13
Humans who prove unfaithful to their were-spouses are rarely heard from again.
—Mating Rituals and Love Customs of the Were
My future step-grandpa was an enigma wrapped in a riddle stored in a Rubik’s Cube, which I always had to resort to rearranging the stickers to solve. I won’t pretend my interest was rooted in concern for my grandmother, just a general weakness in my character that would not allow me to leave a question unanswered.
For the record, four cans of Starbucks Double Shot Dark Blend Blood and Espresso is just enough to yank a vampire out of bed before sunset. Zeb wisely armed himself with caffeine before entering my daytime lair and enlisted Jettie’s help in shoving me into an ice-cold shower (in my pajamas) to complete the wake-up process.
Some older vamps can venture out in the day under controlled circumstances with no problem. I blister and smell like burnt popcorn, which stays with you for days. So I slathered myself in Solar Shield SPF 500 sunscreen and donned huge Jackie O sunglasses and a wide-brimmed hat before venturing out to my newly sun-safe car. OK, fine. Zeb had the motor running, and I dove through the open door, unbelievably exhilarated by my not bursting into flames.
As he turned the key in the ignition, Zeb asked, “Remind me again why we’re risking you bursting into flame to drive seventy miles to visit some old folks’ home?” Clearly, he didn’t appreciate the Mama-caliber guilt tactics I’d used to get him to accompany me on this little excursion.
“Because when I snuck a look into Wilbur’s wallet, this was the address on his ID.”
Zeb was aghast. “You snuck a look at his wallet? When?”
“Christmas,” I said, looking down to avoid his glare.
“Why would you do that?” he demanded.
“He left it right there in his coat pocket, come on.”
“You’re not allowed to hang out with Dick anymore,” he told me as he turned the ignition. “So, why couldn’t we do this after dark?”
“I called the front desk pretending to be a potential resident’s daughter. The nurse said dinner was served at three-thirty. And I’m guessing the people we’d want to talk to will be asleep by four.”
“You’re a scary woman, Jane Jameson.”
I shrugged, pulling my hood over my face and leaning my seat back to a snoozing position. “I do what I can.”
I jolted awake when Zeb cut Big Bertha’s engine outside the Sunnyside Village Retirement Community. With one eye squinched shut, I wiped the drool off my cheek and looked around. The building seemed innocuous enough. Overtly cheerful yellow siding on a cracker-box building, glowing in the orange light of the fading sun. Newly painted white shutters framing windows with the shades drawn tight.
I pulled out my sunblock for safety touch-up. I’d decided against gloves, as it was a typically mild early spring day, and full-length opera gloves would probably attract attention. The thick, white SPF 500 lotion took a while to absorb into my neck, chin, and hands. I pulled the hat over my eyes.
“How do I look?” I asked, turning to him.
“Well, if we were going to a performance of Kabuki Mugger Theater, this look would be perfect,” he snorted, gesturing to my smudged jawline. “You might want to blend some more.”
“Dang it,” I grumbled, swiping at my cheeks.
After a few more minutes of sunblocking, I carefully opened the door and stepped out. I gasped, enveloped in the sun for the first time since my turning. Even though it was weak late-afternoon light, I was overwhelmed by the warmth that swirled over my skin like a caress. The colors made me want to weep. I hadn’t realized how monotonous the night sky could be. I’d missed the burnt golds, the blushing pinks giving way to deep purple as the sun faded over the horizon. I smiled, stretching out my hands and basking in heat like a cat. And then ow. Ow. Owowowowowow.
I’d forgotten to sunscreen the delicate webs between my fingers. Ow! It felt as if I’d dipped my hands in acid. I stared in horror, transfixed as the skin sizzled and smoked.
“Put your hands in your pockets, Jane!” Zeb cried.
“Oh, right!” I stuck my shaking hands into my jacket and turned my back to the light, doubling over, waiting for the pain to subside. After a few moments, I felt the tissue in my fingers knit itself together again, a new and unpleasant stinging sensation unto itself. I took a deep breath and straightened, flexing my fingers gingerly. Zeb was staring at me over Big Bertha’s hood.
