Jessica's Guide to Dating on the Dark Side (25 page)

Remaining on the subject of visual stimulation: December is celebrated quite heartily here in the United States. Aggressively, one might say. Every conceivable surface is corseted with strands of twinkle lights, buildings are smothered beneath greenery, and a mass mania for erecting oversized, inflatable, waving "snowmen" in front of homes erupts amid the populace. It's quite a hysteria
—
and the evergreen trees are not just a myth, Vasile. People really do purchase them, in abundance. They are for sale everywhere . Imagine paying for the privilege of dragging a filthy piece of the forest into your living area for the purpose of bedecking it with glass balls and staring at it.

Why a tree? If one needed to display glass balls
—and
I
highly
discourage it
—
why not just a case of some sort? A rack?

Honestly, I've expended so much energy defending vampires against charges of "irrationality." Had I known about the ubiquity of the temporary in-house evergreen, I would have said, merely, "Yes, perhaps
I am
irrational. But I keep my trees where they belong. Out-of-doors. You tell me, who is the sane one?"

But
enough about "the holidays." (Ho-ho-hold my head under water until I drown and am freed from yet another round of "Jingle Bells"!) I write primarily to report that I have very little to report. I seem to be healed, and I have mastered the art of sleeping in "social studies" class. (Drone on, Miss Campbell! I have circumvented your nefarious attempt to make tedious World War I one of Earth's most dramatic conflicts: mustard gas! Trenches! The obliteration of no less than four empires!)

Oh, yes. You might be interested
—
or perhaps not
—
to know that I have also made a friend. A quite iniquitous girl, Vasile. I feel rather confident that the "jolly old elf" St. Nick has inked her firmly on his "naughty" list. (A reference too obscure for you, no doubt. Just trust me: She is rather a fascinating creature.) Her name is Faith Crosse. While often "cross," she is as "faithless" as one can imagine. You know I love irony.

I suppose that is all from "stateside."

I would wish you a "merry Christmas," but really, I feel certain that the only thing you would like less than the holiday would be the state of "merriness."

You nephew,

Lucius

P.S. Rest assured that, although I have not addressed it in the body of my letter, I received your thunderous, if belated, response to my suggestion that we release Antanasia from her vampiric responsibilities. Nor did I fail to comprehend your wrath at my assertion that I "chafe at the bit." Indeed, your meaning was very clear when you wrote in your reply that you would "make me miss the bit when the whip was applied." Equine imagery is so vivid. All points are taken under careful consideration. But do I comply with your directive to continue my aggressive pursuit of Antanasia? It is difficult to tell from Romania, isn't it? The distance rather "blows one's mind," does it not?

Chapter
31

"JESSICA, IS THAT YOU?" Lucius asked. I heard the door to the garage apartment close, followed by the sound of snow being stomped off feet.

"Hey." I peeked out from the kitchenette. "You're here early."

"And you're here ... at all." He tossed his coat on the leather chair. "I thought we had permanently resumed our traditional residences."

"We did." I popped back into the kitchenette, stirring a boiling pot.
Crap.
I'd hoped to be further along with dinner by the time he got back from school. "Why are you home already?"

"Basketball practice was preempted by the snow. In the Carpathians, we would call this the equivalent of
'a dusting.' A 'minor inconvenience.' Here, it seems to be cause for panic in the streets. Looting and rioting for the last loaf of 'Wonder Bread' at the grocery store, as though you couldn't get a pizza delivered if on the brink of starvation." Lucius sniffed the air. "I repeat: Why are you here? And what
is
that
smell?"

"I knew you were tired of vegan casseroles, so I made you a rabbit," I said. "I saw them in your freezer when I was living out here."

He caught up short for a second. "You did
what?"

"I cooked a rabbit."

"Actually, it's referred to as 'hare,'" Lucius corrected, joining me in the kitchenette. "And if you don't know what to properly
call it,
how did you know what to
do
with it?"

"I found this cookbook on your shelves." I held out the battered, stained reference. "See?"

Lucius frowned, reading. "
Cooking the Romanian Way.
In English! I'd forgotten I brought this." He glanced at me and smiled wryly. "Our cook sent this for your parents, anticipating that they would adjust their menus to meet my tastes— certainly never expecting that I'd find myself in the home of vegans who would never deign to accommodate even a royal Romanian's passion for flesh."

"Well, there's plenty of 'flesh on the menu tonight," I promised. "I'm making the sour lamb soup, too." I took the book from him, opened it, and jabbed my finger at the page I'd marked. "This recipe."

Lucius perused. "How in the world did you secure 'minced levistan,' in Lebanon County, Pennsylvania?"

"I checked on
Transylvaniancooking.com
.
You can substitute tarragon."

