodness' sake. And somehow he'd attracted the attention of one of the most ridiculously beautiful women I'd ever met—who also happened to be a werewolf. Jolene adored him, and he was comfortable with letting her be the alpha in the relationship. Their wedding promised to be the supernatural social event of the season—if everybody survived.

“You're throwing around a lot of quasi-legal terms right now, Cheney, which makes me doubt the wisdom of agreeing to any sort of date with you.”

“But I do have you intrigued,” he noted. “Admit it.”

“I admit nothing.”

“Have I mentioned that it's a
Titanic
-themed wedding?” he asked, grinning broadly.

“Of course it is. Why don't you just go find some other girl to harass?” I asked him.

“I don't want to harass other girls. I want to harass you.”

“You don't know when to quit, do you?”

That familiar grin parted his lips, and somehow everything seemed right with the world for a brief second. “Never.”

4

Find ways to fill your time and meet new people. Join a club. Attend local support group meetings. Avoid rom-coms and ice cream.

—Surviving the Undead Breakup: A Human's Guide to Healing

I
didn't really trust Dick not to follow me to my appointment, so I followed him back to his trailer—the new trailer to replace the one recently blown up by his crazy supervillain-with-benefits, Missy, the murderous Realtor—and made sure he had intentions to stay there. Because that was normal behavior, right?

I drove to the Lucky Clover Motel, where Sophie and her friend were waiting for me in room 140. Consisting of one squat story of battered, white cinder block, the Lucky Clover wasn't quite a rent-by-the-hour flophouse . . . because city ordinances banned innkeepers from renting their accommodations by the hour. The neon sign sputtered to spell “L__ky _lover.” The parking lot was dark and occupied by a handful of beat-up cars. And I would not touch the worn-thin Kelly-green comforters on a dare.

But Sophie had wanted to meet on neutral ground, away from the Council offices, because the Council didn't want bite-for-hire transactions to occur on the premises. Not because they were trying to protect me from other vampires who might be provoked by the scent of my blood but because no liability insurance carrier would touch them otherwise.

That made me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

The vampires were waiting for me when I arrived. Sophie was standing precisely in the middle of the dingy room's even dingier once-beige carpet, where she was least likely to touch any furnishings. Tall, platinum blond, and the owner of an inordinate number of black pantsuits, Sophie exuded a sort of European elegance that set her apart from the vast majority of Half-Moon Hollow's population.

“Sophie,” I said, nodding in deference.

I didn't know much about her. Nobody did. Even those who'd worked with her for years didn't know her last name. She was beautiful in that overtly perfect, plastic manner that made her ethereal and timeless and sort of creepy. In other words, she immediately made me feel inadequate, frumpy, and shabby when I walked into the motel room.

A tiny, mousy blonde in an embroidered pink cardigan sat on the corner of the bed, which was enough to make me question her judgment. She refused to look at me as I crossed the room and set my handbag on the table. And she was wearing thick-framed pink glasses, a weird affectation when you considered that when she had been turned, her vision had automatically become twenty-twenty. Given her strange, hunched posture, I thought maybe the eyeglasses were like a security blanket—perhaps the pane of fake prescription glass made her feel protected from the world.

“Andrea, how lovely. Thank you for joining us,” Sophie purred.

“Sorry I'm late. It was unavoidable.” Opening my purse, I tucked a small leatherette toiletry bag under my arm. I took a deep breath, trying to center myself for “surrogate mode.”

“I'm sure it must've been very important for you to have delayed your arrival,” Sophie said, shaking her head. I chose the better part of valor, which was keeping my mouth shut. “Andrea, this is Darla. Darla, this is Andrea, a fully qualified blood surrogate on retainer with the Council to assist in special situations like yours.”

Darla glanced up and gave me a barely audible greeting, then immediately returned her gaze to the hands twisting in her lap.

“Hello, Darla. It's nice to meet you.”