“I don’t think you want to go in there with smoking hands that smell of blackened Jiffy Pop,” he said.
“I think I’ll just stay in the car,” I said meekly.
“Probably for the best,” Zeb said, nodding and pressing his lips together in a resigned line.
I stayed huddled behind the heavily screened windows, napping, while Zeb ventured inside. I was tired, drained, all of my being focused on my raw, healing skin. When your mortality is taken out of the equation of life, you tend to take certain things, such as paralyzing agony, for granted. Is that what it would feel like to go out during the day? I imagined it was only a fraction of the pain an unprotected vampire would suffer in full sun. And even that small portion was torture. Of the few ways vampires could die, death by suntan was definitely at the bottom of the list.
A short time later, my partner in crime startled me awake with a sharp knock on the window.
“I just barely convinced them that I was the great-grandson of the oldest guy there, whose name I did not know. I had to keep calling him Pappy.”
“What did he say?” I asked, rubbing my tired eyes. “Had he heard of Wilbur Goosen?”
“No, he was far more interested in a rerun of Matlock than talking to me. And then some other guy heard me say Wilbur’s name, and he made the weirdest, wrinkliest face I’d ever seen. Then he cursed at me in Lithuanian and whacked me with his cane,” Zeb said, rubbing his arm gingerly. “He then switched to English and suggested I perform various sexual acts on myself.”
“If you could do that by yourself, we would never see you,” I said, despite the glare Zeb sent my way. “How did you know it was Lithuanian?”
He seemed offended. “Like you’re the only smart one around here.”
“Sorry I put you through all of that for nothing.”
“No, on the way out—while I was dodging the cane—a much nicer lady stopped me. She apparently had her hearing aids turned all the way up and heard our conversation. She was an old flame of Wilbur’s.”
“Say what now?”
“When Wilbur Goosen lived at Sunnyside, he was quite the Don Juan. Ila Faye Pogue, the lady in question, was one heart torn asunder in the swath he cut across the Shuffleboard Circuit. At one point, there was a catfight in the rec room among three of his interests. Wigs and walkers and glass eyes flying everywhere …”
“I don’t need to think about that.”
“Mrs. Pogue had photos in her album. The administration was on the verge of asking Wilbur to leave when he just passed away in his sleep. It was very sudden.”
“He died? Are we sure she had the right Wilbur Goosen?”
“How many Wilbur Goosens could there be?” he pointed out. I nodded. “Besides, she had pictures of the two of them. Kissing.”
He showed me a sample photo. I winced. “Bleh. Don’t I have enough randy geriatrics in my life? And she was sure he died?”
“Well, they buried him,” he said, starting the car. “So, what would that make him? A vampire? A zombie?”
“This isn’t really my area of expertise,” I said. “But it explains the health shakes.”
“Well, have you ever seen him during the day?”
“I don’t see anybody during the day.”
“Aren’t there some vampire tests we can do? We can make him touch silver, put him under a sun lamp. Oh, we can force-feed him garlic bread.”
“I like your enthusiasm. But why don’t we just ask him?” I suggested.
“Well, where’s the fun in that?” Zeb pouted. “Besides, what are you going to say, ‘Hi, I know you want to marry my grandma, who I’m not on great terms with, but I was hoping you could tell me whether you’re, you know, an undead gigolo hell-bent on killing her and taking the family fortune’? I’m sure that would improve your relationship with Ruthie. Come on, let’s sprinkle silver shavings in his pants.
“Well, what are you going to do?” he said when I ignored his proposal. “Find his lair? Do your best Peter Cushing imitation?”
I shot him the Arched Eyebrow of Bewilderment. He responded by wrapping his fingers around a pretend stake and made stabbing motions. At least, I hoped it was a pretend stake and stabbing motions, because otherwise our relationship just took an upsetting and inappropriate turn.