"The 'sour lamb' must be the smell," Lucius said, wrinkling his nose. "
That
will linger. And if your parents learn you cooked meat, woe to you."

"Hey, I'm trying to be nice here!"

Lucius laughed. "Yes. By providing me a nice case of trichinosis. Hare are notorious carriers. The inexperienced should
not
dabble with game." He lifted the lid on the potted hare, which was stewing away, then glanced at me, one eyebrow arched. "You did clean this little beast, correct?"

"Like . . . wash it in the sink?"

"Remove the innards. I see something floating in there . .."

"There were
innards?"

Lucius grabbed a slotted spoon and stirred around in the pot.
"Now
I believe we've identified the source of the odor. I would say this is a spleen," he announced, fishing out something that looked slippery. "Nasty little organ. Not the most palatable part of anything. Even starving cats won't ingest spleen."

"I guess we should just dump the hare," I said glumly. The dinner wasn't turning out as well as I'd hoped.

"Actually, Jessica, as much as I appreciate the effort. .."

There was a knock on the door.

"Excuse me," Lucius said, heading to answer it.

"Urn, sure." I peeked in the pot. There were other slippery things starting to bubble around in there, too, as the hare broke down.
Yikes. Who knew?

The door squeaked open.

"Luc! Hey!"

Feeling something like a kick to my gut, I slammed down the lid of the pot. I knew that falsely chipper voice.

Faith Crosse.

What is she doing here?

"Did you have any trouble with the snow?" Lucius inquired.

I smelled pizza over the stench of the spleen.

"No, it's no big deal to me." Faith laughed. "I borrowed my dad's Hummer. If I was in an accident,
I
wouldn't be the one killed."

What a humanitarian.
I moved to the entrance to the kitchenette, leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, watching them.

"Finally, a Lebanon Countian who understands how to handle a scattering of frozen precipitation," Lucius said, approvingly. "And might I add that you're looking lovely, as usual. Although it really goes without saying."

Ugh.
I was going to throw up and not from eating organ meats.

"Oh, Luc." Faith balanced the pizza box like a waitress, freeing one hand to clasp his forearm flirtatiously. "You always say the right thing."

"And you have
brought
the right thing," he said, unburdening her of the pizza. "This is one local delicacy that I have honestly come to appreciate."

"It sure smells better than whatever's cooking in here." Faith glanced around, seeking the source of the odor, and noticed me. "Oh, hi." She wrinkled her nose. "I was just saying
something
stinks in here."

"It sure does," I agreed.

Lucius brushed past me, carrying the pizza into the kitchenette.

"As I was about to say, Jessica, dinner would be somewhat inconvenient this evening, as I've invited Faith over to study."

"Study?" I felt more stewed than my rabbit. More sour than the lamb soup.

"Yes," Faith said. "Lucius asked me to be his partner in English lit."

Partner? For what? And if there is any partnering to do, why wasn't I asked?
I
looked to Lucius, knowing there was betrayal in my eyes. Wanting him to see it. But he was avoiding me.

"Yes, recall how I volunteered to do my 'mandatory oral book report' on
Wuthering Heights?"
he asked. "Well, after sitting through endlessly stultifying—and seldom edifying— presentations by our classmates, I thought it might be interesting to condense the novel into a small play. Highlight the dramatic parts."

"I'm going to be Catherine," Faith noted.

"I guess that makes you Heathcliff," I said to Lucius, barely masking the unhappiness in my voice.

"Precisely."

I switched off the burners.
Maybe the stench I caused will fade in a year or so.
"I guess I'll get going, then. Don't want to interrupt you."

"You could stay for pizza," Lucius offered. "You must not have eaten. At least, I hope you didn't taste the hare. It may not have boiled long enough to kill the parasites . . ."

"You're boiling hair?" Faith interjected. "Is
that
how you get it that way, Jenn?"

I glared at Faith for a long time, wishing I had a really great comeback. But nothing came to mind. Nothing. "I'll just head back to the house," I said, trying to exit with a little dignity. Trying to get out without crying. It had turned out all wrong. The whole thing was a disaster.

Lucius must have seen my disappointment, the humiliation on my face, because he said, "Excuse us for a moment, Faith."

"Sure, Luc," she offered, removing herself to the other side of the small space. "I'll just check out your weapons over here. I love the diabolical decor."

Lucius took my arm, leading me toward the door. "Jessica," he said softly, "I'm sorry."

"For what?" I hardly bothered to lower my voice. Tears really were welling in my eyes. Jealous tears. Embarrassed tears. I was so stupid. I'd tried to cook a
rabbit
for
him, and he had a
girl
coming over. Not just any girl. Faith Crosse.