From what I'd read in the file Sophie sent me, Darla was a brand-new vampire, barely a month turned. As a human, she'd worked at the local Property Valuation Administrator's office, attended services at the Half-Moon Hollow Baptist Church, and volunteered at the local animal shelter. She'd been turned by her boyfriend, who had apparently wanted more of a three-week thing rather than eternity. He'd dumped her, leaving her high and dry and in the care of Sophie, her Council-assigned foster sire. The trauma of her abandonment had left her with a severe drinking disorder. She shied away from live feeding because she couldn't stand the sensation of her fangs sinking through skin. A few failed experiments left her unable to drink donor blood. She could drink bottled blood but only certain brands, and only tolerated those brands for a few days at a time before her body rejected that, too. So, basically, Darla was a colicky newborn vampire.

I wasn't sure what Sophie had done to deserve such a delightful foster assignment, but I would milk every single contact I had at the local Council office to find out.

“I don't want to do this. I'm fine with bottled blood, really. Surely there have to be people who survive on bottled blood only.”

“Yes, there are, and we make fun of them at the meetings. Now, stretch your fangs,” Sophie told her sternly.

“So, Darla.” I gave her a reassuring smile and sat next to her on the bed. I would burn my slacks later, I promised myself. “I understand that you're having some trouble with feeding?”

“I just can't,” Darla whispered in her high, tinny voice with its thick bluegrass accent. “I hate it. I don't like the biting. I don't like the way the blood fills my mouth. Everything tastes like pennies. I just can't do it.”

It was rare for a vampire to completely reject their feeding instincts, but it did happen, especially in cases where the vampire had an extremely passive personality as a human. That type of vampire attempted to rise above their thirst, ignoring their natures, which was the worst way to handle it, because eventually those vampires got pushed beyond their control and went on blood-soaked rampages that ended up on the evening news. Sophie was trying to avoid a PR nightmare by offering Darla the training-wheels version of feeding.

This was what I liked about my job—helping people. And yes, I considered vampires people. Despite my experience with Mathias, I knew that vampires were as good or as bad as regular human beings. It was a matter of choice and morality, not pulse.

“Well, I'm going to try to help you through all that,” I told Darla, rolling up my sleeves. “Let's work on one issue at a time. If we skipped the first step—the biting—do you think you might be able to relax enough to drink?”

Darla shrugged. “I suppose so. I get so tense thinking about that weird, squishing feeling of my fangs going through skin that I can't swallow, and I get all choked up.”

“OK, so we'll start there,” I said, opening the kit. I took a pre-packaged sanitizing wet wipe from my purse and swiped it along my wrists. I withdrew a small scalpel and uncapped it. With practiced care, I made a short incision a safe distance from my major veins.

As the blood welled up from the wound, I heard the telltale
snick
of Darla's fangs dropping. She was shaking her head so fast that her glasses slipped down her button nose. “No, I don't think I can. The smell. The smell is freaking me out.”

“It didn't hurt,” I assured her, which was a lie because cutting that delicate skin stung like a bitch. “Now, all you have to do is raise my arm to your lips. Let's try for three swallows. You'll feel better after you do, less shaky. And I've been told that my blood is delicious, like melted Godiva chocolate. Just give it a try.”

Darla whimpered.

Sophie huffed and tapped her Prada-shod foot on the carpet. “Darla.”

The little blonde shuddered. Meanwhile, my blood was running over my wrist and dripping onto the carpet. Frankly, I didn't think the future guests would notice.

“Darla,” Sophie said, what little motherly patience she'd shown before having evaporated from her voice.

Darla slid her hands under my wrist and slowly raised it toward her face. She sniffed delicately. “Smells OK.”

“Thank you,” I said, laughing lightly.

She pressed my wrist to her mouth and, grimacing terribly, wrapped her lips around the wound. She yanked her face away and blanched, as if my blood tasted like battery acid and kale. But after a glare from Sophie, she put her mouth back on my arm and took one weak pull from the wound.

She raised her head, licking at her lips. “It's not so bad. It's not rushing into my mouth like the others.”

“See?” I asked brightly. “Give it another try.”

Darla nodded and lifted my arm to her mouth, latching on properly this time. She took a good, strong pull from the wound, so strong that it actually hurt a little. I fought the urge to gasp in pain, because I didn't want to scare Darla. I watched her throat work as she swallowed several mouthfuls. She cradled my arm against her slight body like a favorite teddy bear. She moaned as she took one long gulp of my blood, lasting a full ten seconds.