“Why would I do that?” I asked.
“Because he’s evil!”
I gaped at him. “Because he’s probably not one hundred percent human, we should assume he’s an evil monster?” Zeb’s face sagged into “oops” lines. “Yeah, how’s that foot taste?”
“Sorry,” he said. “Sometimes I forget that you’re not one hundred percent human.”
“Hmph.”
On the drive back to town, I tried to work up the nerve to bring up Zeb’s odd behavior, the unexplained absences and “chores” at his mama’s house. Was Zeb thinking about leaving Jolene at the altar? Was that even possible when you were mated to a werewolf?
Zeb avoided the fully exposed highways in favor of the more shaded backroads, where we were treated to fantastic scenery. Weeds almost high enough to hide the junked cars and defunct riding mowers. Trailers with rotting underpinning flapping in the wind. And there was a school bus parked next to almost every house, most of which did not appear able to run. I kept telling myself I would just blurt out the first question at the next trailer we saw, and the next, and the next. But I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to know if Zeb was capable of jilting Jolene. I didn’t want know if he was capable of hurting someone that way, of that level of deceit. These aren’t thoughts you want to have about your best friend.
We were halfway back to the Hollow when I started feeling a little dizzy. I ignored it until the sensation turned into full-on vertigo. My throat was so dry. I looked at the clock. Crap.
“What’s wrong?” Zeb asked. “You look pale … er.”
I covered my mouth with my hand and shook my head as a hot iron fist closed around my belly.
“Remember when we were nine and we rode the Tilt-A-Nator until you threw up cotton candy in my lap?” he asked. “You looked better then.”
I braced myself against the dashboard, palms against the worn, warm faux leather. “It’s just that I—I’m getting a little, um, hungry.”
“I thought you had a special little fridge in here for blood. Didn’t you bring anything with you?”
“I didn’t think a bag lunch would be required,” I said. “I ate right before we left, but being out during the day—I didn’t realize it would be so draining.”
“What about a store? Can we stop somewhere?”
I doubled over as another cramp clenched my belly. I wheezed, “The closest store is Bubba’s Beer and Bait, and that’s about ten miles away. I don’t think he carries bottled blood. In fact, Bubba has a little sign on his door that says, ‘No Shoes, No Pulse, No Service.’ “
Zeb mulled that over. “They used to use the milk of young coconuts for a plasma substitute because of its high iron content. I saw it on the Discovery Channel.”
“Well, that will be really handy to know if we’re ever stranded on a desert island.” I smacked him. “If I can’t get blood, how the hell am I going to get a young coconut?”
“I know! I’m sorry! I’m panicking!” he cried.
“Just keep driving.” I panted. “Talk to me. Keep me thinking about something else.”
“What do you want me to talk about?”
“Anything! Your kindergartners, wedding stuff, anything!” I exclaimed, wincing at the empty churning in my stomach. “You’ve been talking my ear off for years, Zeb. Don’t tell me you’ve run out of things to say.”
After a long silent moment, Zeb’s voice came deep and clear. “You could feed from me.”
“Don’t you think that would be weird?” I said, thinking about the first feeding with Andrea. I hadn’t fed from a human since that cringe-inducing attempt. And it was a good while before I was completely comfortable around her again.
“I love you, Jane,” he said, parking the car on the shoulder. “I want to help. This is our last big stupid adventure. Let’s go out with a bang.”
“I don’t think it would be—”
“Jane.”
I sighed. “I’m not biting your neck. Too intimate.” I made an icked-out face at him, prompting him to offer his wrist. “Are you sure?”
“Do it before I change my mind!” he snapped, then yowled when my fangs pierced his skin. He tensed, then forced himself to relax, leaning back in the seat, avoiding contact beyond my mouth on his wrist. I focused on the mechanics of feeding, fangs into skin, sealing the lips around the wound to gently pull the blood to the surface. I thought fondly of Funyuns and Cokes sipped through uncapped Twizzlers, the sort of cuisine we enjoyed on afternoon trips to Hickman Lake after Zeb got his driver’s license.