The usual euphoric feelings I experienced during feedings, the warm flush of happiness and endorphins, were notably absent. I didn't trust Darla's responses. She'd gone from reluctant and skittish to snuggling my arm far too quickly. She wasn't in control of herself, which meant that I had to be focused enough for both of us.

By my estimates, Darla had taken almost a half-pint, which was well within acceptable loss ranges. And if I had to pry her off my arm, I was going to need to start pulling away before she got too close to the limit of safe blood loss.

“OK, Darla, I think that's enough for now,” I said gently, sweeping her golden hair back over her shoulder with my spare hand. I meant it to be a motherly gesture, to snap her out of her violent fugue. But she shrugged me off, pulling my wrist tight against her. She raised her head, dropping her lower jaw and letting her fangs extend fully before snapping them back around my wrist.

“Hey!” I yelped, looking to Sophie, whose only reaction was to raise her eyebrows.

I yanked my arm toward me, but Darla held on. Her small frame contained full vampire strength, which she used to shove at my chest and pin me back against the bed. Darla hovered over me, lips stained red, and sniffed at my neck before striking, sinking her fangs deep into my jugular. I let loose a strangled scream. Through the pounding in my ears, I could hear pounding on the walls and someone yelling at us to keep it down. I could hear Sophie dispassionately telling Darla, “That's enough, now, Darla.”

But all of Darla's repressed instincts had risen to the surface, and she was in a full feeding frenzy. She dragged me up the length of the bed, pulling me against her and drinking down my blood as fast as she could—as if she could sense that her “treat” was about to be snatched away from her.

“Sophie!” I rasped around the head wedged against my throat.

“Darla, that's enough!” Sophie insisted, but I noticed through fluttering eyelids that she didn't actually move to help me. I threw my hand up, swatting off the little vampire's unnecessary glasses.

“Darla,” I wheezed, but Darla was busy gulping down my blood. I could feel the life ebbing from my body, cold spreading through my chest and taking my breath away. My fingers felt numb and useless, and my lips tingled. She was going to drain me completely. I was going to die in this grubby motel room on this disgusting bed because Sophie didn't want to rumple her suit long enough to save me.

Summoning all of my upper-body strength—which I admit wasn't a lot even when I wasn't fighting off a vampire attack—I yanked my left arm up and managed to jam my thumb into her eye. It was more of a glancing blow, but it was enough to make Darla disengage from my neck. I swung my arm up a second time and swatted her eyelid again.

“Ow!” she cried, now loosening her hold on me and letting me slide down the bed.

Even vampires are less predatory after being slapped in the eye.

An expression of pure horror slid over Darla's face. At vampire speed, she scrambled back across the bedspread, wiping the blood from her mouth with the backs of her hands while gibbering and whimpering.

I tried to sit up, but the moment I lifted my head, the room tilted at an alarming angle. My snobbery over body contact with the bedspread had evaporated. Everything was swirly, and not in the fun, “recreational pharmaceuticals” fashion. It was all I could do not to vomit all over everything.

“Well, I see we've gotten past some of our sensory issues,” Sophie drawled. “Well done, Darla. Now we just have to work on your control . . . and stain removal.”

Yes, hilarious, because my blood was spattered all over Darla's adorable pink cardigan. But at least I'd learned something about Sophie. Sophie was a bitch.

Normally, I would be able to come up with more descriptive insults, but I was pretty sure I'd just lost forty percent of my total blood volume. Most of my brain function was devoted to keeping the rest of my blood pumping through my organs.

Right now, the best I could produce was “Everything hurts. I hate everybody.”

“Are you all right, Andrea?” Sophie asked, while checking the polish on her nails.

Despite the fact that I was dizzy and nauseated and I was pretty sure that if I stood up I would collapse like a balsa wood weight bench, I nodded. (The nodding hurt.) I didn't want to scare Darla, who was already cowering against the headboard with her arms thrown over her face, muttering “I'm sorry” over and over.