When he stroked a hand across my back, I shrugged it away. More insistent, his hand curled around my jaw, caressing my cheek as I fed. I did not want to think about the pseudo-Freudian aspects of penetration and oral fixation. This was lunch. This was take-out. At least, that’s what I told myself until Zeb moaned a little, throwing his head back against the seat. This sly, creepy voice in my head whispered, You could take it all. Snuff out his life like a sputtering candle, turn him, keep him with you. A few more sips, he’s enjoying it—
“Stop,” I said, pulling away. A sleepy, almost sensual expression had settled on Zeb’s features, and he leaned back in the seat and stretched. He grinned conspiratorially at me as he rubbed his wrist.
“You OK?” he asked, his eyes glazed over and hazy again. He seemed barely able to focus on me.
“Fine,” I promised, shaking away the guilt-inducing voice in my head. “Does it hurt?”
“No,” he said, massaging his wrist, where a dark purple mark was forming. The wound was already closing up, but he would have the bruise for a while.
“Here.” I dragged my fingertip across a fang and made a tiny cut. I squeezed it over Zeb’s wrist, letting a few drops of blood fall into the closing wound. The skin immediately healed, and the bruising vanished.
“Thanks.” Zeb smiled fondly at me, stroking the tendrils of hair back away from my face. His voice sounded so far away, as if he was repeating lines he’d heard in a movie. But it was the eyes that were unnerving. They were so vacant; there seemed to be no trace of Zeb in them.
His lips parted, and his breath quickened as he leaned toward me. A zing of panic slipped up my spine as his mouth drew closer to my own. I struck out, popping Zeb on the nose with my half-closed fist. It was sort of a cross between a punch and a slap, right in the middle of his face. “What are you doing?”
“Ow!” he cried, now fully undazed and clutching his bleeding nostrils. “What did you do that for?”
“You do not kiss me, you got it?” I shouted.
“What do you mean, I don’t kiss you?” he cried, tilting his head back against my seat as I shoved a tissue at him.
“I mean, you don’t kiss me.”
“I wasn’t going to kiss you,” he insisted.
“Zeb, it’s been a while, but I’m pretty sure I recognize the ninety-five percent lean-in when I see it.”
“The last thing I remember is your fangs breaking my skin,” he said, dabbing at his nose and checking it in the rearview mirror.
“You honestly don’t remember leaning toward me with your mouth half-open?”
“No!”
I stared at Zeb for a long time, debating whether I should look inside his mind and determine whether he was lying. Ultimately, I chickened out. Looking into his head at the moment seemed so intrusive … and scary. Honestly, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to know what the hell he was thinking. Or if he was thinking. What if the reason he seemed so unsatisfied with Jolene lately was that he was having feelings for me? How could he do that to either of us? How could he change the rules of our friendship that way without even telling me? How was I going to tell him that the two of us would never, ever be more than what we were?
What if I lost my best friend?
“Just take me home,” I said finally, slumping against the seat. We spent the rest of the drive in silence, with me staring out the window, trying to ignore the nervous bundle of BFF at the wheel. As soon as he pulled Big Bertha into my driveway, I threw a solar blanket over my head, yelped, “Good night!” and dashed for the door.
“Jane, we need to talk!” Zeb called after me.
“Good night!” I yelled as I struggled to fit the key into the front door and keep the protective blanket in place.
I slammed the door behind me and threw the deadbolt in place, just in time to hear Zeb say, “All right, then.”
I closed my eyes, praying he wouldn’t come to the door and try to talk about what just happened. I leaned my head back against the glass, listening for the sound of Zeb’s car starting up and driving away. I caught sight of my reflection in the pier glass in the foyer, the oddly beautiful, pale woman in the mirror, her face flooded with relief at the sound of a Datsun’s engine revving.
I glared at the image. “You are a coward.”
My reflection was decidedly unhelpful.